Managing expectations, effortlessness and back pain
Confession that isn’t that surprising: I’m a perfectionist who attempts to make it all appear effortless, someone who insists on showcasing the highlight reel without even acknowledging the backstage. Come to a dinner party at my house, and the mixing bowls will be put away before the meal is even served: it’s as if a home-cooked meal just spontaneously appeared with clean countertops.
My anxiety derives mainly from time and expectations. I am very rarely late (because I freak out when I am) and internalize an incredible sense of disrespect when people are late: despite the fact that we live in New York, that arrivals are often in the hands of the MTA and the cabbies and whether there’s a spot left at the CitiBike station and other forces outside of our control. I expect things to be perfect and picturesque, and am inevitably disappointed when they (unfailingly) are not.
Having a blog and working in social media does not help. I feel compelled to share only the worthy: the well-lit, carefully-cropped, perfectly composed bits of my life. I share the hidden gem of a city garden or the flower-covered courtyard, not the trash-strewn streets or crowded, smelly subway ride. Because, as they say, there is no room for a thing if it is not beautiful or functional or both.
I’ve long known that I was my own harshest critic, that the pressure I put on myself is both incredibly motivating while also being entirely demoralizing. Nothing is ever enough. In college, I regularly read every single assigned reading and never missed a class. I went to a notorious party school where my friends regularly skipped class to sun tan or drink beers. We all graduated, and that magna cum laude next to my name is important to no one but myself.
I’ve written about how comparison is the thief of joy, how practice should be the goal instead of perfection. But I’ve let myself be dragged down in the heavy, ugly weight of jealousy: I envy the promotions, the engagements, the beautifully designed apartment despite having the career, relationship and home that I truly want and love.
I’ve suffered from chronic back and shoulder pain for the better part of the last 10 years. Despite visits to various physical therapists, chiropractors, orthopedic surgeons and acupuncturists, it’s never been “cured” nor have I ever found any lasting relief.
It’s funny how sometimes the universe collides all at once.
I finished reading The Path of Practice: A Woman’s Book of Ayurvedic Healing
last week, a book about Ayurvedic healing. The underlying premise is that our modern “dis-ease” is due to straying too far from our ancient roots in the way we eat, sit, live. And much of the pain we feel in the body is connected to pain in the mind.
At yoga teacher training this weekend, we had a session on Yoga and the Emotional Body: essentially, a very kumbaya circle where we sit and share how we’re feeling, what we’re dealing with. I shared something quite personal, and was shocked at how light I felt afterward. I realized that so much of my current lifestyle has evolved from a coping mechanism, an incredibly strong desire to keep it all together. I’ve long believed that living well is the best revenge; however, I think I’ve confused appearing happy and successful and “past it” with actually being all of those things.
That night, my boyfriend told me that he thought stress contributed to my back pain. He recommended Healing Back Pain: The Mind-Body Connection
. I bought it the next day and haven’t been able to put it down. The idea is that our anger and anxiety manifests itself in the body, especially in back pain that can’t be explained in a purely physical sense. The main traits of a person with emotional pain manifesting in the back body: success oriented, achieving, accomplished, putting a great deal of pressure on themselves while feeling as though they have not done enough. The author states that simply understanding and recognizing these things can lead to a significant decrease in pain, and I was shocked to notice that after just a few hours of mentally willing away the pain: it was gone.
I’m suppose I’m putting this out there simply to say I don’t have it all together. I have flashes of anger, moments where I am transported to my frustrated, fuming 14-year-old self who can doing nothing but sob. My back hurts like hell and I’m terrified to kick up on my own into handstand. I want to write a book, and yet I never put the words on the page. Despite wanting, trying to believe that the best of all places is right here, right now: I hem and haw, compare and contrast. I second-guess and regret.
The first yoga sutra says that “now is yoga.” Yoga is now, life is now. We are not constrained by the habits of our past, just as we are not wedded to our imagined future. We are simply here, with our constant breath and our imperfect body and our cluttered mind. So here’s to now, to being and breathing and changing today what we didn’t change yesterday and what we might not have the courage to change tomorrow.
