When do you know you’ve hit that place of no return? That dark recess of the heart, the persistent degradation of self in your inner dialogue, when your sliver of self-love gets washed away down an unwelcoming, cold, hollow hole of despair and complete overwhelm. That hopeless space in your life where you can’t see a way of clawing yourself out as you free-fall into the abyss. You may have already been taking the anti-depressant pills, exhausted all your friend’s patience from the desperate phone calls, or chewed the ear off the Beyond Blue councillor. Who knows how far you have fallen down that rabbit hole and tried so desperately to climb out, but now you’re done? You are tired of trying, tied off the mask glued to your face, tried being nice to people and trying to fit in, tired of feeling the victim, unloved, unappreciated, undervalued - just so goddam tired of it all. So you let go and just free fall down, down, and feel there’s no way out but down.
I coped; coped on a cocktail of adrenalin, cortisol, sustained trauma and PTSD. Was I abnormal or dysfunctional, leading a perfect, self-sufficient life? Who wasn’t – it’s a world pandemic too. Who hasn’t had a shitty childhood with toxic parents, who hasn’t been molested or sexually abused or compromised their sexuality? Who hasn’t been beaten around the head by life, the education system, the religious institutes, ex-husbands or wives or lovers, entitled kids, or by the bottle or a pill – none of us escaped Buddha’s verdict that man was designed to suffer. But my heart had stopped feeling. It couldn’t breathe anymore – it was holding too many weights and sorrows to feel the elusive joy, the optimism, the love that I knew was out there for some but not for me.
I’d look in the mirror, and that energetic, pretty woman had shrivelled up. I felt like my skin had wrinkled all over like I’d stayed in the bath too long; the skin that had wrapped me all my sixty-four years wasn’t mine, that someone had wrapped me in the wrong craggy and torn paper. I wasn’t even me anymore, inside or outside.
I’d taken anti-depressants previously, the logical pharmaceutical go-to prescription for a quick happiness fix. Still, it made little difference this time apart from deadening my usually virile sex drive to a dull ache of a distant memory. Even my vagina lost her heartbeat. I was full-body muted. A wise and happy friend, who had lived in Bali a long time and seemed to be gliding through Covid with a permanent smile, suggested a homeopath pave the way to a drug-free me. This older English ex-pat lady was a veteran in her field, with a formidable yet compassionate alternative medical confidence. I immediately felt comfortable, bemused, but trusting her alchemy of flower bark, homeopathy and intuition. Sitting beside her at her desk was a younger Balinese man. He sat silently, stoically, eyes with a soft hazy glaze that seemed to be looking past me as I felt he rotated on his world orbit. I asked, “Is he your apprentice?” She laughed; a meaty, knowing chuckle, “No, no, this is Jerro,” she said lyrically in her not diminished English accent, “he has the gift of insight. He can scan your body and know immediately where your problems are.”
Living in Bali for eight years, I have become accepting of spiritual stories. It is, after all, the island of the gods, and if prayer and ritual can be quantified, then Bali is a world leader in karmic credits. “Hmmm,” I thought to myself and asked, “What can he see in me?”
Still ashamedly of not speaking Bahasa (the Indonesian language), I listened to their banter as she interpreted his channelling.
She said, “You are not crazy, but your mind is too busy. You must meditate. Yes, much meditation and our medicines will fix you.”
“How does he know all this?” I asked, now hooked.
Her watery blue eyes rolled slightly to the top of her eye sockets as she allowed a small knowing smile on her face. She paused and glanced at the Manku (Balinese healer), possibly to get permission to share his story and his opinion of my level of acceptance. He nodded, and a sliver of a smile came to his face as he nodded and lowered his eyes.
“Jerro died unexpectedly and unexplainably when he was nine years old. As is the custom in Balinese traditions, the body must wait for the right astrological time for cremation. Three months passed. His body was wrapped in formaldehyde and preserved. On the designated date, they lay his body on the ceremonial fire and lit it. With shrieks of disbelief, the young boy woke up as if from just a night’s sleep. No one could understand what had happened – he was dead and about to be burnt and came to life. Since then, he has had gifts from gods of healing and challenging and has never been able to rid his senses of the smell of formaldehyde throughout his body.” She smiled, shook her head, and gently, motherly patted her muse on his knee.
I shook my head in amazement, with my analytical mind trying to piece fact from fiction and the highly visual scenario playing in my mind of a Balinese Jesus resurrection. Through this, Jerro sat statuesquely; hair pulled back in a neat ponytail, strategic tattoos on his arms and a round Buddha belly nodding in confirmation.
She gave me a bunch of tiny white pills, a list of when to take what, and said I’d be fine. “So I can come straight off all my medications now? Usually, you have to wean off them slowly, over months. Are you sure I’ll be ok? ”I asked, concerned.
She empathetically nodded, reached over to pat my hand, and confirmed, “You will be fine and can call me anytime, day or night. I’m here with you, we’ll do this together, and you will be ok. I have many people like you.”
She looked at Jerro again for other prescriptive advice, and he nodded in the affirmative. The last time I’d come off anti-depressants about five years previously, it had not been a pretty situation, and I landed in the hospital. So naturally, I was cautious. But her confidence and my desire were contagious, and I felt held and supported and placated in my distrusting mind that I had to trust someone, so might as well give her a go – she had come so highly recommended. I left with my little fabric bag of goodies and felt optimistic that life would blossom with my much elusive happiness back in its place.
But my free fall happened about a month later at a five-star hotel where I went to treat myself for some external self- love. The ongoing effects of Covid, two businesses that had been closed down with a ex-business partner holding me to ransom, (so no income in sight for already over a year with no end in sight, and the zeros adding up quickly on the debit leger). Then there was my mother’s death and ongoing disputes with her will that fractured the family and caught up in an endless litigious bureaucracy. Top that off with a whole new restrictive lifestyle that had clipped my wings from being able to commute from Bali to Sydney, which I had enjoyed over the past eight years to maintain my connection with my grandchildren, kids and close friends and sanity!
Yes, there was a lot going on - but it only took one small thing – well it wasn’t that small, but an unprecedented lightening and thunder storm that blew out my room and only my room out of the fifty- room resort, and my TV box. The TV box that held hours of escapism in movies and series that cost more than the reduced fire- sale price of the weekend away, the TV box that had become my best friend, my digital lover, the only thing that could distract me from my malaise. The TV box went poof - irreparable and gone without warning. My crutch kicked away from me and I stumbled and fell like a stricken banshee spirit heralding death and whaling and screaming uncontrollably. Not good!
I texted my already weathered therapist, who had managed to get me through lock down in Sydney, but something in my text alerted him to immediate action needed and he texted back – its time Deb we need to take control.
I’m not an alcohol or drug addict so addiction centers were not geared up for the pursuit of happiness, which is what I needed. I wanted an holistic approach -somewhere that could rewire my brain to think differently, change my limiting beliefs, show me how to self- love, self- sooth, reconnect me to the feminine that had been ground down after years of dealing with problems. I wanted nurturing and kindness not white walls and straight jackets. That place did not exist and the only one that had some of the qualities that I was looking for came with a whopping price tag.
What to do?
Still with some rational wires firing, and being reinvigorated with hope, I started a process of elimination and did what I do best - networked the problem, eventually calling a lady I knew to ask her for advice. Something sparked her interest and curiosity and within a week she and my therapist David, collaborated and I had a bespoke month long healing plan designed.
I started to get cold feet. How could I walk out of my life for a month, I was intrinsic to its survival, my animals, the repair work. I was irreplaceable. The price became an issues – it wasn’t worth spending that much money on me. I wasn’t sick, I wasn’t an addict – I was just unhappy and not coping. Who wouldn’t be with all that shit going on? I started to negotiate, with the costs and the timing, and could feel the steely edge of my masculine dominant, controller overriding, and possibly wanting to sabotage the process. My therapists held me with firm arms like devoted parents, not allowing the saboteur to take control. My next psychological ace card was work; I worked like a crazy woman, in a frenzy of demands and deadlines to complete the works that could have taken the month away to complete without the stress I put on myself. So like a whirlwind I spun around the final two weeks, causing havoc and stress for all those around me – especially me.
Beaten and surrendering I drove myself to the retreat by the designated time of four-thirty on Sunday afternoon via a fancy restaurant and a last few commemoratory glasses of rose with friends.
Love,
Einfach gut