Shaky Ground

This is an archived post that was originally published at beyond-terminal.com

As a young adult, I was used to living with a certain level of “unease” at different times. On those few occasions when I would get tripped up on a word (just like anyone else does), I immediately would be concerned that this tiny misstep would allow those around me to gain access to my childhood illness, that this misstep somehow revealed more. When I had to fill out a form in front of someone else, I immediately would be worried that I would be called out, that taking a minute longer than the person next to me meant they could travel down the rabbit hole and see how sick I once was. 

This occasional “unease” of mine grew and grew such that it was difficult to hide. I mean, what 30-year-old goes to the bathroom, closes the door behind herself so her husband can’t see her, and then practices her speech in front of a mirror to convince herself that she no longer talks weird? 

I clearly was at a point of reckoning. 

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This passage follows the last excerpt and is from a reformatted chapter titled “Shaky Ground.”

“So,” I said once Dan and I had settled on the couch in the living room where we’d recently hung a framed photograph of a canal in Venice. “I’ve got a random question for you. I’ve – I’ve been thinking about some of the stuff that I went through when I was younger. And I’m confused. I’m confused why my mind is blocking me from seeing everything.” It was easier saying this while I looked straight ahead at the photograph. After all, I was touching territory I had avoided for almost 20 years. But things had gotten to a point where they were out of control. I knew of no other 30-year-old who practiced her speech in front of a mirror.

“Well,” Dan said, gently placing my hands in his. “I wonder if there are some things that are just too hard to see right now. You’ve tried for so long not to see them.”

I thought about his words as I continued to stare at the photograph. I thought about how Dan and I talked about hunting down this very canal in Venice and discovering for ourselves the hidden things that lay beyond the vanishing point in the picture. And I thought about all the things from my childhood illness that were hidden from me. And I started to worry. If the key to healing was seeing what had really happened but my memories were obscured, then no amount of staring into the past would make a difference.

Dan squeezed my hands and tried again. “What are you thinking about?”

I paused and then asked, “Do you think I’ll be able to eventually see what’s hidden?” 

“Perhaps,” Dan responded. “I don’t know much about suppressed memories, but one thing I do know is that you can’t force something to happen. You could start by opening yourself up more to the memories that you actually can access – and talking about these more.”

“That would be such a shift,” I said. 

Dan nodded. “Know that you can share anything with me.”

“Thank you,” I whispered as I continued to stare ahead. This time my eye focused on the images of the buildings that were reflected in the rippled water. As I looked at the current, I realized I was at a juncture where either sharing – or not sharing – these memories left me feeling agitated and unsettled.

The school year marched on, and I continued to pour my all into my teaching. I came to feel like I was in my element. I was doing what I was meant to do. 

My biggest challenges were those times when I wasn’t busy and I was left with my thoughts. In the past when I felt this agitation stir within me, I’d put on my running shoes and the endorphins would kick in, and I was back to feeling good. Now, after teaching, I often was too tired from being “on” all day long.

At times I would try to articulate to Dan what was spiraling through my head, but I often found myself feeling frustrated afterward. I came to realize that I didn’t have the words to adequately describe what I had experienced. Part of this was because I hadn’t given voice to most of my caged-up memories, but another part of this was because there were no documented cases of mine out there. How do you describe that which hasn’t yet been described? 

So I continued to carry on to the best of my ability. I eventually stopped taking the cycloserine since the only effect it seemed to have was to leave my gut feeling irritated and my body sensitive to more foods. My eliminating this from my routine didn’t make my obsessive thinking worse, but it didn’t make it better either. I lived in a state where I felt a constant push/pull sensation. It was uncomfortable, but I didn’t know what to do about it.

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Despite my past health history, I was still at a point in my early 30s where I didn’t totally grasp the connection between the body and mind. It was only when I was in the process of rebuilding myself for a second time that I did a deeper dive and started to piece things together.

I began to understand that the massive doses of antibiotics I had taken both as a child and as an adult had impaired my gut and therefore my brain. I began to understand that having a deficient enzyme meant that I not only had difficulty detoxifying heavy metals but toxins in general, including environmental toxins and toxins found in food.

I also learned that up to 90% of serotonin is produced in the gut. Ninety percent. So, guess what? Poor gut health meant poor brain health.

Compounding all of this was the fact that I didn’t know how to talk about — and sometimes couldn’t access — my more trauma-filled childhood experiences, which clearly added to my body’s stress.

Now that I intimately understand how connected our bodies and minds are I am driven to share my story in the hope that others can learn more about this connection too. (On a side note, I find it fascinating that some treatments for autism are currently focused on modifying a child’s microbiome, with the belief that changing the microbiome can change brain chemistry and behavior.)