Dark night of the Soul

In the spiritual community, there is a concept of “the dark night of the soul.” The phrase goes way back and originally comes from John of the Cross (1541-1597), a Spanish mystic and poet. From a modern-day perspective, this term represents a period of transition and transformation in our lives where we shed those things that are no longer serving us in order to step into a new way of being.

The summer of 2015 was my dark night of the soul. In June that year, Tyler and I survived a house fire.  We were home alone with the dogs when I went to retrieve something off a shelf in our utility room.  I knocked a can of aerosol insect spray to the floor and it started leaking a white gaseous substance.  Within seconds, the chemicals, the spark, or some combination of the two ignited a loose wire and set the closet ablaze.  In a blink of an eye, this spread to our boiler and furnace only feet away.  There was an explosion in front of me, and I remember having to “dodge out of the way of the fire” like in an overly dramatic slow-mo McGiver episode.  Without thinking, and without time to process what was happening, I ran to the kitchen to find a fire extinguisher.  By the time I returned, flames began engulfing the whole room.  My subconscious survival mode kicked in, and I calmly gathered Ty and got him and our two dogs outside.  I  packed everyone into the car (just outside of the utility room), and drove to the end of the driveway to call 911.  By the time I called, cars passing by the house noticed the smoke and flames from the house and stopped to ask if we were ok.  This is when my instinctual survival mode kicked off and the reality of the situation set in.  I was standing in my driveway explaining to strangers that I caused a fire and the emotion that I suppressed during the escape started to bubble up.  I felt the physical effects kick in – the anxiety and adrenaline rush caused my head to swirl and I was shaking waiting for what seemed like forever for the fire department to arrive.  I got a few words out to the fire captain who suggested I go drop off Tyler and the dogs with a neighbor while I returned to deal with the aftermath of the fire.  I was either in denial or completely oblivious to the fact that we would not be returning to the house that night or any night in the near future.  Since the fire was in the utility room, all the wires for electric, water, sewer, etc. were destroyed.  The fire marshal let me down easy by saying I should pack a small bag for us to take to a hotel or a friends house for the night.  I was crushed.  I just wanted to retreat to my safe place, my bed, and cocoon myself like I would normally do when something overwhelms me beyond my normal ability to flip my emotions off.   We bounced around between hotel rooms and rental houses for the next 6 months until the house was repaired and we were permitted to return home.  The lack of roots during this time conflicted with my need for control, routine, and the familiar.  

The downward spiral continued.  In July, my father, who was battling cancer, lost his fight.  I got a call from my mom on July 25 that would again change my world.  She told me he was unresponsive and not waking up.  “What’s going on, should I come?” I asked.  I lived an hour away from where he was staying at hospice in my hometown.  The words my mom uttered were like a dagger and what I hear over and over in my head to this day: “he’s dying, Sweetie,” she said.  I drove an hour to my hometown while my rational self was taking over and I focused on getting there – the cars on the highway – the sound of the tires spinning below me, music playing on the radio.  I arrived just after 1:00 PM and went to his room to find my mom and aunt sitting by his bedside.  I joined them, asking how he was doing.  “He’s asleep” my mom said.  I held his swollen hand, and we all sat around talking about him and being together.  I looked at my frail father, who now was so far from the picture I had growing up of my Dad.  His body was swollen with fluids from the various medications they were pumping into him.  His nose and cheeks were a bright purple from the cancer that had spread.  But this was not the man I knew.  The man I knew was a strong man, and I used to sit on his foot grasping his leg while he walked around with me on it.  He was the same man who used to play “Little Bull” with me and let me charge him on all 4’s barely tapping him with all the strength I had but pretending to fall over anyway.  He was also the same man who carried a picture of me as a two-year old in his wallet for 30 years.  I had the cutest curls when I was really young that he would grab and pull down and say “Bing” or “Bong,” depending on the way they bounced back.  All of this is what I saw in my mind’s eye while I whispered “I’m here, Dad. It’s ok.”  Within minutes of my arrival, a tear formed and ran down his cheek.  Fluid began to seep out of his mouth and I ran to get a nurse, feeling the same heart throbbing feelings of dread I knew too well.  A nurse came in with her stethoscope and by then, we were all crying, surrounding him with love.  He passed away in front of me a minute or two later.   The sadness that I felt emitting from my my mom and aunt was one of the worst feelings I have ever experienced.  As much as I had trained to shut my emotions off my whole life, there are instances where everything just bubbles up and you feel - harder than you have before. This was one of those times.

After years of therapy and self reflection, I have decided that my father waited for me to arrive that day.  Though no words were exchanged by him, he felt my presence and knew that I was there.  I gave him permission to let go, and he did.  I am thankful that I had this brief moment with my dad, even if it hurt like hell.  There was a sense of closure and acceptance that I felt from both of us that was deeply comforting and as cliche as it sounds, I knew he was in a better place and no longer hurting.  Though I was not religious, it felt better to think that he was in heaven or somewhere equally lovely.   

The fire and then the death of my father in just over a month collectively did a number on my physical and mental wellbeing.  I had developed migraines when I was 16, and had a history of other reactions that I attribute to my highly sensitive body being more negatively aroused by physical ailments.  In similar fashion, I came down with Mono that September, which I contribute to a complete overload of my senses and my body literally saying, “You need to take a break.”  Mono forced me to take that break, in bed, in one of the houses we were renting due to the fire.  The next year or so was one of low lows.  I was clinically depressed and not coping well with my emotions, my feelings, or my health.  There was little I could do to find peace, other than escaping from my family and the “jail cell” of the house and chaos of life.  I immersed myself in games, and spent hours driving around and distracting myself from my life for the better part of 2016 and 2017. During this time, I also disconnected (or shut of completely), my abilities and my emotions.