therapy – Kristina Hamlett writes to connect, heal, and be a force for change.

Winning?

I had a conversation yesterday. Let me be real. A therapy session yesterday.

I talked.

About lots of issues. Family. My own marriage. A need for me to let go of the things I cannot or should not always control. My lack of trust and faith in others. I am not sleeping full nights.

And I kept talking.

About all the “shoulding” I have done during the quarantine these last couple of months. I should have written more and read more than 4 books. Did I watch all of the revolutionary interviews and experience all of these mind-blowing Verzus battles live? Did I watch all the shows? How about getting back into perfecting burpees to return back to the shape I was in at Strongman competition time? Shouldn’t I take more than just the one writing class? What about daily walks? All of those people in this motivational FB group are going live, talking about their insecurities and constantly interviewing for podcasts… should I be in this mix? Did I donate enough? Did I contact everyone for Mother’s Day? How about starting an indoor garden? But oh wait! I did learn to play poker and I am working with Hubby on this 1000-piece puzzle and I continue to work from home.

Then I stopped talking.

It was pointed out that I was listing goals, checking off imaginary boxes, obsessing over what the next few months may bring (financially and otherwise) and whether I am doing enough right now in order to do what?

She observed all these mental gymnastics I was performing were not just in order to keep up with family, friends, stay distracted, entertained and to make a living but I was acting as if any of these things were going to change what’s going on “out there.”

As if any of these things were going to make me “win the quarantine.”

As if I accomplish all of these things, come out on the other side with a stunning body, a thick and voluminous curly afro, a couple of manuscripts ready to pitch and new languages acquired, I will change the reality of what’s out there.

A scary pandemic, conflicting opinions, no answers as to when this will actually be over and a world where people who are Black like me and my husband are never quite safe. We never know if and when we will be confronted with the fear and hatred people have for us solely based on our race. I never know when we will be perceived as a threat: during a walk? driving? Sitting at home eating ice cream on our own couch?

My lists, my books, puzzles, card games, work, television, dancing to music, working out and social media engagement won’t change it.

It won’t make it all go away.

So what can be done?

I can write about it.

I can talk about it.

I can cry about it.

I can let myself fall into bed, let my mind find the peace it seeks and sleep.

I can sit in the sunshine on my balcony and pray.

I can build myself up enough emotionally to allow myself to engage authentically in the things I truly want to do, not what I think should be done.

I can relieve the pressure.

And let it be.

If some days look like a short walk outside before work, cooking, journaling and putting a puzzle together, I will let it be.

If somedays I need to sleep longer, eat and laugh at reruns of “The Office”, I will let it be.

Anything else doesn’t work for me.

Because it’s not about winning the distraction or achievement quarantine Olympics, it’s about finding a healthy and real way through it.

An Odd Dream

What a difference a month makes.

The last month has been out of an odd dream I can’t seem to wake up from. An odd but forgettable one where I am home, on my couch or upstairs in my bedroom, with bouts of disinfecting grocery deliveries, countertops, light switches and doorknobs maniacally, feverishly washing hands and where I take intermittent walks that consist of waving to my neighbors from afar or dodging people and cars that come too close because if they do, I might catch a strange virus that may or may not kill me or anyone I come into contact with.

This odd dream feels like something I would struggle to remember but retain enough detail to recount it to my husband as he’s preparing to head out the door for the day. An odd dream that I would share with a co-worker who would then ask: What did you watch before you went to sleep last night?

But it is all real.

This oddity is real.

I have been home since March 13th. I have been to a grocery store and a pharmacy (on the same day) once since then and have not eaten take out either. Competing in a Strongman on March 7th feels like it happened in an alternate reality.

Because it was.

I am not a doom and gloom person but I can be an anxious one. I am not in a state of panic but perhaps the privilege and the blessing of a fully employed household working from home, good books, loving family and friends and distracting technology affords me that peace.

But psoriasis and Lupus live here so we are a house of people whose immune systems don’t always do exactly as it should.

So where does that leave me?

In a variety of places.

Sometimes mourning the option to go everywhere worry free and sometimes giggling in bed with my husband because his goofiness makes me deliriously happy first thing in the morning.

It has had me fraught with worry a couple times when a cough refused to go but then I realized it’s allergy season and my neighborhood often looks like a pollen dust bowl.

It has also had me praying more, grateful for video calls, journaling, the one N95 mask we had in our linen closet, and telehealth therapy sessions. I have danced to DJs on Instagram, laughed at memes and YouTube videos, cried at people singing in unison in New York and Italy, harmonizing from their windows and balconies. I have raged at the administration and people who won’t stay home, wiped tears for the sick and the dead, signed petitions, donated money, felt restless and helpless and fearful for the homeless, the incarcerated and everyone who has to work outside of the home, ordered and got lost in books. I watched game shows and paused screens to turn to my husband and talk about all of my feelings which I have eaten a few times (see pint of ice cream in my trash).

I will continue to be in all of the places because I know I have no control over the outside world.

Just my inside one.

And that has to be enough.

For now.

Salt

Last Saturday, Hubby and I went to a salt cave for the first time. Months ago, I looked at a couples massage in a salt cave for a weekend getaway but didn’t end up going. When I saw a deal on Groupon for a local salt cave, I jumped at the chance to try it for the following reasons:

“Halotherapy is known to help relieve skin conditions, stress, high blood pressure, respiratory infections, hangovers, and allergies. Salt is a natural anti-inflammatory, antibacterial, antiviral, antifungal, and antimicrobial.”

And also because I didn’t want to shut down any modes of therapy that may prove beneficial just because I don’t know much about it.

I set a 45-minute appointment for two chairs at a spa that primarily does float therapy and has an infrared sauna. The cave was dimly lit with 4 cream-colored reclining chairs. We were surrounded by bricks of Himalayan salt from Pakistan and the floor was also covered in salt. We were each given a fresh pair of socks to wear as to not track salt back into our own shoes after the session.

I don’t know if it was the gradual release of salt-infused air into the cave but I drifted off easily when I chose to use the wireless headphones provided to us.

When our session was over, I just thought it was a great way to get quality rest. However the next day, that changed.

I don’t know if I can attribute it to the salt but the nagging pain in my left ankle from the light sprain and the strain on the left side of my right knee disappeared. It’s been a few days and it hasn’t come back. I am willing to explore it more because I have heard of the healing properties for people living with psoriasis.

Since the completion of 75hard, my desire to experience life more fully has only grown and I am glad it now includes halotherapy.

Summer so far…

Outside of Toni Morrison’s glorious new documentary, I took time for a few weeks to process multiple things that were going on.

I went to an event about harnessing fear.

I went to a comedy show and laughed until it hurt.

I started journaling again (not everyday but I began picking up the pen).

I became much more comfortable with not reaching out to people who don’t reach out to me. It didn’t feel petty. It felt right. I want to cultivate relationships with people who show they care. They deserve all the love and kindness I have to give and I truly wish others well but they no longer take up real estate in my mind.

I am taking a long break from the scale. Not as an excuse to eat but as a way to love myself.

I started drinking a gallon of water a day.

I decided not to eat my boredom and emotions after dinner.

I went to therapy, a helpful and potentially life-changing workshop on breast health and received a vigorous and soothing armpit massage (who knew about the armpits?) and received therapeutic massage.

I cut down my cable (a lot).

I donated books and old DVDs.

I fell a little more in love with one of my jobs.

I met someone who confirmed a next step for me with my writing.

I showed my arms more than I usually would because it’s hot and psoriasis cannot be hidden all the time nor should it be.

I went to a festival and danced with some friends.

I put some time in at church and listening to podcasts that made me think (and take action) about what I want for the next 10-15 years.

I did experience anxiety but I breathed through it.

I let go and let myself live.

Your turn:

How have you let go and let yourself live this summer?