Tag Archives: repressed sadness

How Your #Rage Can Harm Your #Body; How Awareness Can Cure You

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“The subject is pain. But we’re not talking about pain that’s due to some sort of structural abnormality; but rather the pain that is generated in us when we put ourselves under pressure to be perfect and good.” –Dr. John Sarno, M.D.; Rehabilitative Medicine, New York University Medical Center

“I have never met Dr. Sarno. I have seen miraculous results of people I’ve sent to him. Results from people who just read his books.” –Dr. Andrew Weil, Arizona Center for Integrative Medicine

There’s a film documentary coming out that might change your life, spare you surgery, save the country millions of dollars, get people off drugs and change the way we think about pain. The pain we’re talking about here includes:

  • TMJ
  • Migraine
  • Back ache (me!)
  • Plantar fasciitis (me!)
  • Tendonitis (me!)
  • Fibromyalgia
  • Irritable Bowel Syndrome (me?), and more

I say this with a ton of confidence because the movie is based on the proven work of John Sarno, M.D., whose many books have changed lives.

Whose lives? Senator Tom Harkin, John Stossel, Howard Stern, Larry David, mine, friends I won’t mention because that’s their personal business.

I’ve been in contact with one of the staffers on the film’s promotions crew and we’ve been emailing back and forth. She was so interested in my story that she asked me to share it with you on my blog and mention the movie in hopes to get more people to support it or at least spread the word.

Here’s the public pitch for “All the Rage” (of which I am a proud Kickstarter backer):

“All The Rage” is a film that can save America from untold suffering and economic collapse. This isn’t hyperbole. The cost of pain has risen from $56 billion per year in 1986 to $636 billion in 2012. Dr. Sarno knows the reason. The pain is caused by stress related to the repression of our emotions. Sounds crazy, but it makes sense. In the 70’s he predicted this epidemic. The cure is knowledge and this film can deliver it.

Here’s the trailer for it (my favorite place at 2:22 is when Senator Tom Harkin is speaking at a formal hearing about his successful experiences due to Sarno and the man on the other side of the table can’t seem to answer him):

I have written here and here about my own journey with mindbody and chronic pain. I have written here candidly and humorously about my eye-opening journey regarding PreMenstrual Dysphoric Disorder (PMDD — the opposite of “euphoria” is “dysphoria”) and it wasn’t until last week when I was corresponding with a member of the promotions team for “All the Rage” that I made the connection about my personal Sarno-related issue (which I’ve yet to really talk about because I suppressed so much of it), that it revolves around my anger; my deep rage that I have relative to my own personal story; and the fact that my PMDD is quite likely related keenly to mindbody medicine.

I want to include a clip from the film. It’s an interview with Dr. Sarno’s wife, Martha, who was a revolutionary speech pathologist. In her work she made the connection between the indescribable (no pun intended) trauma in her patients’ personal lives and their inability to speak. I can’t share it with you because you need to be a Kickstarter “backer” to see it. But I’ll quote her:

…They were so focused on the disability; ‘fix the speech,’ ‘fix the language,’ forgetting that these poor people were going through horrors in their lives. They couldn’t express themselves. Their families were desperate. And nobody ever talked about how they felt…

Martha Sarno changed all that. She made that connection and now because of her work and incorporating the psychological aspect into her healing regimen, she radically changed treatment of speech pathology issues. In the clip, she continues to speak about how her husband’s work is a threat to established orthopedists and rehabilitative specialists and surgeons everywhere…  What Dr. Sarno has uncovered will end a lot of country club memberships for a lot of fancy doctors and health insurance people…

All of a sudden the pain was gone, it was the closest thing I’ve ever had in my life to a religious experience, and I wept. –Larry David

I’ve tinkered for years with the concept of writing a memoir. I even wrote a fictionalized one about three years ago. At the time, my mother was still alive and I never felt “correct” about what I wrote or shared. I felt as though I owed her some sort of coverage or protection despite the years of emotional trauma and neglect. I still, at 47, am reluctant and almost fearful about writing anything really personal on my blog or in a book because it would offend my father, who is still living. Regardless: I suffered in my childhood and adolescence due to my mother’s addictions and mental illnesses. I also believe there was a great deal that could have helped her and it wasn’t done. She endured a tremendous loss: her second son was born and died three days later and she never met or held him. In those days, 1965, you didn’t talk about your problems. You bucked up. I can’t imagine her grief. She self-medicated for that and enormous anxiety. She told me a little about her grief from losing John a few months before she died, but it was masking her rage. She said that too.

I’ve never disclosed a lot of what I grew up with. I’ve alluded to it and I know it doesn’t compare to some other peoples’ issues, but it’s my story so it’s real to me. I’m sure I’ll catch hell for saying this much; some form of silent treatment, but I’m an adult and I realize that if I continue that narrative, that everything was roses and carrot cake, that I will continue to have muscular pain, tendonitis, undiagnosable GI stuff (food sensitivities and reactions which make no sense) and sciatica.

How do I know they’re not real? Because they come and go. Because X-rays and MRIs (yes, lots of insurance billing going on) tell me that they see nothing. That there’s nothing wrong. But the pain and the symptoms are real. What do you do then? If you’re me, you learn to compensate. You build muscle anyway; go for a row anyway; run a few miles in pain anyway; do push-ups with elbow or shoulder pain and downward facing dogs with sciatica burning down your leg. Why? Because when the stress is gone, the pain is gone. I also choose the push through it because my mom didn’t.

When I shared a friendship with someone, I never connected the unbearable neck and shoulder pain I had during a conflict and then just as a matter of course as time wore on. Even now, I can feel it creeping back in. When we separated, the pain almost melted away. If I think of her, the pain comes back. Last week, I considered reaching out to her because I felt bad about how things have gone, but then two nights ago I had a dream that I was in her car and she took me on a wooden roller coaster in her car (I couldn’t buckle my seat belt) and I couldn’t get off the ride. It was as vivid as reality: my stomach swelled upon the rise to the crest of the first hill and then I felt the plunge and g-forces of the drop and my body ache on curves and my head hurt on the loop-de-loops. When I woke I was nauseated and exhausted and my back hurt. I know now that there’s no chance I can be well — I would be ignoring my very body’s signals! — if I ever resumed that relationship.

If you can allow yourself to allow the experience (yes, lots of allowing going on) that your throat gets a lump in it when you feel like you’re going to cry, then you can allow yourself to allow to understand how continually bracing yourself against a psychic and emotional tidal wave composed of unexpressed feelings ( disappointment, anger, fear, jealousy or other heavy emotions), can leave your body looking caving in to protect itself or … for a way to express it.

And that’s what this is about: your body’s expression, quite literally, of that emotional repression. In a yoga sense, a lot of this ties in so beautifully with the chakra systems and the sides of our body which experience “dis-ease.” In mindbody medicine, concept is that your psyche can’t deal with the emotional pain, so it “distracts” you by referring the pain to your back, jaw, brain, digestive system… it’s not that different from a panic attack. How does a panic attack get you to not think about the emotional stuff, what’s really bothering you? By telling your body you’re dying.

Dr. Sarno talks a lot in his books about “goodism” and “good-ists” — those people (all of us) who feel pressure to Do The Right Thing, Always, based on what is morally or socially correct and acceptable. For example: sometimes you just don’t want to go to a _____________ but everyone is going to be there and having a great time, so instead of honoring your needs, you go to ______________ and then you get a headache or your back goes out or your stomach hurts. It’s all related, trust me.

How to stop it? Well, in the meantime before the movie comes out, read any of the books Sarno has written and join thousands of other people who feel relief just from READING A BOOK. Why does that work? Because you realize you’re not crazy OR alone. There’s no placebo, no waiting room, no patronizing nods of sympathy from a jaded receptionist. No looking for a parking space.

Most of Sarno’s patients don’t require psychotherapy or other similar interventions (some may) and there’s no fear about changing your personality. You don’t even have to talk about it or consider a memoir like yours truly. You’re fine the way you are, but your pain can go away.

I read twenty pages [of Dr.Sarno’s book] and my pain almost cuts down by 75%.
–Jonathan Ames

What this movie and book and movement are giving to me is the confidence to move forward with writing my memoir because I feel like I have a relevant space to hook it into: health and personal advocacy. I’ve already decided that my first line would be, “I never knew how angry I was until I wasn’t anymore.” My well-being and health had been held hostage by my anger at my parents for the lies I witnessed and the confusion and pain I endured. Thanks to the emails I’d shared with the movie publicist, I connected that my food issues began in the spring of 1994 when I was planning my wedding. That was my first trip to the Gastroenterologist. All my “flare ups” happen in the spring when I was planning the wedding. I also saw a cardiologist then because of panic attacks (this just came back to me right now); my heart was all wonky but brought on by anxiety. I am convinced my PMDD was related to my rage from growing up with all that dysfunction as well.

You don’t have to hail from a dysfunctional family to benefit from Sarno and this film (even though about 80% of us are from dysfunctional families or are in families with some measure of dysfunction surrounding them). You could simply be disappointed that you never felt ______ in your life and are dealing with chronic pain and nothing you’ve done so far seems to help.

I don’t think I’ve ever asked you for help, but today I am. If nothing else, please spread the word to help support this cause. The Kickstarter campaign ends December 17, 2014.

Thank you.

 

Friday Fiction 2.0 — Beyond the Edge

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The choice was simple. Stay or go. Put up and shut up or push out and change, evolve and grow.

“If you stay here, you see more of the same. You experience more of the blows and more of the highs and more of the lows. Maybe different depths and steeper heights, but essentially the same,” she thought to herself. “The same kinds of people, the same limited thoughts, the same pedantic ways,” she knew.

Outside her bedroom window, lay the lush and vibrant landscape she had frolicked on as a child and as her mother was a child and her mother before her. Generations of oaks, cascading wisteria blooms, putting greens, bowling greens, livery stables, pristine sculpture gardens and gleaming marble water fountains, the hypnotic gurgling and gentle splashing from the koi and frogs. It was a paradise to anyone else. But to Elise, it was a prison. Her years of privilege stymied her perceptions, her outlook and her understanding of what the real world was all about.

“Harvard or Oxford? Gucci or Prada? St. Tropéz or Athens? These are not the choices of a real human being,” she mocked herself, tossing the offer letters from her satin sheets and watching them land on the silk Persian carpet beneath her feet. Rising from her bed and running to her window she flew it open and shouted, “These are not the choices of a real humaaan beeeeing! These make a mockery of their lives and challenges! They must! Right?!”

Her mother rushed into Elise’s room, her sheer robe billowing behind her, lather on her face from her morning wash, her eyes were wide with concern and fear.

“Elise! Whatever is the matter? Oh my sweet! It’s so early yet. What troubles you so today?” she asked.

“This! All of this! Those letters! My closet! My great fortune! My life! I want to live with purpose; I want to have meaning. All of this is for nothing if people suffer and I turn my eye from it,” she said to her mother with tears welling, suspended and glistening on the lip of her chocolate eyes’ lower lids.

Her mother rushed to her side, “Now now… dear child! Here! Here’s a lollipop! Or your happy bear! La-la-lala… HO HO HO, I’m Chunky the happy bear, I’m coming to tickle yooooooou…” said her mother in an odd deep voice, intoning and bouncing the bear, a robust brown furry stuffed animal adorned with a rhinestone-studded dog collar Elise had bought for him as a gift when he turned five. Her mother was desperate at the moment to change the mood.

Elise was an ugly crier. It can be said of some people that they cry gracefully and so beautifully that their mere sensation of sadness is powerful enough to provoke a sniffle from even the most coarsened and granitic souls. For Elise, it was not this way. Her face contorted in a fashion not unlike the gargoyles atop Notre Dame, her voice became like that of a banshee harbored in Irish lowlands and the moaning, oh, the moaning it could truly break not only glass, but also porcelain vases from ancient Chinese dynasties. For Elise, crying was a weapon; but she would wail unaware of her effect, lest she would exploit it, the townspeople feared.

So when she was born, her parents made a pact with the villagers. Elise would cry only in her house and only with the windows closed; if she were outside and having fun and all of a sudden suffered a boo-boo or a moment of perceived unfairness during a game, she would be scooped up and whisked into the house to cry it out. But everyone knew, that eventually Elise would not be forever entertained by a lollipop or a dancing bear. In the meantime, alchemists tried to develop a glass that wouldn’t shatter when she cried. But how to test it? She’d have to cry and no one wanted that.

Since puberty, her crying became more desperate and unpredictable. Elise was not only unaware of her punitive sadness, but she was also connecting to the way it made her feel: worn down, exhausted and defensive, which only resulted in more frustration and ultimately more tears. Being a teen with the unbeknownst power to bring police squads to their knees and ducking for cover from the spraying shards which were as dangerous as random gunfire was confusing to her.

“I don’t WAAAANT the BEAAAAR!” she shrieked at her mother, turning her head out toward the gardens, deaf to the screams and mayhem from the house staff downstairs. Her own windows rattled; a single crack in a pane grew across the base of the glass along the frame, catching the light from the sun, and her attention for a brief second, long enough to make her catch her breath.

“Wha? What was that?” she asked, bewildered, an eyebrow raised.

Downstairs the human clamor was slowing but the vacuums started up to clean up whatever was left of the mess from her recent outburst.

“Waaaah!” she cried.

The window shook.

“Waaaah-ahh-aaaah! Noooooowaaaaah!” she wailed again, deliberately this time to study the effects, as though testing her shadow for its truth or an image in a false mirror. The crack spread across the entire window; all four corners were vulnerable to implosion and a single piece, the size of a bottle cap, popped out and dropped at her feet.

“Oh my…” she said, bending over to pick up the piece, gently examining it in the sunlight and taking great care to not cut herself.

“I’ll… I’ll uh, I’ll take that, honey. Give it. Give it here, Leesie,” begged her mother, with the bear in one hand, his eyes now cracked, one completely off his face. Her mother’s other palm was patiently outstretched, waiting for the piece. “I’m worried you’ll cut yourself on it…”

“No. No, I’ll be fine. In a second. If I cry again, mother, what will happen to this window?” she asked.

“If you cry again, dear, the glass with break completely and you and I could be injured. It’s something we’re trying to … to understand. We know that if you are simply angry, then the glass won’t break, but if you are truly sad or melancholy, then the glass will break and porcelain vases as will most lead crystal and fine china within a 5-mile radius,” she said, nervously nodding and pressing her lips together when she was finished.

“Oh,” said Elise. “That explains a lot. I am so sorry. I never meant ….” and her breathing deepened as her lower lip trembled.

Quickly, her mother rushed to her side and said, “I don’t know what to do. We’ve never let you just let it out. We’ve always stopped you. We don’t know what will happen if …”

“If I just let it out?” Elise asked, regaining her composure. “Is this why…? All this stuff? My bedroom is all puffy and fluffed with things that aren’t hard, nothing shiny? Why my mirrors are all plastic and warped? Why I ride a bicycle everywhere and I drink out of plastic or steel? Why all my stuffed animals have button eyes? Oh my goodness…” she blew a breath between her lips as though blowing on a coffee to cool it, she was working very hard to keep her emotions in check as her words were paced and thoughtful.

“Yes. That is why,” said her mother, as she pulled her daughter close to hold her near, her facial lather had dried to a flakey foam by now. “But I think you might be ready because now you know,” she added.

“Where? Where will I be safe, or where will I be able to cry so others can be safe?” she asked.

“UCLA,” her mother said. “You can cry at UCLA; it’s near where Lindsay Lohan is incarcerated, so they have a place that can handle it; it’s like a sound stage, but it’s all made out of Kevlar, Nomex, titanium and Lexan, it’s a sort of panic room for divas. But you’re not a diva, you’re just a homely and painful crier. Are you interested? I will go with you and if it works, you can go wherever you want after that.”

Elise sat on her bed, or more appropriately, flopped on it. Sighing, she flew her hands up and asked, “Why me? What is this? What if it doesn’t work? What will happen then?”

“I don’t know,” said her mother, “but I think we need to try, to take you to that edge or beyond it, to find out.”

(c) Molly Field 2013

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Well, that was the most random thing I’ve ever written. Today is the Friday of a crazy week here; only to continue into next week. I started this post not know what I was going to write about. I had no clue and I was even mad at the prompt, but once I typed, “Elise was an ugly crier” I knew I was on to something. So I added the bit about the bear and her mom. It comes about as my husband remarked today that Claire Danes is an ugly crier and that sentence became this story.

Here is the prompt: Use the quote below to tell the story of how your primary character comes to the edge (a cliche). Note: Your character may/may not fly. However, he/she encourages others to start a new beginning – i.e. to “fly.” Spring offers new beginnings to grow and soar. Tell this story in no more than 1,500 words (no less than 800) with a balance of dialogue and imagery. Now let your story fly!

“Come to the edge, He said. They said: We are afraid. Come to the edge, He said. They came. He pushed them, And they flew . . .”
— Guillaume Apollinaire
French poet

Please check out these other participants in today’s Friday Fiction Friends challenge!

http://www.susannesworld.com
http://www.clearlykristal.com
http://www.worldsworstmoms.com
Val’s fiction

Thank you!