Grieving on the Mat, Part Two

The first time I had an anxiety attack in class, against everything I wanted to do instead, I listened to my teacher and stayed on my yoga mat. I didn’t go on with the poses like the rest of the class, I just laid there and breathed and felt everything.

And I made it through.

Up until that morning, I’d been having attacks in public and running away to deal. But by forcing myself to stick with it in a safe space around people who cared about me, I learned that I was stronger than I thought and overcame my anxiety.

That was nine months ago and after that morning, the anxiety attacks stopped altogether.

Until recently.

In the last several weeks I’ve been grieving the loss of someone I’ve been very close to…a loved one who has shared a long, complicated past with me. Everything about the loss has been shocking and traumatic. The grief is intense and overwhelming and I’ve begun to have attacks again.

Last week I had three attacks in the course of just a few days. I had one at home, where my husband was there to sit with me, my head in his lap. During another, I was driving and had to pull over on the side of the road. I called a friend who stayed with me on the phone in silence until I could breathe and speak again. During another, I pulled a different friend into the elementary school bathroom with me and she held me on the cold tile floor until it passed.

I have learned how much I need the love and grace of those around me to get through.

On Monday night (I type this on Thursday), I went to an evening yoga class that I’ve attended before–it’s a vigorous class for experienced yogis. I was filled with anxiety to the tips of my hair follicles and was already crying as I parked my car and knew I probably wouldn’t get through half the asanas in the class.

But I went in anyway.

I knew the instructor, though not particularly well: this was probably my 3rd or 4th class with her. But I approached her in an embrace and sobbed-whispered into her ear, “I’m grieving. I don’t know how much I can do. But I want to be here.”

She gave me a squeeze and went to the front of the room to start the class. She reminded all of us that, in this room together, we are a community. We make space for one another, no matter where the person next to us is on their journey.

I spent the hour between two strangers, mostly laying on my mat while everyone around me went through the robust vinyasa sequences.

There’s Maria, in child’s pose. There she is in corpse pose on her back. There she is in corpse pose on her belly.

I made a few humble attempts: I got through a few chaturanga dandasanas. But something as simple as chair pose left me gasping. I could only get as far as slumping over with my hands on my knees and meekly got back on all fours before collapsing back in corpse pose, such a fitting name in the moment.

I’ve got no great ending to this experience. I left the class feeling grateful for anyone who takes a minute to recognize the humanity in the person next to them. But I also left knowing that I’m still very much in the thick of it.

The very next day I had an anxiety attack at the San Fransisco International Airport, couldn’t get ahold of my people, and ended up in an ambulance and the nearest hospital.

I’ve got a lot to be grateful for: Insurance, for one. Friends who would scramble to take care of my kids because my husband is out of town. The ability to binge-watch re-runs of The Office like a zombie.

I am still grieving. I’m still walking around like my insides are on the outside. I still don’t know at what moment I’ll go from thinking I’m just fine to feeling like I’m, in fact, half-dead.

Our next teacher training is this weekend. In two days. I imagine it will be intense, for more reasons than it’s just intense in general.

But I’m not afraid to show up.