My lavender eye bag atop my weighted blanket (author photo)
I have slowly exited a personal hell… no other way to put it.
Two weeks ago, when I sought a loving in-person conversation after asking for a couple months of the most serious and honest reflection of my life, I had a bomb dropped on me. Nothing about another woman. Nothing said in anger.
But a completely unexpected jolt to my system that, I can only surmise, sent my body into a mild state of shock.
I lost my husband to the ocean nearly 33 years ago. I recall being able to only eat yogurt and bananas for weeks, but I slept out of sheer exhaustion. I let people take care of me and my little boys, and I got out of my bed every morning to be present for my two little fatherless sons to give them all the love and attention I could muster. Nearly nine years of marriage that was a true and loving partnership… washed away in the waves of the mighty Atlantic.
But what happened two weeks ago rattled me.
I cried for days (crying a little as I write this, but the tears have largely subsided). I couldn’t sleep. My head kept rolling around so much in the wee morning hours. My contributions to the “mess.” His contributions to the “mess,”
And truthfully–from where I sit–the wonderful and beautiful surpassed the so-called “mess.”
Long distance relationships (we weren’t always in an LDR) are just hard.
Add work commitments–especially his– travel plans, and periods of having to focus on our families can make LDRs darn right challenging.
And after much reflection, I was ready to plan a move to the middle of the state.
Hope is one of my top values, and when something is important to me, I will do what I can to make it right, but it takes two people to go to counseling, to have a true conversation about their relationship and not consider a ten-minute FaceTime chat or a fun-filled weekend such a conversation.
But I digress…
My body descended into hell…
Cold. Shaking. Nonstop crying. Canceling yoga classes. Telling my consulting client I couldn’t make it in for a week. Missing MOCA’s final party, a place I poured so much of myself into for well over a decade. Not attending mass.
I cried out to God as I sat on my floor with my cat rubbing against me. I leaned into a handful of trusted friends who held space for me to sob. I traded texts with my therapist.
And I created what I called my “healing cocoon.”
One afternoon, I dragged my weighted blanket onto my bed and wrapped it around me. I placed the eye bag my dear friend Ali sent me a couple years ago on my eyes. I set my alarm.
And I descended into a deep, trance-like state of relaxation. I did this daily for over a week.
It’s funny what creeps in when you descend like that… usually things that you have long forgotten.
Long forgotten incidents that crept back in…
And eventually, finally, my body and my God said, “Rise, get out of that cocoon and live your life.”
I’ve made no secret that I am a huge fan of the Netflix hit series “Stranger Things.” When the character Eleven, aka, El, aka, Jane, goes into her pool, she can see things. She sees what’s happening.
And my healing cocoon provided some insights I’d never had into the other great love of my life and myself. Those insights are private and will be between him and me when the time is right.
I am now sleeping well, with the help of a little extra night time medication. My new nightly routine is something I am fiercely guarding. I rest knowing someone and I love each other and will figure this “friendship” thing out at some point.
One breath at a time. One day at a time.
One healing cocoon at a time…
And a stronger and more beautiful butterfly will emerge.
Amy Walton believes in healing and that with love and using the right resources, most things can be healed. Connect with her at amywaltoncoaching@gmail.com.