The past 6 months have been, probably, the greatest shift in the way my brain works.
Around February I experienced a new bleed, one I’ve never experienced, and it was serious enough for me to reach out to the hospital.
Historically, I’ve avoided the hospital. As I say it out loud, I feel I sound irritational, because someone with my condition shouldn’t be putting off a trip to the hospital when I need it. This time I couldn’t and so I reached out. I let the ocean of anxiety wash over me, and I surrendered to the fact that I needed help.
It’s been a long time since I last spoke with the team at the hospital. Turns out a lot has changed since I last spoke with them.
I was educated on support frameworks completely new to me for people like me, and as the doctor explained this to me, I knew I had to make a decision.
Which leads me to the title of this post.
I surrender.
“To surrender, Transitive verb – To give up completely or agree to forgo especially in favor of another“
This one event set off a chain of events that forced me to surrender on different fronts.
I’ve had to surrender to the fact that I’ve experienced things that a vast majority of people have not, and that these experiences, as much as I’ve historically fought against them have in fact impacted me.
I surrender to the fact that I am different and have different needs, and that I actually need support.
Admitting this publicly still sparks feeling of anxiety. Like the flickering of a candle flame, or the sparks from a campfire, after putting fresh wood in it.
And so began my journey of healing and support.
I started Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing (EMDR) therapy. Which I can only describe as incredible. Admittedly, I was incredibly skeptical going into it, but instead of fighting, I allowed myself to be open to the support.
One of the first sessions, we recalled a memory from my childhood, a memory that would trigger a feeling of panic throughout my body.
I was nine or ten years old. My parents had been renovating the bathroom and had left a sharp tile on the shower floor. While in there, I slipped and ended up with a gash on my elbow. I still have the scar 30 years later as a reminder.
I still recall the sound of the blood dripping onto the vinyl flooring of the kitchen. The towel they’d used to wrap my elbow was so full of blood that it was overflowing. The pain from the pressure my dad was applying to the wound still stands out. I remember begging them to take me to the hospital.
In that moment, I felt so vulnerable, so at the mercy of others decision making. Which in hindsight is probably one of the contributing moments of my personality.
I can’t rely on luck.
I don’t deserve to die.
I fight for my right to be here.
I survive.
As we walked through this memory during EMDR, I experienced the most fascinating thing. My brain began to recontextualize the memory.
I was again in the kitchen, the sound of the blood hitting the vinyl floor.
My parents weren’t there, they’d been replaced by my wife.
Instead of a scared little boy, I was the grown man now. A man who’s achieved things, who loves and is loved.
There was urgency, but I wasn’t panicked.
My wife asking me what we needed to do, and I knew what I needed to do to be safe.
I had the support from the one individual I have surrendered myself to. My wife.
I knew I was going to be okay.
As I type that memory out, the feelings of panic and anxiety don’t have power anymore. They’re replaced by my confidence, my knowing that I have someone who will support me. I still fight to survive, but I’m not alone.
I’m finding myself feeling not as sharp, or intense, in fact I’m feeling physically more tired. This is pretty typical side effects of EMDR, but I think from years of running on overdrive my body ist still adjusting to running at this speed. So, with that said, I’m trying to be kinder to myself, to allow myself to rest and heal.
Reflecting on all this, I wish I had allowed myself to surrender a long time ago, but, in saying that I’m glad I did this sooner rather than later.
Cheers,
Cody.
Cody Spencer Photography 