Dramatic Irony and Heart Voices

With all of our lives in turmoil and changing day-by-day, I felt like this is the right time to share a couple of secrets about me, why I am alive, and how those experiences have guided me to respond to fear. I hope they are helpful to you, too.

When I was a teenager, I was ensconced in all matters of extra-curricular activities, many of which led me to conferences and gatherings. Usually these were filled with assemblies listening to professional Motivational Speakers. Their stories drew me in and I was enchanted with what each of them awoke in me. I desperately wanted to be a Motivational Speaker myself, but I recognized the roadblock in my way: I hadn’t experienced nearly enough pain or trauma to inspire anyone with tales of overcoming the odds. I saw the archetype of the wounded healer or the orphaned hero everywhere I looked: in my favorite books, in the movies I watched, and in the people in the suits on stage inspiring the crap out of me.

Well, be careful what you wish for, I suppose. It was only a couple of years after having those thoughts that I was struck down almost overnight by severe chronic illness. Out of the blue I started fainting whenever my heart rate went up, getting head-splitting migraines and periods of dizziness, having intense panic attacks with no apparent psychological trigger that would consume me unpredictably, severe abdominal pain, and the inability to eat. More and more confusing and intertwining symptoms. It nearly broke me.

And though I have been dealing with these issues for more than a decade, the pain is still the same pain. It’s me who has changed. I am now armed with the knowledge of diagnoses and the treatment options for them. I’m better at handling pain. I am better at weathering the depression that comes with chronic pain. Much of my complicated medical history is still a mystery. My day-to-day life is full of limitations. I’ve faced death more than once and fought to stay here. I think it’s safe to say that I have the “qualifications” my younger self was hoping for. (Hey universe, I’m good now. You can stop the whole ‘character experiences pain and growth necessary for continuation of the story’ protocol now. I’ve learned my lessons. I’m all set. Can I have my life back?)

The truth is, I don’t know when or if I will ever be free of these limitations and this pain. But I have learned to work with it, to work around it, to be who I want to be and do (most of) what I want to do despite it. I’ve become my own motivational speaker. And in my own way, I have been doing the same thing I admired as a teenager: helping others find wonder in a world that is often overwhelming and dark. 

There is no getting around it: these are dark times. Have you found yourself looking for some guiding light, a pinprick in the dark, to grasp onto? You may not realize this, but that spark lies within you, hidden in your heart. In times of struggle, our focus is often drawn up into the brain or down into the gut (as in “gut feelings.”) Finding some balance of the two is important for everyone, but I think that many of us tend to gloss over the voice of the heart. A sweet friend of mine recently reminded me to pause and listen to what my heart had to say. It sounded a bit cheesy, but I indulged her. At first, I just felt a blanket of pure fear covering my heart, stifling it. With a little more attention, a firm voice burst through: “You are a fighter. You can do this.” The heart voice is not wavering like the gut feeling, nor is it hard to interpret like the swirling thoughts in my head. It is clear, it is strong, and it steps forth when it is needed most. That voice is the reason I am alive today.

I still remember the night I almost died with a detailed clearness that can only come from a trauma memory. My complex health issues had been flaring badly, preventing me from eating. I was having a severe allergic reaction to a medication, shaking violently. High fever. Small seizures. My body had been seared with excruciating pain for days on end, and focused meditation was my only temporary escape. I felt utterly depleted. I hadn’t slept in 72 hours and had barely sipped water for a week. I was so sure that I was going to die that I wrote final letters to those closest to me. I held on through the night, in far too much pain for sleep. Then, sometime around 3 a.m., I felt a strange calm come over me. It was so soothing, so peaceful. I started to hallucinate, picturing a pathway into the void of blackness. There was a round tunnel, and clouds of colors and spotted swirls twirled gently down the tunnel towards the end, a dazzling white light. I felt like a prism, like my presence was splitting that pure white light into all of those gorgeous swirls and patterns as I rose from my pain-stricken body below. I started walking towards the light, entranced, grateful for an escape. Then, that heart voice appeared. It did not speak. It thundered. “I AM NOT FINISHED HERE YET.” I was suddenly ripped from that peaceful tunnel and back into my body, back into the agony and the pain.

To this day I truly believe that I was presented with a choice that night. If my heart had been as ready to depart as the rest of my body was, I truly believe I would have walked into that glorious light and passed on. At the time, part of me was angry at the fierceness inside of me, wanting to stop existing in such inescapable excruciating pain. As I reflect back on all that I have experienced since that night, I am deeply deeply grateful that spark inside me spoke out.

It feels a little strange to share a story that is so deeply personal and vulnerable, but maybe that is something we all need to do a little more of. It’s no secret that many people who have had near-death experiences report a tunnel with a light at the end of it. It’s shockingly universal, so much so that after I did some research on it years later I was in tears to read just how closely my own story matched that of other survivors. When I was laying there, broken and shaking, a skeletal mess of agony, I had no idea my heart was so strong. I thought I would succumb. I thought I was ready. 

I am so grateful I was reminded of the strength of my heart voice the other night, as I truly needed its guidance once again. With the threat of the coronavirus reaching my city, I’ve been scared. I have no reserves. My body feels as fragile as an eggshell. I fear that if I were to catch this virus, I wouldn’t have the necessary bodily resources to fight it. And yet that heart voice is burning in my chest, ever-louder and ever-brighter: “You are a fighter. You won’t give up.” Have you ever felt the assurance of your heart speaking? Perhaps telling you to hold on, or clearly indicating that “he is the one.” Have you experienced that firmness, that tenacity, that strength within you like the last ember glowing on a long cold night? Do you hear it now? If you are hurting or unsure or scared, take a moment now to open yourself to listening. Close your eyes and draw your attention into your chest. Let it sit there, waiting, perhaps pulling away silken layers of doubt that are muting the voice you need to hear. What does it say to you? What do you hear?

P.S. The painting featured with this post is something I painted soon after that night. It was done completely intuitively, and painting all the little dots was a meditative action that distracted me from my pain. It is my most precious piece of artwork and it goes with me wherever I go, to hang as a reminder that I chose to stay here. When I move into a new house or apartment, it is the first thing that is hung before anything else enters that space.

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