The Antidote to Self-Pity

As I began to examine my depression post-stroke, I recognized that I was full of self-pity. "I am too young for this." "I took care of myself, it shouldn't have happened." "There is still so much I want to do with my life." Etcetera, ad nausea. These thoughts always led to despair, but I didn't know how to turn them off.

I wondered, what is this instinct for self-pity? As a child, I received pity from adults when I was hurt, and that helped me feel better. Was that what I needed? I imagined sharing my thoughts and seeking comfort from others. But, wouldn't people soon tire of my complaints – as I had tired of them? And what were they supposed to say, anyway?

I turned to a wise girlfriend. "How do I get out of self-pity?" I asked.

"Self-care," she answered. "When the self-pity tape starts playing, do something nice for yourself."

I took baths with muscle-relaxing oils. I lay on my back in bed listening to audio books on my iPod. I scheduled play dates with my niece and nephew. During these brief periods, I did not reprimand myself for not doing my rehabilitation exercises.

After a couple months, I noticed that the self-pity tape was no longer playing as frequently. Now, when it does receive airtime, I know how to change the channel.

The Value of Acceptance

This time last summer I was in a dark place, exercising four hours every day and still not seeing the results I wanted. My imagined life as a disabled person stretched before me unwanted. Two years, I told myself. If, in two years, I can't stand this anymore, I will jump off a bridge. In tears once again when my husband arrived home from work, I followed him into our sunny garden to talk.

"What I've been trying to figure out," I told him, "is why I was willing to work hard at a job for 11 years to make things better, but I am so quick to give up on myself."

"Why do you think that is?"

"Because at my job, there was the promise of something better – a raise, a promotion. But now, I'm working so hard just to get back to where I was."

"It sounds like you haven't accepted what's happened," he said. "You're not trying to get back to where you were. You're trying to move forward from the day you had the stroke."

Oh.

So long as I focused on what I used to be or what I wanted to be, I could not be happy now. I had to realize that exercising like a maniac was not going to get me "there" any faster. I had to find ways to enjoy my life now and balance that with rehabilitation.

I used to equate acceptance with giving up. Now I see it as a gateway to happiness.

Stolen Identity

Years ago when I worked as editor of a fitness magazine, I published an article about staying motivated on an exercise routine. It delineated the types of motivation:

Negative Consequence Motivators: If I don't exercise I'll get fat, my husband will leave me, I’ll die of a heart attack, etc.

Positive Consequence Motivators: If I exercise I'll feel better, I can buy myself new clothes, etc.

Identity motivators: I exercise because that's part of who I am.

They can all work. But the most effective is the last one because, psychologically, it's hard to give up a piece of our identity.

Coming to terms with changes in my identity as a result of the stroke has been the most challenging part of my recovery so far. After I began to realize the impact of my physical limitations, I cried a lot. I thought I was depressed, but a psychotherapist told me I was grieving. I grieved the auntie who got down on the floor and played with the kids. I grieved the domestic superwoman who took care of house, husband and garden. I grieved the yoga student with an almost-perfect triangle pose.

Now, stroke survivor is part of my story. I'm looking forward to a time when it is no longer my headline … when I can look back at the experience and see how it led me someplace amazing I wouldn't otherwise have gone. And then I can say, "No, I wouldn’t give up this piece of who I am."

Lighting the Darkness

My dearest friend from grade school made the effort to visit soon after my stroke. Living far apart, we don't often see each other. She brought her six-year-old son with her.

"Zachary," I told him, "Your mommy and I were your age when we became friends."

This did not interest him. Nor did our conversation, which we gorged on, sitting before the fireplace in my backyard. Taking pity at last on the bored child, I told my friend where to find leftover sparklers from the Fourth of July.

The two of them danced, sparklers crackling, my friend’s graceful arms waving overhead, her son spinning like a dervish. I began to weep. My friend took me in her arms and held me.

When Zachary's sparkler burned out, he came for another one.

"Why are you crying, Marcie?"

Because I can't dance anymore. Because this is my life now.

"Because you and your mommy's dancing is so beautiful." And that was true, too.

"Thank you," he said. And his mom lit more sparklers and they danced some more, throwing pieces of light into the darkness.

If I had been well, I would have been dancing with them, and I wouldn't have this memory that moves me more than dancing ever did.