This chapter (or section) will be near the beginning of my Memoir.
It’s a humid Labour Day weekend in 2018. I pull up to the Sugar Ridge Retreat Centre outside of Toronto. I‘m about to fulfill a dream to participate in a weekend yoga and meditation retreat—my pulse races.
It’s more than a dream. I need to be here. I pounced on the ad for this retreat like a starving animal when it popped into my social media feed. I’m a mess. The algorithm heard me.
Overwhelming dread has ruled my life for months. My body manifests my emotions — the weight gain, swelling and inflammation, the pain in my knees, hips and ankles. I walk with an unexplained limp. I feel an ever-present, low-grade headache and pressure on my chest. Anxiety seizes me.
I regularly wake in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat. It’s menopause. No. It’s the alcohol leaving my system. No. It’s this question, on a loop in my brain: “What am I going to do?” The voice in my head goes from chastizing to soothing. The battle doesn’t stop when I wake.
Now, I sit in my messy car, staring through the windshield, unable to move.
My sensible, judgemental voice cuts through: Don’t be stupid. Get out of your car and go in. You wanted this; you paid for it and drove all this way. Armour up. Let’s go.
I approach the front door. The retreat centre building is modest and designed to be energy efficient. It’s insulated with straw. How quaint. Is this the Three Little Pigs? Perhaps I’m the Wolf. Stop. Please stop. Be kind. It’s lovely.
The rest of the weekend participants are arriving. I glare at skinny women swaddled in spandex, flowery wraps, amulets, and sunny smiles flouncing into the building. For others, like myself, I reserve my most hateful remarks: You’re too fat for this. You’ll be one of the losers, unable to keep up. Why bother?
One gaunt woman tries to engage me… Honey, for god sake, eat a sandwich. I recoil from this ‘yogi’ dressed head to toe in lavender. She blinks eagerly, anticipating my enthusiastic response. I set a patient smile on my face as she chatters at me, and no one in particular.
Oh, do fuck off. I wish this were a silent retreat. I’m not here for the people. I’m here for the practice. Get away from me! Lalala, I can’t heaaaar yoooouuu.
Turning my focus to checking in, I emit an icy fog. To my relief, my new friend moves on to a more receptive audience.
Finally, I carry myself and my ridiculous assortment of bags to a spartan cabin in the woods. There’s a tiny bed, four walls and a door. It’s set some distance from the main retreat centre — and the washrooms. It’s not exactly the five-star accommodation I’m used to through the business. Nevermind. It’s perfect.
I unpack my yoga mat, meditation cushion, incense, books, writing implements and journals. I won’t be left without my preferred ‘enlightenment equipment.’ I feel deeply this has to work. This. Whatever this is going to be.
Unseen, I also carry mounting unhappiness in my work and relationships. I bear my secret habit of soothing myself to sleep with booze, telling myself my drinking’s not that bad. My swelling body tells me otherwise. I feel lost. I’m in pain. I feel like the people around me don’t want to hear about my feelings of dread.
Sitting alone on the simple foam mattress, ‘Silence’ makes her presence felt. There’s an absence of noise, but for the whisper of aspen leaves outside my window. I shove my cell phone to the bottom of my suitcase to let it die slowly.
I would love a drink right now. I chose not to bring a flask or a bottle with me. No one would know. But I would.
I’m without my distractions and crutches. I feel a pinprick of hope. This can be a beginning. Let’s try.
To be continued…
Thank you for writing your story, it is so inspiring. Your photo brings everything home!
We have the capacity to respond to life, to other people, in a variety of ways. From a position of kindness, concern, and support, to one of judgment, contempt, and criticism.
In this section today from your forthcoming book, you model the self destructive inner critic, plus our capability to be hyper judgmental of others (share the wealth), that can eat us alive.
First, your writing/wording of this excerpt is captivating. And honest. And a reveal that I’m sure will register with others as it did for me.
Do you ever pinch yourself, wondering, “was that really me?” “Did I dream that other ‘me’ ?” The AA Big Book plainly states, “We were reborn.” To me that has meant shedding the trappings of 30 years of misery for a life full of promise and potential. “It works if you work it. So work it! You’re worth it!”