The Cliff

I call it the cliff. The place I have approached in years past as I did the hard work of sorting through the emotional baggage I’ve dragged behind me for years. As I begin doing the earth-shattering work of sorting through grief, loss, anxiety, and codependency each time, I always end up at the edge of the cliff.

I’ve done it numerous times over the years. With several therapists. With a variety of excuses.

“We can’t afford this.”

“This is interfering with my ability to conduct my day to day life.”

“My schedule is so busy. I have to get something off the calendar.”

The truth isn’t quite as elementary. If I’m being vulnerable, which I strive to be, I need to admit that it really has nothing to do with any of those things.

It looms large and scary. That place where my lack of control meets my fear face to face and suddenly…

I want nothing more than to step back from the edge.

To be done.

To call it a day.

To put on the band-aid and keep it moving.

To pretend I’ve done enough work to get me by.

And as I sit here, carrying the same weight I was carrying 20+ years ago, I realize that if I have learned anything over the years, it’s that when I REALLY don’t want to do something, then that’s exactly why I should.

Why should I continue going through life trying to manage my stuff enough to get by? I don’t believe for a minute that is what Christ would call us to. To get by. Survival mode. Check a box.

So, I enter the ring like a bruised fighter of the ages, knowing I’m going to get my ass kicked. No doubt about it. I’m up against the biggest, baddest opponent I’ve ever faced but on the other side of that ass kicking is where I know I need to be.

Healthy.

Whole.

And the only way out is through.

Through the grief.

Through the loss.

Through the doubt.

Through the fear.

To pretend that I will come out the other side without damage inflicted is silly. I know better than that. And then my human condition rises to the top and I cry out, “It’s going to hurt!” No shit, Sherlock.

I remember being pregnant the first time and attending a birthing class with my husband. Scared out of my mind. “My body is going to do what?! Bring me all the medications. I don’t want to feel a thing.”

I laugh now, as a mother to 3. But isn’t that so human of us? To expect that life shouldn’t come with pain. To avoid it whenever possible.

Back to my pregnancy. I ended up having an emergency C-section. Didn’t feel a thing.

Until.

Until hours later, when the drugs had worn off and the trauma I had just been through came surging through every nerve in my body. I had never felt physical pain like that before. Hadn’t even come close.

A nurse came in and handed me a clicker for pain meds. “You can push this as often as once every 30 mins and it will kick in quickly”, she says.

I push the button. Sweet relief. Almost immediately.

She continues, “Once you’ve been on your pain medication for 24 hours and we get your pain under control, you can go down to the NICU and see your babies. Until then, rest.”

I remember the feeling I had in that exact moment.

Angry that I was dependent on a drug to control my physical pain and equally determined to get through to the other side where my babies were. Regretting that I even pushed the button to begin with.

Over the next 18 hours, I pushed that button one time. ONE. TIME.

My nurse came in to check on the pump and determined that it was broken, in her professional opinion. To which my ever patient and supportive husband answered, “It’s not broken. She’s refusing the pain meds.”

My nurse was aghast. You’ve had major surgery. Your body has been through trauma. Yada yada yada.

But laying there in my bed, the pain was just a reminder of the life I had grown and delivered into the world. I was thankful for the pain. Trusted the pain. Embraced the pain.

Because walking through it, what lie on the other side was more important than staying where I was in the moment. It was better. It was everything I could imagine.

I remember telling my husband a few weeks later, “I didn’t deliver 2 babies today. They delivered me.”

And so, call it stubbornness or stupidity or maybe a little bit of both, I absolutely refused all pain management until I could see my babies.

I thought of that today as I prepare to walk into therapy again tomorrow.

What is painful is what brings healing. And the only way is through.

I’ve certainly made it a game of avoiding, burying, transferring. But just as I did 14 years ago on a hot July morning, I remind myself…

When walking through it, what lies on the other side is more important than staying where I am in this moment. It will be better. It will be everything I can imagine.

So, I rip off the band aid and approach the cliff. I spread my arms, lift my face to the brilliant sun and I jump.