Diaries of the Chronically Confused:

repeated patterns, breaking cycles & daily check-ins.

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Diary Entry: Chapter Three

Daily Check-Ins have become a sort of morning ritual for me. Most days, it’s just a mental “note to self” type of thing, but this morning I decided to grab my pen and paper.

Sometimes, there’s an element of grounding that can only be achieved by scribbling my thoughts down the old fashioned way, and today was one of those days.

I remember when I first started this habit, almost three and a half years ago, during a particularly difficult time in my life. I was in such a funk, exhausted by the same thoughts plaguing me day after day. I more than needed a change, I craved it with every fiber of my being.

I went to Barnes & Noble and skimmed through the journals and planners, finding one that was a good mix of both. Plenty of sections for scribing out my schedule, and ample room to write in a few thoughts and gratitudes each morning.

Even though it may sound silly, it became something that I looked forward to, which was literally the whole point. My life had come to an unexpected, and entirely out-of-my-control, standstill, and I needed something to look forward to, rather than dread. If you’ve ever been in an odd stage of life where you're just “waiting”, you know precisely what I mean.

Dr. Seuss says it best, after all...

“You will come to a place where the streets are not marked.

Some windows are lighted. But mostly they’re darked.”

“Do you dare to stay out? Do you dare to go in?

How much can you lose? How much can you win?”

“You can get so confused

that you’ll start in to race

down long wiggled roads at a break-necking pace

and grind on for miles across weirdish wild space,

headed, I fear, toward a most useless place.

The Waiting Place…"

~Dr. Seuss, Oh, the Places You'll Go!

Excerpt from Dr. Seuss's "Oh, the Places You'll Go!"

So, to “escape all that waiting and staying”, each morning, I would grab the spiral bound book, a cup of coffee, and sit at my bay window looking out at the mountain nearby.

I’d focus my attention on the gratitude I felt, not with the intention to wash away the pain, loss, and grief I was enduring, but as a reminder of all that I still had. Each stroke of my pen prompted an acknowledgment of all that prevailed.

As I look back at those journal entries today, I find that though the circumstances of that particular hurdle in my life were much, much different than the obstacles I face now, the lesson remains the same.

There is this huge underlying theme of doubting myself, of self-blame, and of working to love and believe in myself that dates all the way back to childhood.

Isn’t it interesting how our minds have this sort of snap judgement reaction when faced with any sort of trauma, that stems back to programming from our childhood?

So, it is the art of responding, instead of reacting, that I, a mere student, seek to master.

As a child, when I was hurt, I pretended I wasn’t. So much so that at some point, I got to a place where I truly believed I wasn’t hurting. I began to ignore my own pain, my own physical signs and symptoms of discomfort, until I simply didn’t feel them any more.

In the second grade, I jumped off a swing and broke my leg. I walked around on it for over two weeks before going to the doctor, unaware that I had been limping whatsoever. I refused to admit to anyone, including the doctor, that I was in pain. I left the doctor’s office, buckled myself into the seat of my dad’s car, and an unexpected hand reached over from the driver’s seat, sharply gripping my leg. I cried out in pain, without my usual guard up. I’d already left the doctor presumedly scot-free. Instead of being on the defensive, as I so often was around my “father”, I had been caught unawares.

I was marched—more like drug—back into the doctor’s office and x-rayed. Sure enough, there was an undeniable break.

I know now that this was a trauma response. Showing pain was not an option. It would only give my father the reaction that he was looking for. And I would always rather swallow the pain than suffer his gratification.

I know now that sometimes, learned behaviors as children—that kept us safe for one reason or another—may no longer serve the same purpose in our adult lives. And it’s not until I recognized this that I was able to start breaking some of these never-ending patterns in my own life.

As a child, it was necessary for me to feign indifference or detachment to the pointed loathing my “father” had towards me. It served me at that time.

But ignoring the physical ailments that chronic disease and illness is causing me now does not serve me.

And maybe that seems incredibly obvious, but admitting to the pain I experience is still not an easy feat, and certainly does not come naturally to me. Especially when I am only now realizing that certain “normal” experiences for me, are not actually “normal”.

I cannot even tell you how many doctors over the years I have unintentionally, even unknowingly, lied to.

It wasn’t until a year ago that I even realized that was the case—I was at my New Patient appointment with my wonderful naturopath, and during his incredibly thorough intake questionnaire, I had one epiphany after another. There were so many questions I answered “yes” to, not ever knowing that those were actual issues. Doesn’t everyone have trouble sleeping, spontaneous rashes, daily neck pain, dizziness upon standing, heart palpitations, random bouts of: vertigo, joint pain, migraines, swelling, tinnitus, hearing loss, sinus infections, stomach issues, etc.?!

This past couple years of navigating not only our screwed up health system, but also my skewed perception of my physical health, unlocking long-suppressed memories, and going from doctor to doctor has been eye opening and frustrating to say the least.

I have been told my symptoms are all in my head, “anxiety causes chest pain, ya know?” This did absolutely nothing to help my already all-consuming self doubt when it comes to physical discomfort.

I had a cardiologist tell me I had a heart murmur and three leaky valves. I said, what do I do to help that? Her reply: “Oh, nothing. You will probably end up with heart disease and heart failure in 10-15 years. I wouldn’t worry about it until then.” That same doctor suggested I probably “just” had lupus as well, due to a “rash” on my face that neither my husband nor I could see… needless to say, I fired her and found a new cardiologist.

I had another doctor several years ago refuse to treat me for a tick bite, because “we’re in Arizona, there are no ticks here,” even though I had the distinctly indicative bull’s eye rash of Lyme disease. I knew what it was, not because of WebMD or google rabbit holes, but because it wasn’t the first time I had gotten Lyme. I didn’t leave that office until she agreed to treat me.

I remember being proud of myself, simply for not ignoring the flu-like symptoms and rash just because I’d probably be okay eventually. Even if it was easier to accept these symptoms, due to the blatant rash surrounding my swollen ankle, it was still a huge step in overcoming my self doubt.

I’ve realized that going on this health journey has not only been about healing my physical body. It has also been about healing childhood and generational wounds. Memories have surfaced from childhood events I clearly had not wanted to remember. But naming the traumas is half the battle. They lose their hold over you the second you name them. And this has been the ultimate battle for me. I have no intention to avoid past traumas any longer. Instead, I am at a place where I can and will grieve, process and begin to heal. Because that is the only way to truly move forward.

It’s funny how our lives are so full of these patterns, but, like I said, I’m determined to break their cycles. If not for me, then for my son, for the possibility of his future children, and their children, and so on.

It would be all to easy to have allowed the various dismissive and disparaging doctors to impact my mindset on continuing my search for answers. To push away the pains, pretending they were all in my head, just as doctors suggested. Just as my father had suggested all those years ago.

It would have been all to easy to go with the flow of what was normal for me, rather than what was good for me.

I shudder to think of the shell of a person I would be now if I had been incapable of seeing that change was necessary. To think of the treatments I wouldn’t have received. To think of the necessary procedures I wouldn’t have scheduled. To think of the moments I would have missed out on with my family due to my own stubbornness keeping me from getting the care I need and deserve.

It may not be fun or easy to break the cycles, but I promise your loved ones will thank you for it. Even if it's 30 years later. Even if it’s just by living a life with less self doubt. And, even if you never hear a thanks.

My hope is that when I pass on, I can look over my son and his future family and see the impact of the work that I have done to heal, to grow, and to love—through his ability to love, and to believe in himself.