You know that feeling? The one in your gut that is seemingly screaming at you? The one that, despite your best efforts, keeps reminding you that something is off? Often loudest at night, right as you lay your head down for what is meant to be the most peaceful part of your day, you hear it, you feel it. Ever tried ignoring it? How about for nearly two years? (Do not try this at home.)
I remember the feeling; if I think hard enough about it, it can still come back some days. Knowing deep within me that there was something that had yet to be revealed to me, and that when it was, it was going to shake the ground beneath me. Like other times in my life, I’d be faced with two very familiar choices — either crumble completely, or find the lesson in it and transform.
I can crumble, right? I deserve to crumble; let somebody else pick up the pieces of this madness that my life has become. I can pack all my stuff up, throw it in the back of my brother’s pick-up truck, follow him home to my mom’s house, half-ass unpack/ live out of boxes, and only lift my head off the pillow to respond to my mom as she quietly knocks on my childhood bedroom door to whisper, “G, you doing okay in there? Can I get you anything?” I can be the Guest of Honor at my own pity party, every. single. day. And hey, no one can stop me, because hello, don’t you know what happened to me?
*Cue reality check.* Christmas Break is ending. My students will be walking into my classroom at 9:00 Tuesday morning, expecting the same welcoming smile Ms. Osborne is always (well, almost always) waiting on the other side of the door to greet them with. We’re going to exchange stories of how wonderful Christmas Break was and all the things that Santa brought us. You have to get out of your pajamas, Ms. Osborne. Routine is waiting for you, Ms.Osborne. Life is waiting for you, go live it.
End pity party. Thanks for having me, really, it was a great time. I must go now. Sorry, I won’t be able to make it back later. My year of yes is calling…
January 1- July 31. Who am I today is not who I was. Who I am today will never be who I was. You know when you scroll Instagram and you see all those self-love inspirational quotes and as you double-tap to “like” it, you feel that sense of YES, GIRL! because you can relate? That’s what the past 7-ish months have been — a whole lotta self-love and YES, GIRL’s. A whole lot of self-discovery and figuring out exactly who I am, and not apologizing to anyone for it. A whole lot of digging deep to find my truth, and relishing in it when I get there. A whole lot of reclaiming every. single. ounce. of love I’ve ever given to those unworthy, and turning it inward, for me. Walking down every dark, seemingly forbidden path, to see what’s waiting for me at the end.
In the midst of this, my acupuncturist recommended I see a breathwork therapist as another way to combat the looming anxiety and depression that follows me around, despite my best efforts to keep it at bay. Intrigued by the practice of breathwork and convinced that I could never have too many avenues of #selfcare, I made my first appointment. I walked into a tiny office, kicked my shoes off, and sat indian-style on the floor as I began to tell this (beautiful-spirited) stranger the things that were haunting me. Why did my dad abandon me, how did he so easily decide I was unworthy? Why have horrible, horrible things happened to me? I’m a good person, I really am. I have a pure heart and I love hard and, yet, here I am.
As she coached me through the next hour of breathwork, a miracle happened, something I’ve never experienced in my entire life — and I’ve done some weird drugs. Breathwork involves taking deep breaths, inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, ultimately resulting in an altered state of consciousness that can provide the opportunity for healing. I laid on the mat, listening for her guidance, breaking out of my natural, shallow breathing pattern to go deeper. I could feel the tears streaming down my face, wetting my hairline as I lay flat on my back. I could hear my voice, but I didn’t know what I was saying. I knew she was next to me with a notepad, scribbling as I shouted. Physically, I was lying on the mat. Mentally, I had left that room and gone back to a rare time in my childhood when I was at my biological father’s house.
The timeline of my life is blurred so I’m not quite sure how old I was, but I assume I was no older than 10, if that. My father had left my siblings and I in the living-room and locked his bedroom door. I know now it was to do cocaine, while avoiding his adolescent children asking for an explanation of the gnarly nosebleeds. We were eating uncooked Ramen noodles, with the seasoning spread over top of the dry, hard noodles. (A real delicacy for the impoverished child,*eye roll*) This wasn’t how we lived at my mother’s house, and I was terrified. I felt unsafe, uncomfortable, and like a stranger in my own father’s home. But I was a child. A child who, despite what seems to be the glaringly obvious reality, had no idea what was going on in the world around her. This is one of my only memories of time spent with my biological father, and this experience alone can sum up his contribution to my life as a whole.
I hear the breathwork therapist tell me she’s going to play a song, I feel the heavy flow of tears on my skin, I feel the sweat that has saturated my body as a natural response to the moment I just relived. She prompts me to take a deep breath, to open my eyes, when I’m ready. I open up my eyes and lie still for a few minutes to regain total consciousness and become aware of my physical surroundings again.
I look over at her, notepad in hand, as she quietly reads back to me the words that were shouted, in my own voice, to that little girl, eating uncooked Ramen in her dad’s living-room, during my session. “You’re safe Jeana, you’re all you need Jeana, you don’t need to be saved, you’re safe.”
Welcome to your transformation, Jeana, you’re safe.
Help information
If you need help please talk to friends, family, a GP, therapist or one of the free confidential helpline services. For a full list of national mental health services see yourmentalhealth.ie.
- Samaritans on their free confidential 24/7 helpline on 116-123, by emailing jo@samaritans.ie
- Pieta House National Suicide Helpline 1800 247 247 or email mary@pieta.ie – (suicide prevention, self-harm, bereavement) or text HELP to 51444 (standard message rates apply)
- Aware 1800 80 48 48 (depression, anxiety)
If living in Ireland you can find accredited therapists in your area here:
Support Our Campaign
We rely on the generosity of the public to fund our work and so far together we have achieved great things! Please do continue to support us so we can provide future generations in Ireland with the resources to recognise and talk about their emotions, and equip them to navigate the ever-changing world around them as they grow
