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This won't make sense until you read it, but I'm trying to be a turtle
by Jenni Prokopy, the Editrix
For the past few months, I've been thinking about being a turtle.
It started right after the big storm hit and severely damaged our condo, and hubby Steve and I had to move to temporary digs. The whole idea stressed me out so much I was having massive anxiety attacks, and it seemed like six months in a strange place would be simply impossible.
I carry my home with me wherever I go
I talked with one of my docs about the idea of taking home with me wherever I go—letting go of the idea that "home" had to be the home I had known for three years. This was tough for me: a childhood of being shuttled from home to home had given me a few hangups about protecting my space. And chronic illness had turned me into much more of a homebody.
I'm sure this is true for many ChronicBabes: when nothing else in our lives feels in our control, if at least we can control our surroundings, we have some sense of grounding. At least, that's the way I felt. Even on my worse flare-up days, I knew my bed would be warm and inviting, and my kitchen would be organized and stocked with favorite food.
So the idea of "home" being not a place, not my "stuff," but instead anywhere I rest my head, seemed...crazy. Impossible. Frightening. My doc pushed me to consider the idea that I could make my temporary space feel like home, with the smells of home cooking or candles; with the presence of friends; by creating some makeshift art with markers and a big sketch pad. They all worked to some degree, but I felt like I was faking.
But then one day, I was meditating using one of my favorite tools, The Breathe Easy Deck, and I pulled the "home" card, featuring a drawing of—what else—a turtle. This clever little animal brings its home with it wherever it goes, and suddenly, I had a symbol of my goal. I would become a turtle. I would bring my calm space with me in my heart, and try to mellow out in even the most chaotic spaces.
And soon it was working. It just took a little practice. The first trip I took after the storm, to my sister's place in New Orleans, had me in tears for a moment or two each day; I felt a bit jealous of her "settled in"-ness. It wasn't the easiest thing, but she and the rest of the family were patient and understanding, and that sealed the deal.
I came home to Chicago, opened the door to my temporary digs (full of packing boxes and the strange solitude that high-rises offer) and I felt...I finally had to admit...home.
Sometimes I pull my head into my shell and hide
And sometimes that's OK. It's one of the benefits of being a turtle—you're self-contained, so you can hermit a little bit when you need to. Of course, it's not good to make a habit out of ignoring the pressing needs around you.
Take, for example, packing. We're moving back home (it's so weird now to say "home" because I finally feel like our temporary digs are also "home!") and the packing boxes are out again, and the apartment is just chaos.
I would like to pretend that I don't have to pack. My body sure doesn't want to pack; I'm anxious, and in a lot of pain from all the errands and standing and lifting and...all that comes with packing.
So sometimes, I pull my head in my shell. I find some trashy TV, make some microwave popcorn, turn off the phones and veg out, pretending the rest of the world doesn't exist. It's all cool. I can just stay here in my shell for a little while.
And I think this applies to those of us with chronic illness, too. I know most of my friends have learned that I sometimes need to pull away for a few days and just hermit. (They also know that if it lasts longer than a few days, they should call to entice me out of my shell again.)
Eventually, I come out of hiding and face the real world again. It's just where I left it. That time in my shell is usually relaxing and rejuvenating and when I come out, I'm ready to face the things that scared or overwhelmed me before.
Slow and steady is my motto
That same doc—the one who told me that I carry my home with me in my heart—reminded me the other day that it's OK to move at a slower pace.
The anxiety I feel lately about moving home, and all the bazillion tasks that entails, is making me feel so FRANTIC it seems like every free minute should be spent doing something. So I was wasting a lot of energy doing stuff that wasn't really that urgent, just to feel like I was accomplishing something.
But as in that fabled race, my turtle self needs to be true to my nature and be slow and steady. Measured. Cool and collected.
So I'm making lists of all the things I need to do, divvying up responsibilities with hubby Steve, delegating what I can, accepting offers of help, and otherwise trying to be mellow about getting things done. Steve reminds me each day that we need to include time in our busy schedules to have fun, and I'm following his admonitions.
Slow and steady. Three words that in my pre-illness life would have been laughable, but in my current ChronicBabe life, my turtle life, they are my motto.
Maybe we should all be turtles
Don't get me wrong, Type A's, I think there's room in this world for some intensity; some occasions to power through hard obstacles; some powerful action. But I'm talking about balance. The ability to calm ourselves and feel at home wherever we are. The freedom to take breaks when things are really hard. And a confidence that allows us to approach our life's obstacles with patience and steadiness.
It's all about being a turtle, Babes.
Posted: 2/17/2008 in Coping
