I always had this romanticised view of healing – it would be a long journey filled with cups of tea and staring broodingly out windows at beautiful views. There would be journalling, organisers, tidiness and order as I put my life back together. Maybe some perfectly placed Himalayan salt lamps.
I now see that as a very superficial healing. It’s pretty, but utterly insubstantial. And impractical. I would love to be able to organiser my way to a nicely balanced life, but the healing required goes straight to rock bottom.
I am scraping the bedrock within myself, the depth light dares not touch. I have spiralled down through the need to be productive; I have waved at the trauma of spousal abuse as I plummeted by; I have touched the deep childhood wounds. Now I stare up at them all, indistinct shapes in the murk of my psyche.
Dishes pile up. The same clothes are worn, day in and out. Showers become an ordeal. I lie on the couch and my vertebrae sink, heavier than stone. My body cannot help but follow.
This, too, is part of healing. It’s the ugly, crushing depression that comes when you feel safe enough to feel. That lifetime catches up with us all eventually. Embrace it. Sit with it. Learn the texture of your grief, the flavour of your rage; they are a part of you after all.
I will build myself back up, but for now I will learn the cracks in my bedrock. This, too, is a part of healing.
Walk to Wellness 