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I Am ... from Fear to Freedom
Chronic Fatigue Syndrome was a Call for Self-Love
By Marie Brunger Balboa Press
Copyright © 2015 Marie Brunger
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4525-3041-3
CHAPTER 1
"I AM" ... In the Beginning
In 1989 I moved interstate with my husband. I don't remember speaking the words so much as thinking I was going to find myself. Where did that idea come from? I didn't know exactly what that meant, only that somewhere in me was a desire to let go of the pretence. I wanted to stop being someone I wasn't. It felt like I was playing a role, and I wanted to take off the mask and costume to see what was beneath. I wanted to be rid of those niggling feelings inside my stomach. I wanted to be me. I thought that by moving to a new place with brand-new people, I would be able to be myself. I had no idea how that simple thought would play out, how many layers I had to peel off, how the journey I was about to embark on, would transpire. It was as if those thoughts and feelings passed through me and were instantly forgotten until many years later.
In the early 1990s, I decided to return to playing competition badminton. It was my last chance to prove to myself that I could do it. I was nearly forty years of age. I trained hard out of season and I loved it. On the evening before my first tournament, my right knee spoke to me. However, I had no idea then that it could even speak. How was I expected to understand it? As I stood up from my chair, a pain surged through my knee and I struggled to walk. When I look back now, I can see that the real pain was attached to the gross disappointment I was facing if I was unable to play the following day.
Although the knee was still swollen, the physical pain had eased quite a bit, and the next day we travelled to the tournament. Strapping the knee provided warmth and support. I can see now that metaphorically it represented the warmth and support I needed for myself. I was able to play, and once I warmed up I felt confident that my knee wouldn't let me down.
Over the years, I came to hear what my knee was telling me. It has remained a faithful messenger, reminding me, through stiffness and pain, when I'm holding myself back, or not being assertive enough, or simply when I need to let go of trying to control the situation. Me, control? I could see in my mind's eye my left leg faithfully stepping forward and my right heel fearfully digging in, refusing to budge.
I won the first tournament. It was obvious that I was in form and a threat to the Queenslanders. My fitness level was good, and I was playing as well as ever. Providing my knee continued to support me, the number-one spot was looking good.
As the season progressed, I began to notice that it was taking me longer to recover after each tournament. I was tired and lethargic for a couple of days after. At this stage, I was undefeated and was not about to surrender this number-one spot. My answer to the tiredness was to step up my training and try harder. Nothing changed. Something wasn't right, and I had no idea what it was. Some nights I would wake up ready and raring to go, only to realise I had barely been asleep for an hour.
At times I played like a woman possessed. I was full of energy and bouncing around the court as if I were on some sort of drug. Then just as quickly as it came, it disappeared again, and I became tired and disorientated. I ended up a mess before the season ended.
I was forced to retire one game short of officially claiming that number-one spot, again leaving me overwhelmed by disappointment, regret, and feelings of failure.
Later I was to realise the amount of pressure I put on myself in an attempt to prove I could do it. Do what? That was the question. Was it to prove I was a winner? Or was it to prove I wasn't a loser? Could it possibly be that my programming ran more in tune with the lies of if "I don't win, I'm a loser"?
Back then I was unaware of the heavy baggage I was carrying. I knew nothing about my unconscious mind and the power it held for or over me.
* * *
"I AM" ... The Solution
* * *
My energy was up and down like a yo-yo. One day I could run kilometres, and the next day I could hardly walk across the room. My emotions and hormones felt like they were playing hop-skip and jump. I found it difficult to comprehend simple instructions. I was breaking down and had no idea why.
After many visits to the doctors and many tests for MS, HIV, leukaemia, and an array of other possibilities, I was finally diagnosed with chronic fatigue syndrome (CFS). It seemed I had enough of the symptoms, viruses, and abnormalities showing up in my tests to indicate CFS. The doctor told me there was no known cure, to go home, and to avoid any physical or mental stress. He said I might be all right in four or five years. On one hand it was a relief to have a reason for the way I was feeling. On the other hand it was a devastating prognosis, one I would not accept.
I went to my first CFS support group in high spirits but left quite depressed. I decided I wouldn't go again. That was until a couple of months later when I heard about a woman who had received NLP treatment. She was able to breathe without an oxygen tank and was now a crusader for the work of a visiting NLP practitioner. I had to see this man, who had apparently made the news when he helped a young woman recover from extreme allergic reactions to her environment.
CHAPTER 2
"I AM" ... Opening a Can of Worms
I had never heard of NLP (neurolinguistic programming) but was willing to do whatever it took to get well. Hearing my newfound friend tell her story inspired me to explore.
And explore I did, a long way out of my depth. Although I was keen, I felt the underlying resistance. A part of me did not want to confront what was pushing up. Out flowed a mountain of stored-up emotions and suppressed memories. It was like opening a can of fat worms that had been feeding on a mountain of fear. What was I thinking? I didn't understand, and even through the intense emotional pain, I was fascinated. Sometimes I had memories with no emotions attached, and other times I had strong emotions and no memory attached. Sometimes I thought I must surely be going mad. I was facing one of my worse fears in life: insanity. Now I realise I was scaring myself silly thinking I might be mad. I realise that all of that stuff was the sadness and the madness of my mind coming out. It wasn't pretty, but it probably saved my life. And even though it felt like my world was being turned upside down, I still found it intriguing.
My friends were supportive, and they knew I was determined to become well again. I don't have a middle name, so someone decided that it was time for me to take on the name "Determination" as it suited me perfectly. One morning I woke up and grabbed a pen and paper with the urge to write. The first thing that came out was "DETER-MI-NATION from suffering." I had no idea where this message came from or what it meant, but I took it seriously. I think I responded with something profound like, "Oh, okay then."
My writing became a regular occurrence. The pen flowed across the paper as if it had a mind of its own. Most of the information represented an inner two-way communication. It was something I had not experienced before. Some of the words that came through were not in my vocabulary, and I had to look up the meaning. Over the years I fell in love with this new aspect of myself and a new life began. I called it "soul talk" because it really was as if my soul was talking to me, sometimes gently chastising me and feeding me with the inspiration and the guidance I was looking for. My intuitive and inspired writing was to become a valuable part of my healing and my work over the next twenty years.
Richard was not a local man, so over the years I came to explore further with the support of an array of other therapists. I loved it – not the therapist but the therapy. I was a great client: ready and willing to explore and experiment with my mind/body system. We recovered all sorts of events and suppressed feelings, thoughts, beliefs, and unresolved grief and trauma attached. How much of this was genetic hand-me-downs, and how many generations were evolving was beyond us. I experienced memories of many past lives during that period, and I could sometimes relate that to what was happening in this lifetime. It was hard for me to believe. The understanding was beyond me. I kept most of my findings to myself because I didn't think people would believe me. And as I believed, so it became.
Throughout the years, I learned that it wasn't the event that left its mark but the meanings I attached to the event and the beliefs and the judgments I formed at the time. These in turn became true for me and became the program that ran my life. The quality of those beliefs dictated the quality of the life I was living. My God, what was I thinking? What did I believe?
* * *
Guilty as Charged
* * *
Looking all the way back, I can now see a lot clearer that those memories that remained with me from childhood and those niggling feelings held valuable clues. Although I could and still can laugh at some of the stories, the underlying beliefs were causing havoc. I can see that fear was in the driver's seat of those thoughts, beliefs, and feelings I adopted and adapted to.
I was raised in a rented council house with my nine brothers and sisters. We had a meter that took one shilling pieces which kept the gas pilot alight. Dad found a way to run the gas without putting money into the meter. When finances were tight, the meter was sometimes still empty when the "gas man" called to collect the money, and we had to hide until he went away. Sometimes we played the same hide-and- seek game when the rent man knocked on the door.
I didn't realise it at the time, but I made a poor judgment from those experiences and over time developed a belief of lack. I didn't like the idea of being poor. I was ashamed. Without realising it, I carried this belief and this shame right through into my adult life. As I looked through the eyes of lack, I could only see the cup that was half empty.
At Christmas, Dad used to bring our Christmas presents into the bedroom in the early hours of the morning while he thought we were sleeping. He kept the bigger presents in his and Mum's bedroom. When we were up and about, we excitedly joined them in their room. One year, I received a beautiful white cane musical jewellery box with a dancing ballerina inside. I loved it. At the same time, I was a little disappointed because I was hoping for a bike. When we ventured downstairs, to my surprise I found a purple and lilac bike waiting for me. You would have thought that I would have been ecstatic, wouldn't you? I'm sure I was, to some degree, but underneath all of that was a sense of guilt because I believed we couldn't really afford both. I certainly didn't feel like I deserved both beautiful gifts. I can feel that guilt even as we speak.
It was only after my divorce and losing all my money in a poor business deal that the shame raised its head for me to see, and then repeatedly came back at times when I struggled to make ends meet, building more shame onto the pile.
* * *
Charged with Guilt
* * *
I can see now how those false judgements, and that sense of guilt and shame I carried affected every area of my life. It was like a pile of manure covered up my natural joy of life. Now I can understand why I was not comfortable in my own skin.
I wouldn't have said I was a shy girl, but looking back I can see I was shy. My "naughtiness" often covered up my low self-esteem. I loved art, music, and writing, but compared to the other kids, my work was pretty elementary. I wanted to share my work but was afraid they would laugh. The older I got, the stronger this feeling became.
From the age of nine I became the teachers' pet because I was good at athletics, and each year I won medals for the school at our borough athletic carnival. I didn't think much about it then. Now as I look back, I can see this was a place where I could really be myself and could shine naturally. I felt at home and very comfortable in my running shoes.
I can't say much changed in high school except that I became good at most sports, and I loved physical education (PE) and after-school sports. By the age of twelve I was a member of the local athletic club and performing well, and I was considered a natural athlete with a huge potential for representing England.
Initially, everything came easy. It was effortless. I didn't realise how good I was. Maybe that was a blessing. I'm not sure what happened, but over the next few years I began to fall apart. For some reason I was not improving. I felt devastated if I didn't win or perform well. It felt as if the need to win overshadowed my love of running. Many people said I was lazy and I didn't try, but I know that wasn't true. Sometimes I think it was over-trying that interfered with my natural inner rhythm. Perhaps the same guilt I felt as that young girl came back to haunt me on the athletic field. Maybe I felt guilty because my dad had spent so much money on me. I wasn't comfortable. Perhaps I didn't think I deserved the attention. The "why" still haunts me today.
The tears come now as that resonates on a deep level and as I realise the truth of what I believed. How clearly I can see those brand new, green kangaroo-skin running-spikes, and the starting-blocks that Dad made for me. The high jump stands and bar, he made so that I could practice in the near-by park. Dad also bought the material and used mum's sewing machine to make the uniform so that I could be like the other athletes. He gave me a smart, black and white tracksuit. He stitched all the badges onto the front, and later, "Essex" across the back, indicating that I was a county representative. I remember the crystal ear-rings I received as a reward for my excellent performances.
Oh, how differently I can see now. As I look back, I can see that the real problem was that I was spoiled by self-imposed guilt. Losing only added to the pile and the tension I felt. The harder I tried, the worse I became. Not only did I lose races, I lost face and lost whatever it was that made everything easy and effortless. And it increased the need to prove myself.
I wasn't a dumb kid but I thought I was, and these beliefs cost me dearly when it came to exams in my final year when I chose PE teaching as my career path. I can't say I was passionate about it, but what was the alternative? I was the first one in the family to choose or to be allowed to stay on at school. I worked during my school holidays to pay for my school uniform and to help Mum out. I wasn't happy at school, and I didn't feel I could manage the load, but what else was there? The pressure was too much, and I threw my final exam papers in the bin. I began work as an office clerk and spent many years moving around from one office to another – looking for what? I kept asking the same question: "If not this, then what?"
* * *
"I AM" ... Past, Present, and Future
* * *
Not everyone believes in past lives, and I must admit if someone had told me what I was about to experience, I would have thought they were a little "batty" too. Now here I am sharing just one of the most significant past lives that came about on the table of a therapist. The past life isn't as important as how it has played out in this lifetime. This particular past life involved the birth and death of my daughter, Elizabeth. She died directly after I gave birth to her, as did I.
In this lifetime, when I was fifteen, my sixteen-year-old sister, Pauline, gave birth to a baby girl. If memory serves me correctly, we - that is, Pauline and I - named her Annette. When she was given up to the adoption agency, it was as if the memories went with her. We never spoke about it again. I feel that both the birth and the letting go of this little girl played a much more significant role in my life than I remember.
Almost thirty years later I was browsing in a shop full of gifts and baby items when I came across a piece of jewellery with the name Annette beautifully inscribed on it. I began to sob uncontrollably. I felt as if I had lost my little girl. It was such a strong, deep grief that I questioned whether it was at all possible that I could have given birth without remembering.
Shortly after that event, Pauline rang to say she was looking for Annette. What a relief! I'm not sure who found who in the end, but soon after, Pauline met up with her adult daughter, now renamed Liz. In 2002 I finally got to meet my thirty-two-year-old niece. As crazy at it may seem I quite expected to meet someone who looked like me! She was, as it turned out, the spitting image of Pauline. She was almost like a younger version of my sister. I felt rested.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from I Am ... from Fear to Freedom by Marie Brunger. Copyright © 2015 Marie Brunger. Excerpted by permission of Balboa Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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