The past few weeks have not been kind to us. It seems almost impossible to turn on the news or scroll through social media without encountering a disturbing image.
In Lebanon, we recognize the sounds of the war. We know the sound of a jet or a missile because we learned to recognize them, and we know how to cope. Over the past four decades, Lebanon has weathered a 15-year civil war, an Israeli occupation in the south, the July 2006 war with Israel, a series of bombings and assassinations, the more recent Beirut blast, and an ongoing economic crisis. As revealed by a recent study, these relentless challenges have left millions of Lebanese at a heightened risk of developing post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). However, in a region marked by persistent instability, there's rarely a "post" to the trauma; the specter of war remains ever-present. When conflict erupts in neighboring regions, fear permeates Lebanon. The silent knowledge of impending war hangs in the air, palpable to all. The atmosphere is charged with tension, and the collective anxiety is undeniable. It's a fear that lingers, impacting daily life and mental well-being. I wake up terrified that something significant happened while I was sleeping. When I wake up, I first get to my phone to check the news. Freedom and safety are sacred, something often taken for granted in more stable regions. The word "trauma," tracing its origins to the Greek language, is inherently linked to the concept of a "wound." Whether consciously acknowledged or not, our experiences of being wounded and the coping mechanisms we employ play a significant role in shaping our behavior, influencing our social interactions, and guiding our perspectives on the world. These experiences can even impact our capacity for rational thinking in matters of utmost significance. By this definition, trauma is the internal response that individuals undergo due to challenging or painful life events; it is distinct from the events themselves. Gabor Mate succinctly formulates this concept by stating, “Trauma is not about what happens to you but rather about what transpires within you.” I lay awake wondering: In war, do our minds find peace? In times of impending conflict, we have a choice in how we respond. We can freeze in fear or choose to grow despite the uncertainty. Many choose the latter, driven by a sense of responsibility and the desire to improve their well-being and support others. The resilience of the human spirit shines through the darkest moments. Amid impending war, the battle within rages on. It's a silent struggle that takes its toll on mental health. Yet, the resilience of the human spirit, the power of choice, and the pursuit of growth offer hope in the darkness. Strength is cultivated through facing adversity head-on and emerging stronger on the other side. No one can plot somebody else’s healing course because that’s not how healing works. There are no predefined road maps for the unique journey each of us must take. We can, however, outline the terrain, describe it, become familiar with it, and ready ourselves to meet its challenges. Through this process, we can learn the inherent principles that guide the path to healing and identify the attitudes and qualities it awakens and responds to within us. As we navigate these turbulent times, we must recognize the strength and resilience that can emerge from within. We can't control external circumstances, but we can choose how we respond and support one another in the ongoing battle for peace within.
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I took a break.
I haven’t written since March. Life took an odd turn. I went to more funerals than I care to remember. I made more complicated decisions than I ever wished I had to take. I witnessed more layoffs than I am capable of handling. I fought back more tears than I care to count. Grief has an odd way of expressing itself, even more so when you’re diagnosed with bipolar disorder. It is one of those emotions that has a life of its own. It carries every feeling within it; sometimes, there’s no way to discern it. Even worse, grief is as much physical as it is emotional. You feel heartbroken like there is a hole punched in your chest. You feel heavy, like there’s a giant weight on your shoulders. You feel like your legs are weak and shaking from trying to stand after someone pulls the ground from underneath you. It’s hard to breathe because the wind has knocked you out. The first couple of months, I just tried to get by. I did the motions. I nodded and shook my head at the appropriate times, ensuring I showed up each day and did the work. I became more productive than usual. I was like a machine. In the darkest moments, I convinced myself that if I kept going and moving forward, I would not have to feel the pain I carried in my heart. My therapist held space for me and kept asking me what I needed. But I didn’t know what I needed. It was only months later that things started to change. Slowly, very slowly, I learned to slow down. Just showing up, even if it meant showing up broken. It worked magic. I danced on top of 2,000-year-old ruins, and a sense of trust and groundedness emerged between all the crying and cringing. And occasionally even joy. I re-established contact with myself by slowing down, which helped me process my feelings while moving, breathing, sensing, rooting. I've learned a few things, one of which is that everything takes time. The right amount of time. And the right moment in time. We can’t control what happens, but we decide how to respond. Grieving or any other emotional process is held inside a very personal timeline. My typical strategies, which had been effective in some prior situations, were no longer effective. My gut advised me to have patience with myself, let things happen naturally, and let time work its magic. I feel more grounded, more rooted. I am vulnerable yet able to access power from my rootedness. Gentleness, slowing down, and emotional transparency are priceless gifts. We all struggle. Whether it is visible or hidden, acknowledging this struggle grows compassion for ourselves and for others. When we slow down, we make space for this acknowledgment: we make space for the subtle inner voice of wisdom to teach us. We make space for growing, compassion, and healing. I learned along the way that grief is not something you heal from. When you lose someone or something (a relationship, a job, a house.), you carry that around with you forever, and it becomes a part of you. Grief can mold itself into something beautiful that reminds you of your strength and capacity to love and be loved. I've learned to trust the cycles of life. Just as the universe follows its rhythms, so does our heart. There are moments of stillness where the world seems to stand still, and grief consumes us. But, like the sun that always rises, there is a natural ebb and flow to our emotions. Even in the darkest of nights, dawn is inevitable. Trusting in these cycles can provide solace, reminding us that even in our most profound moments of grief, healing and hope are never out of reach. |
AuthorI was born in 1986 in Lebanon. I'm still trying to find my passion in life and in the meantime I'm learning to navigate my bipolarity and redefining stability. Archives
February 2024
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