Did I tell you guys I was crazy?  Long story short, I had a bit of a rocky time of it, let's say, ages 3-28.  Nevermind the trouble, I did a very thorough job of trying on various solutions.  These include but are not limited to: psychotherapy (meh), art therapy (a fun if not effective release valve), hypnotherapy (there's something to it, but I can't remember what it is), relocation therapy (effective for up to 14 whole days), dialectical behavioral therapy (loosely disguised Buddhist training, works if you work it), support groups (I would rather be supported by those who share my best qualities than those who share my worst, as it turns out), various techniques which, in retrospect, can be described with words ending in "-ism" (ugh), and more to the point I am about to make here in a minute, psychiatric medications (wowiezowie, drugs!).

I bring up psych meds to tell you a story. Let the record reflect that I do not advise ANYONE to accept or refuse drugs of any sort for any reason.  That is in no way what I am getting at.  What I want to tell you is that, after lots and lots of trying to fix myself in all kinds of ways, I got the idea at some point that maybe I wanted to let go of the meds.  (That was, coincidentally, roundabout the minute I lost my student health insurance.)  If one word could describe my journey on psychiatric pharmaceuticals, it would be: expensive.  And the money was only part of the cost.  I'm still not sure how it helped or harmed me, but because I had new skills and felt ready to rely on them, I decided to go unmedicated.

After a 6 month wean, the day came that I took no more medicine.  I'd read online that this particular drug reported a wicked withdrawal, but just as a sunbather does not fear the coming windchill factor, I didn't really think it could be so bad, particularly since I saw it coming.  Suffice to say, that proved shortsighted.  Because here's the deal, folks - trying to get a cognitive grip on one's own psychology is like trying to fix a broken bicycle while riding it.  (And it is really hard to get off the mind bike in order to get a clear view, by the way - possible, but difficult.)  In two weeks, I lost my phone and 3 sets of keys, no-showed a job interview, saw dead people, left water in the tub, fire on the stove and the garbage halfway down the stairs, until I found myself in the automotive section of the Kmart, crying on a car battery, wondering if there were in fact messages being sent through the fluorescent lighting directly to my cortex or should I maybe get a refill.  No amount of study could have prepared me for that.  Thankfully, because I had some mindfulness tools in my belt, I was able to maintain a small amount of consciousness that the problem was a matter of chemicals alone.  Even so, I often found myself saying, "I'm not really like this, really."

What did I mean that I wasn't really like that, you ask? Was it not me acting crazy, saying crazy and feeling crazy?  What I meant at the time was that I usually acted, said and felt a different flavor of crazy* than the one pictured above.  The personality that you and I know as "Karen Faith" didn't exist for weeks.  It became apparent that even the regular crazy I was accustomed to wasn't really me, either, and never was.  The "really me" part has nothing to do with brain chemistry, is beyond it, impervious to it.  As I observed myself thinking and feeling and acting in ways which were utterly foreign to me, I began to get the idea that maybe everyone else was subject to their chemistry, too.  Maybe every personality was simply the result of a particular distribution of substances in the brain, and if that was true, how could I really know myself, or anyone else?

The good and useful part of this little freak out showed up when my response to obnoxious people suddenly mellowed.  It was obvious that most people were not in control** of their own responses, and created their lives and identities primarily via auto-pilot (usually, as I had been, totally unaware of it). Quiet people, loud people, jumpy people, warm people, candid people, suspicious people - they all had become what their chemicals allowed them to become.  A jerk was no longer a jerk to me, but someone who's mind was shaken and stirred differently than my own.  It became easier to overlook small offenses, and inconveniences were easy to forgive when I remembered what a scatterbrained freakshow I'd been for those weeks. So I experienced a period of tolerance.  Like everything else in the world, that was temporary.  I am grateful for it, though, because I can revisit it as needed.  If I remember to.

On the flip side, I began to understand that the most essential part of myself was not connected to my personality.  My spirit had no hand in the creation of my identity, that was all sciency stuff.  I realized that the infinite part of me was, maybe, exactly the same as the infinite part of you.  This is tough, I admit.  If the things that make me love someone - the way they smile, their sense of humor, the gestures they adorn with the tone of their voice - are not really truly who they are, then what is this collection of things that I love?  And, equally unnerving, does anyone know or love the real me? Who would love me if my outsides and actions were different, if I were (even more) paranoid and forgetful, anxious and fidgety, blaming and loudmouthed?  My mom would say that only she and Jesus love the real me, and I might just take that answer, except*** for the facts that 1) no way is your love unconditional, Mama - don't make me prove it to you, and 2) as if fact number one weren't a plenty bratty thing for me to say, I must add, you can't speak for Jesus.

I don't want to say that unless you love the most essential self you don't love at all, but I bet that is really where it's at.  The good news is, if you can love that pure, infinite part, you can love it in anyone, because everyone's got it.  Being able to love at the spiritual level is like being 0-, the universal blood donor.  (I suspect most of us are more like 0+****)  I think only a few have gotten the trick down.  Maybe Jesus, Ghandi, Buddha, Amma, and all dogs. 

BY THE WAY: I can say without question the most helpful thing I did while coming off of the medicine was a 3-week energy cleanse with my mentor, Laryl Fett, which included vibrational therapy, tuning forks, earthy teas and lots of tiny rituals, prayers and good vibes.  I'm doing another one in November.  Laryl has created a 3-week group session we can do as a community.  If you'd like to join me, please send an email and I'll give you all the info.  it's a spiritual retreat you can do at home, and totally worth the ride.  Plus we can hang out together and talk new age 'shop'.

ALSO:  I am now accepting new private yoga students.  Nearly fully recovered and ready to be of service.  If you or someone near you has a hankering for yoga, please drop me a line for at-home private or group sessions: karenfaith@yogaforthemoment.com





*for the record, the withdrawal side-effects did not reflect anything similar to the symptoms which prompted the prescription in the first place.

**I am not making a case that people are not responsible for their actions.  I am saying that we can choose to live intentionally, but if we do not, we are simply reacting to a chain of events in the mind.  Some know they can make better choices, and some seem not to be aware of this yet.  Either way, we are not trapped by our chemistry, we are simply swayed by it.

***only my best friend Rene has any idea how crazy and unpalatable I can be, so really her love is the only one that counts so far.  And, ok, my mom.  Though, Mom, I assure you, you aint seen nuthin, and if I am the woman you taught me to be, you never will.

****I don't know what I'm talking about.