The Will to Keep Going

I remember June 23, 2017 with bizarre clarity. I say bizarre because, despite the jarring effect it has on my memory, there’s a blurriness that surrounds that day. A hidden urge to wipe it all away. June 23 was the appointment that marks the beginning of my Lyme disease treatment. My doctor made a statement during that session that resounds in my psyche. She warned us that the first three months of treatment would be the hardest. My husband, in particular, would hold onto this statement as a guarantee. This statement was his will to keep going.

Hope can feel daunting

My husband’s loving attempt to instill hope in me was to begin a countdown. Every morning or evening he would proclaim, “It’s day two of your treatment. You can do this! Only eighty-eight more days to go!” By day six these declarations infuriated me. Eventually I had to ask him to please stop as it was just pissing me off. You see, hope can feel like a daunting task when your will to keep going is faltering.

Those first three to four months of my battle were some of the scariest days I have ever experienced. I struggled every day to get out of bed and keep taking my meds. Feelings of loneliness and despair hung around me like a dark cloud. Until I had this dream. On day 137 of my treatment I had a dream that remains fresh in my brain, even three years later. I believe this dream was my subconscious mind’s way of willing me to keep fighting. It was a turning point for me in how I handled my treatment. Don’t misunderstand me. It’s not as though this dream cured me of all fear and depression. However, it did serve as a reminder that hope is a necessary component of healing. And my most promising path out of the darkness.

The day before my dream

Judging from my journal entry from that day (the day that lead to my dream) it was a real doozy. The kind of day that saps all motivation to keep fighting. A day where everything comes crashing down, closing in on you like a suffocating blanket. There were so many nights where I lay down at night and worried about whether I would wake up in the morning. I’m certain that this was one of those days…

November 9, 2017 ∼ I just want to feel human again. I feel like a shell of the person I once was. It’s not just energy, or lack thereof, but a loss of emotion. I just feel sort of dead inside. Life has very little meaning. It’s just get up, eat, take meds, sleep, eat, take meds…repeat, repeat, repeat…I want to want to do things again, anything. It’s just neverending [sic]. I have no passion for life, just survival. Empty, searching and trying desperately to find excitement, even the smallest ounce. I wouldn’t even call it depression, just empty, numb. What little happiness I have feels so muted. I look forward to meeting myself again when this is all over. I know I’m still in here! 🙂

Feeling like a shell of the person I once was…searching desperately to find excitement…dead inside, empty, numb…I look forward to meeting myself again when this is all over. I read those words now and I can feel a heaviness in my heart. A hollow feeling in the center of my chest. And then I remember my dream. As dreamworlds always are, every part of my surroundings were palpably real…

My dream

I found myself crawling in a dark cave, teeming with straps of enlivened black tar. They felt like thousands of sticky arms wrapping around me, holding me hostage. They hindered my ability to move forward. I struggled frantically to break loose but every time I wriggled free from one, ten others replaced it. Like quicksand, my struggling only made it worse. It was to no avail, so I stopped.

As soon as I yielded my efforts, a small tear appeared in my periphery. It grew until it resembled an aperture, offering a tiny glimpse of the outside world. Through the rent, a beam of light reached into my place of darkness. A hazy mix of the pinks and oranges of a late summer sunset. The black straps held me, suspended in time, as I peered out. I was offered a view that reminded me of my past. It was a pasture of black-eyed susans, bushy aster, purple paintbrush and tropical sage.

Then, somewhere outside my sight line, I heard laughter in the distance. I craned my neck but couldn’t see the source of the exuberance. Then a beautiful young woman whirled into my line of vision, obstructed as it was by the arms of tar holding me captive. I stared, spellbound, and watched as she danced through the field of wildflowers. I was momentarily mesmerized. And then my heart stuttered. I recognized her.

The dancer sashaying through the meadow was me. It was a glimpse of my former self. With a deep yearning I watched her, caught up in her lavish abandon. The woman I hoped to be again. There was a whisper of comfort in the recognition and a small seed of hope was planted.

I reached out with determination for that vibrant girl I once was. Resisting the grip of hopelessness, I reached for myself in another time and place, as though if I touched even her foot I would be transported out of my current situation. Instead, I watched her slip away into the muted colors of the meadow. With unblinking eyes and one outstretched arm I watched the rent in the fabric of time slowly close. I cried out, “Don’t leave! Don’t go far! I’m coming! I’ll beat this! Wait for me!” 

∼ Excerpt from my book, The Battle Within: My Lyme Story

I remember jerking back to reality by the sound of my own voice crying out. The sheer power of the imagery overwhelms me even today. I remember the force of the shock when, in my dream, I realized this beautiful woman dancing was myself. The enlivened arms of black tar are evocative of how desperate I felt. Crawling, so alone, in this dark cave. But then, the memory of what I used to look like. There was hope in that. Holding onto hope as I reached out yelling, Don’t go far! I’m coming! I’ll beat this!!

The will to keep going

I believe the will to keep going comes from a deep, primordial space in ourselves. Despite this innate desire to live, sometimes it feels like the well is running dry. When, day after day, you are digging into that well, searching for the strength to carry on, it can feel as though it’s being depleted. That is when it is so important to dig a little deeper and find that new gem of motivation.

Shortly after that night I remember realizing that I no longer looked at myself in the mirror. I had abandoned that woman who looked so dreadfully ill. Turning out the light before I left the bathroom so as to avoid my reflection, I stopped dead in my tracks. I backtracked and flipped the light back on. Standing in front of the mirror, I looked at my reflection. I smiled and said ‘hi’ to myself. Then I had a quiet conversation with my body. The gist of it was, “I love you. I see you. I’m proud of you. Keep fighting. We can do this!” For me, that new gem of motivation, the will to keep going, came from seeing myself as the warrior I was/am.

How can you find the will to keep going?

This may look a little different for each of us. And, what motivates may change depending on the situation. Sometimes all we need is a kind remark from a loved one, or even a stranger. A big hug can be a physically altering nudge to keep up the good work. Meditation, or prayer, is a wonderfully quiet and grounding way to find balance within ourselves. Simply sitting and breathing into our body is both relaxing and awakening. Whatever it is for you, find it and practice it regularly.

At that time, during my battle, I needed to see myself as that same person I was before Lyme disease began ravaging my body. I needed to look at myself with a sense of love and pride, instead of cowering in fear. Effectively, I stood up that day and became a warrior for myself. I remembered that my body needed me for support and love. It needed to be wrapped up in the warm, kind and tender embrace of a mother. I encourage you to try it for yourself.

The next time you leave the bathroom, or pass a mirror in your hallway, stop and look at yourself. No matter how tired and ill you look, stare back at yourself and find your will to keep fighting. Look into your weary eyes with respect. Smile back with love and compassion. Give yourself a nod of pride for how hard you’re fighting. Wrap your arms around yourself and hold onto yourself with dear life. Right there within yourself you’ll find the will to keep going.