Any followers of this column (I’ll ingratiate my ego and assume there are one or two) will recall that I promised in November to delve deeper into my steps out of the dark night of the soul after the first of the year.
Well, it’s May . . . perhaps it’s time I make good on that promise?!
It’s hard to tackle because it’s so complicated; there are so many pieces.
Do I share the details, or just write a CliffsNotes version?
A detailed account might be a bit personally revealing, but I have full control over how much truth serum I wish to use; conversely, it might offer more hope and support to kindred souls than a rush to conclusions probably ever could.
Either way, I doubt that I can put 50 years’ experience into a single month’s column space, so consider this “Episode 1”.
Who knows? With my tendency toward verbosity, this could take all summer.
In the spirit of the papal conclave, I’ll let the Holy Spirit do the typing . . . LOL.
A life story
Whether in brevity or detail, a disclaimer/full disclosure is in order before proceeding: NOTHING that I write here is intended as ANY type of professional advice (medical, psychological, spiritual, or otherwise), and should NEVER be construed as such.
I can speak on NO authority to any of these disciplines. This is simply a retelling of my own story . . . a sharing of epiphanies given to me along the way, as well as practical measures (physical, emotional, mental, spiritual) that have helped me as I’ve walked this road.
Moreover, I offer it only in the spirit of hoping it might be helpful to others; I have no other purpose in doing so.
My emotional darkness hit me around age 14, and it was out of the blue.
At that time, I did not even recognize any spiritual component to it; that revelation came many years later.
The most succinct summation is that the “glass of life half-full” went to a “glass of life half-empty” for me, even though absolutely nothing had changed in my home or personal life (which was pretty close to idyllic).
It was literally as if someone had flipped off the joy switch in my brain.
It wasn’t the struggles of puberty (two years prior) or an injury that I can recall. The only potential catalyst I have ever been able to come up with was a massive case of sand flea bites on my feet from a Florida beach in December of 1974.
Perhaps that gave me a mild, undiagnosed case of Lyme disease (deer ticks are only one vector for it), but Lyme wasn’t exactly in the medical news in 1974 — or maybe only was if you lived in Lyme, Conn. I was in Kieler, Wis., so the thought of checking for that was simply never on the radar.
Long story short, in a few months’ time, I went from the quasi-golden girl who thrived on pressure to a shy, fretful, anxious, and self-conscious teen.
I gained 20 pounds, could no longer manage a straight posture, and lost upper body strength.
My feet (especially heels) manifested incredible pain. Bone spurs were ruled out, but I now know that what I was suffering from was plantar fasciitis.
At least my mental capacity was largely intact. I continued to excel in school, but my tendency to worry over it became more manifest, and my overall self-confidence was markedly diminished — even if it didn’t necessarily appear that way to others. I carried around a fear, and simply did not understand from whence it came.
But perhaps worst of all, I lost my capacity to be joyful. Notice I used the word joyful, not happy; that is purposeful, because they are two distinctly different things.
You can find any number of explanations of their differences, but this one from Google is fairly spot on: “Happiness is a response to external events, while joy is a deeper state of being and a way of relating to life. While happiness can be fleeting and dependent on external factors, joy is a more profound and lasting feeling that can be cultivated regardless of circumstance.”
A spiritual battle
As I look back on it now, that small but significant distinction should have been a clue to me that this was not only a mental, emotional, and physical battle, but in its roots, a spiritual one.
How many saints have you read about who seemed capable of enduring herculean suffering, not only with patience, but even joy?
That capacity can only come from a closeness to The Father, an unwavering sense of His protection and love for us in a very personal and individual sense.
In the words of the great St. Augustine, “You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our hearts are restless until they rest in Thee.”
Even now, these many years later, I am still not fully certain of how I lost that sense of Divine protection and closeness. (I have some theories, but I am out of column space for May).
I am certain that, with the Grace of God, it can be reclaimed. I am living proof, as I have been given that gift — with the help of multiple approaches and many compassionate souls along the way.
While my outward symptoms became most manifest at age 14, what I found is that the original wound happened roughly 10 years prior, and can be summed up in one word: Trauma.
As they say on the New York news, “Film at 11”.
To be continued next month.
Maria Burns is a lifelong Catholic and writer who lives in Madison and is a member of Divine Mercy
Parish in Madison.