By Deborah Blackwell

I was never afraid to step out into the air until five years ago, when that very fresh air brought on POTS (postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome, aka Long COVID). It drastically changed my life. I’m still recovering.

There’s also the ongoing fallout from a perilous world order. Viruses, guns, war, outrageous grocery prices, bare supermarket shelves, unseasonable seasons (too hot or cold, too wet or dry), unsafe, random episodes of hazardous particulate matter … it’s all in the air.

Both reality and frequent, uncomfortable dreams often disrupt my sleep, along with the pulse pulse pulse of my heartbeat in my ear, muffled by my soft pillow. While that sound should be soothing, I have to put my hand under my cheek and press the pillow away from my ear to make the steady pulsing less noticeable. I take long, slow, deep breaths. The breath of life. The life I’ve been afraid to live but trying to live for five years. The life I am now trying to partner with instead of fearing.

When I wake up, I do Morning Pages, or stream-of-consciousness writing, to clear the night’s mental clutter. Embraced globally as a well-being tool, the process involves writing three pages longhand for about 15 minutes right after waking and before coffee when the brain is still hazy. I don’t do that, but after I brush my teeth and while the coffee is brewing, I open my laptop and type my Morning Pages. Sometimes, it delivers.

The other day, I began writing about having bad dreams. A few sentences in, I suddenly noticed the words I had used:

Nightmare. Nightmare situation. Nightmare news. Nightmare health. Nightmare grocery costs. Nightmare viruses. Nightmare politics. Nightmare world. Nightmare fill-in-the-blank.

It struck me: Wow, that’s my current mindset! Many things feel out of control, like “nightmares,” especially since the pandemic. So much has changed. My body doesn’t feel familiar. The world doesn’t feel familiar. And, whether we realize it or not, everyone is reacting. It’s in the air.

Later that same day, I went to the doctor, desperate for relief from a lingering, brutal sinus infection. My doctor paused in the middle of her exam.

“Deborah.” She looked into my eyes.

“I think you have been keeping your feelings to yourself,” she said. “Acting as if everything is fine. Pushing forward without speaking your true feelings. And they are manifesting as symptoms.” 

Pain and discomfort surged through my body like a wave. She was right. I’ve held my feelings about the challenges of POTS and the uncomfortable situations that preceded it at bay — ironically, even in Morning Pages. But at some point, discomfort has its say.

When I left her office and rejoined Sir Husband in the half-full waiting room, I quietly said, “Wait until I tell you.”

And when I did, years of accumulated internal muck — covering everything from having POTS to his ex-wife’s relentless campaign of parental alienation, my mother’s mysterious yearslong merry-go-round ride between living and dying, empty nest syndrome, aging, the world at large, and many other things — spilled out of my mouth in an unfiltered word-vomit so long that I didn’t come up for air. (Poor Sir Husband.)

I know that thoughts and mindsets influence actions and reactions and that the mind-body connection is real. I’m as authentic as they come and a proponent of speaking our feelings. So, what was I waiting for? The nightmare to be over?

It’s not easy to refocus negative mental clutter that feels like part of our makeup. It takes noticing and untangling internal belief systems and changing habitual thinking despite triggers in the non-utopia we call home. Is there even a way to feel safe in a world of nightmare news? Thoughts can quickly turn to fear, and fear is a powerful driver.

The next day, my Morning Pages were more like Morning Questions:

What if I don’t have to feel like this? Is all this overthinking, worrying, stressing, predicting disaster, and rushing bringing relief? How much energy would I save if I approached life with more ease? I know there’s good around me; what if I’m more aware of it? What would it feel like if my physical discomfort was alleviated … or if I could breathe easily … or live in a peaceful world?

Even contemplating those answers felt soothing.

Thinking and feeling (and sharing) are fluid. The nightmare may not be over, but I keep remembering this sage notion that I heard on the last episode of PBS’ “Little Women”:

“Nothing is ever perfect, but things can be just right.”