Chapter One of BirthQuake

A QUIET RUMBLING

By the time I was 35, my own life looked pretty good (at a glance) from the outside. I had a successful private practice housed in a lovely old Victorian, a wonderful partner, a peaceful home to escape to on a serene pond, terrific friends and neighbors, a loving and supportive marriage of 18 years, and a bright and beautiful eight-year-old daughter. My husband and I were thankful and proud of what we had accomplished together, and, yet to our disappointment and even greater confusion, we were both growing increasingly more dissatisfied. Our lives were filled with responsibilities and obligations. Kevin worked at a job that had become meaningless to him and to which he commuted over three hours a day. He was also completing his MBA and managing three apartment buildings. There was never a moment that he could say to himself, "I have nothing left I need to do", there was always something which he felt required his attention.

At first, he just looked tired and smiled less. Then he began pulling away from our daughter Kristen and I. He would become silent and withdrawn. As time went on, the man whom I had known to be an eternal optimist began more and more often to speak of himself and the world around him in increasingly more fatalistic and negative ways. He started losing faith in himself and began questioning many of the decisions he had made in his life. He became confused about what he wanted and needed. Nothing I seemed to do or say appeared to help him. For the first time since I had met him over 20 years before, Kevin, a constant source of stability and strength in my life, was beginning to drain me. He was depressed, and I could not "fix" him no matter how hard I tried.

One of the most precious aspects of our relationship had been our laughter. We had always laughed often, and loudly and well. One day, without our noticing it, the laughter stopped. We became too busy to laugh, and then later we were too miserable.

In retrospect, an obvious clue to my own misery was the chronic pain I developed in my back. Initially, I attributed it to the difficult delivery I had experienced in giving birth to my daughter. Then I suspected that it was arthritis aggravated by the cold and damp of the Maine winters, and later I decided that stress was the culprit. The pain grew from an annoying and distracting discomfort to a fierce and devastating torment. I consumed vast amounts of over-the-counter Analgesics. I went to several physicians who prescribed various pain medication and muscle relaxants. I had my back adjusted by a chiropractor and then an osteopath. I faithfully engaged in exercise to strengthen my abdominal and back muscles. The relief was minimal.

I was able to function at work for much of the time, although I was so uncomfortable that many of my clients noticed, and some even began bringing me in various aids and remedies. When the pain was so intense that I could not work, I would lie in bed in agony and terrified. I could not lie down or sit up without being in excruciating pain on my really "bad" days. I found myself in my early thirties moving around the house during those times like an ancient and decrepit woman. I could not imagine a life filled forever with this kind of pain - let alone bear the thought of my condition deteriorating (as I had been warned might occur).

I eventually decided that if modern medicine could offer me so little, then I would need to rely on my own capacity for healing. I was dubious; I was doubtful; I lacked faith, but I was desperate - so I began. I continued exercising and started doing visualization, self-hypnosis and deep relaxation in earnest.

I had always been troubled by the hypocrisy in my life, and I became even more acutely aware of it during this time. I had worked to teach others of the sanctity of the body, while blatantly abusing my own. I smoked heavily, my diet was poor, and I was under continuous stress. No matter how loudly I heard or delivered the message to take responsibility for physical and emotional well-being, my behavior towards myself remained cruel and abusive. I continued to invade my body with formaldehyde, ammonia, hydrogen sulfide, tar, nicotine and other poisons. Only now my pain made it impossible to ignore it.

A terrible hallmark of addiction is that no matter how much the addict knows about the damage the addiction is inflicting, he or she keeps holding on to it. I was a classic addict. I was addicted to nicotine and achievement. I was aware of their destructive effects on my body, and yet I continued. I could not/would not stop. I was determined to save myself while holding on to the very behaviors that were contributing to my destruction. I was like the person who is just learning how to water ski who falls into the water and is being dragged behind the boat. People on shore yell, "Let go of the rope! Let go! Let go!" And the poor idiot holds on and is being drowned by the wake of the boat. The only hope lies in letting go.

So I held on. I also began examining the metaphors of my aching back. I carried a great deal of other people's burdens on my shoulders. I was often weighed down by the troubles of others. I was also exposed to the heartaches of my clients on an ongoing basis. Perhaps, if I lightened the load I was carrying and put more distance between myself and the troubles of others, I would be able to find release from my own aching back.