Healing, not broken

Content Note: this blog discusses the death of a loved one. 

My brother is my favorite person in the entire world. I love, respect and adore him for the wonderful person he is. He makes me feel loved, seen, understood and accepted. He is someone I can talk to for hours and go days without speaking, yet feel that no time has passed at all in between. He makes me feel powerful and powerless at the same time because the love and admiration I feel for him is all encompassing; terrifying. My brother is simply my person.

Except...

My brother is no longer my person in a physical sense. He was a victim of a workplace fatality and the impact of his death has been monumental. The day he died was the day my life changed forever; the day I lost a part of who I was and the day the seed of a new version of me was planted.

I was extremely anxious the morning of my brother’s death, unbeknownst to the tragic events of later that day. About two months prior, I had been accepted to an outpatient program for my eating disorder and I was in denial about the severity of my illness. I was highly resistant to the program; I was confrontational, emotional, cynical, walked out on groups and refused to participate. However, I was just beginning to cultivate relationships with staff and I knew deep down this was exactly where I needed to be and I began to settle into the program. That particular morning, I wrote in my journal, “I feel so anxious today, like something really bad is about to happen.” Years later, the journal entry still surprises me. I choose to think of it as a special gift; a written reminder of the beautiful connection my brother and I shared. Just as I was about to face one of life’s most ruthless and soul-changing events, I was deep in the throes of discovering just how mentally and emotionally sick I truly was.

To this day, I don’t understand how I sought courage to continue attending treatment after such a tragic, life-changing event. During art therapy when other clients were laughing and chatting, I was so filled with rage that I broke the crayons unintentionally while gripping them so hard. When a client shared a story of an accident they had witnessed involving other people, I panicked, burst into tears and begged them to let me leave meal support earlier than was permitted. When anyone spoke to me with kindness, I gave a vague, cold response because I just couldn’t believe that people expected me to be “normal” and engage in conversation. But I kept going back and I can’t explain why.

Time did not heal all wounds but it did allow for changed perspective. I began to use my brother’s memory as motivation to eat. Some months after my brother’s death, I had a follow-up appointment with the doctor at the eating disorder clinic. After checking my vitals and being weighed, she commended me for how well I was doing in spite of the devastating obstacles and after that, I began to spiral in my thoughts and behaviors. As I reflect on that time today, I know that my spiral was a manifestation of the turmoil, grief and darkness I was experiencing inside. I didn’t want others to see me as healthy; I was consumed with an unrelenting need to have others witness my raw, visceral pain. I needed to destroy myself. Not only was present day me struggling, the little girl inside of me had been hurting and felt alone in her pain for years and years. This was a pivotal moment in my recovery journey. I spiraled to the point where my care team were no longer providing treatment recommendations; they were now exploring harm reduction strategies. Shortly after, I entered a seven week impatient program where I finally surrendered and gave up all control.

This decision ultimately allowed me to save my own life.

That is where the recovery of my body, mind and soul began. That is where I chose to believe I was healing; not broken. It was hard work. I remember sitting on my cold and lonely hospital bed and sobbing from what felt like the depths of my soul because I felt so guilty for trying to numb the difficult feelings associated with my brother’s death. Numbing had become my coping mechanism. The very thing that was destroying me was viewed through a sick lens of comfort, addiction and self-gratification. I was aware that numbing my feelings around my brother’s death and childhood trauma was self-destructive but it had become like a soothing, weighted blanket of comfort and familiarity. It had become a habitual practice that made me feel gratified in the moment yet so empty in the long run. I couldn’t envision not numbing just as I couldn’t envision life without my brother.

I completed the impatient program and eventually graduated from outpatient treatment as well. I am in a different place now. Recovery has presented me with a unique set of challenges yet I can proudly say that I am no longer existing from a place of fear and darkness. I am living wholeheartedly and feeling; feeling anguish and fear, anxiety and pain and learning how to sit with it from a place of love, learning how to soften the edges and practice self-compassion. I choose to feel it all because as someone special once told me, when you choose to numb the difficult emotions, you also numb happiness, love and joy. And without happiness, love and joy, I would not be able to remember my brother’s impish grin, his dark sense of humor or childhood memories of making mud pies together. Today, I believe that life’s inevitable struggles have the power to strengthen and challenge us if we choose to believe that we are healing; not broken.

Photo by Ante Gudelj on Unsplash