So, so, so, so listen up, ’cause you can’t say nothin’
You’ll shut me down with a push of your button
But, yo, I’m out and I’m gone
I’ll tell you now, I keep it on and on

Sabotage, Beastie Boys

In 2004, I made a big change. I moved from New York to Los Angeles. Dr. Yurkvosky, the cardiologist-turned-homeopath who had been treating me for a few years, recommended I move to a warm, dry climate for my health. Damp, cold, wetness and mold was an ongoing issue in New York and it was continually compromising all the effort I was making to maintain my recovery.

The fast-paced, hostile culture also wasn’t doing me any favors. In my apartment, I lit incense, gently stretched my body while inhaling and exhaling, and meditated for a few hours. I felt blissful during my Reiki Master Teacher training and Hatha yoga classes. Then I’d step outside and within minutes, sirens, yelling, honking, and road raging sent my nervous system right back into fight or flight mode.

My body would shake, my hands trembled. My heart rate shot up to over 100 bpm. My blood pressure dropped with a sickening thud. I felt faint, dizzy and nauseated. My vision blurred. My stomach froze and inflammation seared through my digestive track, bringing gripping pain and vomiting with it. The adrenaline would keep pumping and I would lose my appetite, and more weight.

I prayed I wouldn’t pass out, again. Not alone. Not here, where bitter neighbors screamed at me, “LIAR! You’re not disabled!!” as I sat in the disability spot, the disability sign hanging from the rear view mirror, while I braced myself to make it to my apartment without blacking out and my head hitting the concrete. I didn’t need another concussion. How embarrassing.

The bitter neighbor, furious I slid into a spot and he’s still out of luck, only added to the shame of how different and misunderstood I felt. How unworthy, not even worthy of taking up a disability parking spot let alone feel entitled to any personal space to just chill in this frantic town of millions. I didn’t want to have to work so hard, physically, just to be healthy somewhere. I was fed up feeling sabotaged by the intensity of the New York minute that possessed so many. I was disgusted feeling like everyone else’s needs mattered except mine. I was tired of not feeling good enough because “if you can make it here, you can make it anywhere,” as one boss said to me with a pitying smirk, feeling sorry for me even thinking about leaving New York, as if leaving equated to not being strong enough, not being smart enough. My healthcare bills along with being overworked and underpaid wasn’t my idea of “making it.” It’s more like “if you can survive here, you can make it anywhere.” I did that. And I was done.

 

The Recovery Chapter

I bought a one-way ticket to Long Beach, California from Long Beach, New York. It was my ex’s idea. Don’t get me started.

It was a big leap of faith. I had a Reiki table, a suitcase of clothes and little else. Like millions of others, I arrived in L.A. with a goal: I was going to Reiki whoever needed it. I made a promise to God, that if He helped me get well, I would help support others feel better in some way. I quit my job in publishing, partly because of my calling to get professional about wellness. The other reason being the doctor’s medical option was I wouldn’t be able to physically sustain a full time job again. I had struggled for many years to withstand a typical 8-hr workday with early morning starts, needing lots of sick days and weeknight hospitalizations to get IV’s just to keep up, so his words rang true. I left New York to become an entrepreneur and make my own hours, believing I was cured and wanting to stay that way. I no longer swallowed 40 pills a day, being told I would die if I didn’t. I didn’t have any orange bottles in my cabinets anymore. I didn’t even take a vitamin.

I stepped out of LAX with swaying palm trees greeting me, the sun warming my face, already a glowing success story. I was now in the holistic healing capital of America. I was home.

After some nerve-racking time spent living in a hotel while calling every for rent sign I could find, I finally found a two bedroom home and used the smaller room to start my Reiki business. I left business cards and brochures around town and soon after I had a growing schedule of clients.

My platform was my recovery story. I had been diagnosed with an incurable disease, age 21. I was given one week to live, age 23. I miraculously survived a horrendous hospital stay; the psychological scars would remain. Especially because fast forward 25 years later: I found out I was misdiagnosed. And the even worse news: I wasn’t cured.

Who doesn’t like a miraculous healing story? Growing up Catholic, there was a saint for every ailment and hope that you may be one of the lucky ones who was cured with prayer and a divine intervention. My mother left a prayer for my health in the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem during her Jesus excursion in Israel. The sentiment was, why not? It can’t hurt. Not exactly bursting with faith, but kind of like playing the lottery. You put it out there and hope you win big.

Circling back to L.A.

I had a good story. It involved all the elements of mind/body holistic healing – I made big changes with career, diet, lifestyle and living environment. I said a lot of prayers, like serious prayers. On my knees, hot tears dripping down my face. Yoga, meditation, energy healing, affirmations…I did it all. I read all the books, from the encyclopedia of herbs and Louise Hay to Edgar Cayce and medical texts. Crystals, check. Drumming, check. Time spent studying Reiki in Sedona and Stonehenge, check. I was straight-up serious about alternative healing. It had been my miracle.

People were intrigued. And before long, I was touted as a guru and with that came a lot of  misunderstandings that made me uncomfortable. The main one being just because I did all this healing work and now was helping people feel “like a million bucks” as some clients would kindly say, too many believed that I now had reached a stage in evolution where I was problem-free.

That simply wasn’t true and I clarified that. But still, there was this underlying message, “look at you, you’re so healthy” treading above lowly human suffering because I was healed and wow, did this feed the perfectionist monster.

I didn’t realize then that my perfectionist monster was actually loving how justified my overachieving mentality was. I had accomplished what dozens of doctors said wouldn’t be possible. I not only survived, I thrived. All thanks to that inner workhorse, that ceaseless drive to self-improve myself away from pain and suffering as much as possible.

Even though I didn’t identify with a problem-free life, I did identify with the recovery story. My identity was no longer patient. I was a strong, energetic, healthy yoga girl who hadn’t had a cold or flu in years. I taught yoga twice a week at a gym and worked out there even more. My warm hands took people’s stress away…at least for the 90-minutes they laid on my table. I taught meditation and Reiki to others so they could help themselves or start their own professional practices. Many did. I am so proud of the amazing people who crossed my path, all thanks to my recovery story. It fueled the belief “everything happens for a reason” which really works when that reason is something outlandishly positive.

 

The Relapse Chapter

The problem with clinging to an identity based on a role you’re playing is that role can change. And then you lose your identity. And if you have a perfectionist monster like me, all sorts of nasty thoughts will creep up and say things like you’re not worthy anymore. You’re useless. You’re a failure. You may feel filled with shame, embarrassment, grief and loss because your definition of self that you enjoyed so much no longer defines you. Like me, you may find yourself unrecognizable when you look in the mirror as you adjust to this new life, in this new role.

For me, the new role was a revised one. I was a patient again. Yeah, I had a proper diagnosis now and that led to more support, but there still was no cure and I hated being sick. I mean really, really hated it. My free spirit was locked back into a cage and instead of deep breathing, I was suffocating. I missed working my stress out at the batting cage. I missed bike riding with my Chihuahua in the front basket. I missed taking long walks on beach city blocks on beautiful days. I missed jumping in the air on the side of a mountain to capture that fun shot. I missed dancing in my home to the beat of a song that made me feel like I was a kid in dance class again. I missed how free I felt flowing into yoga poses, my body a reliable source of strength and stability. God, did I love a body I could rely on. A body that made me proud.

I had to deconstruct this belief about myself that had been fortified in L.A.’s holistic community. The belief that I had to attain a certain level of health to be worthy of helping anyone, of giving advice, of teaching anything about health and wellness. I had to earn my trusted role as “healer” by being healed myself. If I was sick, what right did I have to teach anyone anything about wellness?

Well, what I’ve learned this time around….let’s just say, I have matured. A lot. And grown. A lot. And what I’ve learned has been a game changer. And maybe if I share it with you, it may be a game changer for you, too.

I think this is enough of a share today. Thanks for checking in. I’ll continue this story in the next post.

Be back soon. Well, as soon as my body allows me. We are still in disagreement over our schedule at the moment.