Against Nature Part 2 / Tooth

In my last post, I shared about the feeling of disconnection/unreality that comes with a malfunctioning body; the sense of being out of rhythm with "normal", functioning society and bodies. In my last post I focused on insomnia and the associated isolation. Another, daytime, struggle I face is that of being unable (literally) to speak. I have had a chronic sore throat since 2014 - when I was diagnosed with Gastroesophageal reflux disease (GERD). Over the past year, however, it's been getting worse despite continuing to take medications and following ALL the lifestyle/dietary advice. I am slowly, slowly getting the necessary tests and investigations done by Gastroeneterology. In the meantime, I have to keep speaking to an absolute minimum. When I do exercise my voice (oh the indulgence), I experience a severe worsening of throat pain and inflammation/burning feeling in my chest. Whilst it's been an extremely challenging time, I have observed some benefits:

1. Improved listening skills;

2. A deeper appreciation for the precious gift of speech;

3. A more careful consideration of the words I choose;

4. The internal quiet enables me to tune in more easily to my body's needs so I take better care of myself;

5. An unleashing of creativity. Not just in terms of finding myself drawing more, writing more, etc. But creativity in terms of finding alternative methods of communication. 

To expand on this last point: An essential aspect of my Buddhist practice involves making efforts to reach out and support/connect with others, preferably face-to-face and if not then at least voice-to-voice. This of course, has presented me with a seemingly impossible challenge (what with COVID-19 restrictions making it much harder to meet in person as well). I have found myself drawing mandalas - something I began doing as a way to relax and unwind in India - and posting them to friends as well as fellow buddhists as a means of encouragement. Each one is unique and made with that person in mind. 

Of course, one of the biggest obstacles has been the fact that my practice consists mainly of chanting (out loud!) morning and evening, every day. I like to chant a lot, so it's been extra challenging having to content myself with chanting silently, in my heart. However, surprisingly, despite the frequent feelings of frustration, I am learning to adapt and even to enjoy (at times!) this new way... Realising that the determination required to keep going day after day, summoning up the extra focus required to chant purely in my head/my heart, actually represents a greater cause for victory than if I were able to chant freely without impediment.

I battled for a while with the fear and anxiety that maybe I wasn't practising "properly" this way, and somehow wasting my time trying. The perfectionist in me wants things to be a certain way. But, through deeply studying the writings of Daisaku Ikeda and Nichiren Daishonin, and receiving encouragement from fellow Buddhists and friends, I was able to overcome this negativity and let go of feeling somehow wrong or inadequate.

Attending meetings via Zoom has been interesting...! Not being able to contribute using my voice has led to the realisation that I can use my smile, my simple presence on the screen, is a contribution in itself. This reliance on my smile, however, has been seriously challenged since the crown that had for 10 years been standing in for a very prominent upper front tooth, cracked and fell out! 

My new look!

At first I was so self conscious I kept my lips tightly clamped shut on Zoom calls or if I was out and about - though, thankfully, mask-wearing has made things easier in that respect! Whenever I caught sight of my reflection, the gap (and unsightly stump of remaining dead tooth) brought back memories of the bus crash I was involved in back in 2010 which led to the loss of said tooth... I won't go into all the gory details here. But suffice to say, the sudden loss of my crown took me straight back to this traumatic incident and left me feeling very vulnerable. 

As some of you probably know, I'm pretty vain and having to reconcile myself to this new, piratey, smile has not been an easy process. And, due to Covid, dental appointments are few and far between so I'm having to wait longer than usual for a solution. Surprisingly, however, I've quickly made peace with the situation and am just glad there's no pain (as I had root canal treatment at the time of losing my tooth originally). Three weeks on, and I'm mostly back to my confident self and feeling a sense almost pride; wearing my past as a badge of honour almost. Of course, it is thanks to my Buddhist practice that I have been able to quickly transform the anxiety and, frankly, horror of having my looks compromised!!

Through all this I guess I'm learning to value myself, and my imperfections. They make life more interesting, and enable me to appreciate the simple joy of being alive and being blessed with strong friendships. Having people around me who embrace all of me, without hesitation, is a wonderful thing. I am so very fortunate.

Against Nature

It's 3.30am and I'm sitting on my sofa listening to the wind companionably whipping through the buddleia branches, causing them to tap against the window whilst rain smatters intermittently on to the panes. All of a sudden I am recalling a book which I was instructed by my dissertation supervisor twelve years ago  to read: a book by Joris-Karl Huysmans entitled À Rebours (or, in English, 'Against Nature'). I didn't get very far with it, but I do remember being somewhat appalled (yet fascinated) by the premise, and the central character - a disillusioned aristocrat attempting to retreat into a world of pure decadence and artifice. Holed up in his country home, far away from society, he lives by his own rhythm - shunning the natural routines of daytime wakefulness, and eats whatever he pleases, unconcerned with health or balance. He surrounds himself with artefacts and decor that reinforce this preference for the fantastical.

 Why do I feel compelled to immediately find a copy of this book and promptly devour it? Perhaps I feel a strong affinity with it's protagonist... Without wanting to, I very often find myself living a life that feels at odds with the natural order of things.

Feeling most at peace when, at last, giving in to dysfunction. Like now, at first I fight the insomnia - despairing over the fact of being awake when all I want is to unconscious; oblivious, free from awareness of my pain-racked body and wayward mind. But, once the inevitable rise and stumble into dressing-gown takes place, gritty eyes adjusting to the (artificial) light, a sense of relief comes. True time to myself - in the early hours when there's no-one to confide in but myself; nowhere to turn but inwards.

The angst/panic that companies finding myself (yet again) battling the pain, fatigue, nausea - alone and out of rhythm with society - turns to delight. Delight in the imaginative possibilities open to me at this hour, in this existential bind; the energy suddenly available when the incessant striving for normalcy ceases. Comparison with others becomes futile when there's only me, a cup of tea and a pen. Accepting who I am in this moment - a creature of the night.

Trapped is just a state of mind...

I recently rewatched the movie Beetlejuice and found quite a few parallels with "the current situation". Namely, the newly deceased couple finding themselves stuck in their house, with people they don't like, and blood-thirsty sand snakes lying in wait outside the front door - okay the last bit isn't exactly what we're facing but you get the idea. And, yes, they do have to wait 125 years before they can be released and they are ghosts, but still I felt some connection with their plight all the same!

You see, it's this feeling of waiting that's so draining, sapping all the life-force and creativity out of me. So that no matter how much sleep; healthy food; exercise; guided relaxations I cram in to one day, at the end of it comes a tidal wave of deep, and unfathomable exhaustion. And I suddenly realise: it's almost as if I've been holding my breath - waiting to exhale once "this is all over". But who knows when that will be??! And in the meantime, a girl's gotta breathe!!

On the surface of things, my days aren't actually that different from BL (Before Lockdown). I get up, chant, read a bit (sometimes the other way around), make calls, clean/tidy the flat/general life admin, maybe a guided meditation, lunch, nap, cuppa with book or staring out the open window perched on the windowsill, chant more, call someone maybe, play a bit of guitar/write/draw, dinner, T.V, go to bed. Along with an outing on my bike thrown in every few days, things are much the same as always, just without the physical meet ups or trips to library/hairdresser/coffee pilgrimages to punctuate the solitude.

But there's a marked difference. I can't concentrate on anything for very long; I forget what I'm meant to be doing, or what I walked into another room for. I feel itchy and uncomfortable most of the time. I rest but it only makes me feel more exhausted. I talk to people on the phone but my voice is flat and I struggle to listen... Everything feels like a simulation; a pretend version of living. Just passing the time/waiting it out - getting through another day of this, another week feels like a great achievement. But then it doesn't... cos there's no satisfaction in crossing off the days without a final destination to aim for.

It's like there's a giant magnifying glass of intense over-awareness cast over everything - good, bad, ugly, beautiful... and at the same time a numbness prevails, rendering everything foggy and unreal.

Desperately seeking outside of ourselves, watching how other people are behaving (or not behaving) until finally driven inside to that place we've been avoiding for so long. Funny how it takes being forcibly isolated to actually begin forging a lasting, deep connection with myself. All the running feels like madness as I catch glimpses of the constant state of peace and comfort residing at my core. The state of resisting is so much more painful than the actual business of BEING. Alone, yes, but so fulfilled.

A couple of days ago I took the decision to take charge of the situation, realising it's the passivity of waiting that's so intolerable. We may feel helpless but there is so much we can contribute - it just takes a strong sense of purpose, or mission as we describe it in buddhism. Remembering why I am here, at this time, and with my unique set of personal challenges. There's no government mandate against being myself and deciding to move forward, even an inch, every day. Suddenly things don't seem so dreary anymore. I even feel a glimmer of excitement at the prospect of all the changes I will see in my life and my environment once we're through this.

Isolation (then and now)

Today marks 8 years since I entered St James hospital (in Leeds) for the stem cell transplant I had to undergo in order to get rid of the cancer that had returned to my chest area back in November 2011. I had already completed 3 gruelling rounds of high-dose chemotherapy and was keen to get this next, most intimidating part of treatment out of the way. A Stem Cell Transplant requires being kept isolated for 4 weeks as the immune system is completely destroyed by the strongest doses of chemotherapy and is then rebuilt again from scratch using stem cells harvested beforehand (either from the patient or a donor).

I remember keenly the strong feelings of apprehension balanced by a deep confidence that I would be okay, and was strong enough to face whatever was coming my way. Spring had officially sprung and sunny, light-filled days were beginning to prevail. A couple of days previously, on March 21st, my (then) boyfriend and I had managed to get away for a day to celebrate his birthday. We went to Hull Aquarium! As he's from near there, and afterwards went to see his Mum. It was a really joyful, sunshiney day, made even more special by the knowledge that it could be my last day "on the outside" before being confined to a hospital room, experiencing intense physical and mental trials.

I remember the strategy I used then, to steel my nerves and enable me to stay on board with the plan:

• Don't think about the length of time;

• Focus on immediate tasks and goals;

• Determine to achieve small victories, each moment, each day;

• Stay focused on the long-term outcome - for me, then, being cancer-free and able to live a full life.

If I stopped to dwell on the reality facing me and the guaranteed suffering, boredom, and potential loss of my life ahead then panic would engulf me; I would become completely paralysed and unable to breathe.
I remember friends, family and other patients reacting most strongly to the isolation aspect of the Stem Cell Transplant. I would often be asked "how will you cope with the boredom?" and I always answered in the same way: "I'm not worried about that, I imagine I will be too poorly for boredom!" The unspoken part of my response was that I was that I was concerned more about coming out of it alive than of how to pass the time, alone and confined to a small, nondescript room. I should clarify here, that I wasn't in complete isolation - I was allowed visitors and of course doctors and nurses and cleaning staff etc were allowed to come in, as long as they had washed their hands thoroughly, donned mask, apron and gloves in the antechamber and were feeling well. I didn't get lonely, even when I was alone. I actually often found that I couldn't handle being around anyone. Listening to music got me through (I even took my radio in so I could listen to 6 music and Women's Hour in the mornings), reading books, and being creative - drawing, crochet projects, playing guitar and singing (before I got too weak), and of course my buddhist practice which I maintained as consistently as possible.

It's not a time I like to look back on as it's still very painful to relive. I am so incredibly grateful to have come through it and to have completed the treatment when others I knew didn't make it that far, and to be approaching eight years in remission is a dream come true. What I'm saying is, horrible as that experience was, it was worth it.

As you can imagine, the past few days have been triggering unpleasant memories and the "fight or flight" feelings have been coming up again. Having choice taken away is unpleasant at the best of times, but facing an indefinite period of isolation is fucking horrible - for anyone. You would think I'd be feeling cool, calm and collected having faced what I did back then. But no, the familiar panic and strong urge to run away (to where I don't know?!) are rising up in my belly every day. So, in order to gain a sense of control and to try and make some sense of the situation I decided to write this. Partly to convey a message of hope - this is doable and most of us have a whole flat or house (and hopefully some outdoor space) to roam around in; we have familiar creature comforts around us (lucky ones have real life furry creature friends to boot). And, the whole point of this trial facing us is to preserve life - the one objective that makes this worth getting through. Staying focused on this most important outcome keeps me sane. I don't want to waste all of the treatment I had back then getting sick and dying now. I want to stick around on this planet to see what I am able individually / what we are able collectively to achieve through and beyond this.

EXCITING!

Hangover

Today I have a hangover. A rare occurrence for me these days as I tend to avoid going out in the evenings at all let alone places that serve alcohol! I woke up this morning, after a restless night (despite taking a sleeping pill) feeling awful - so nauseous and just remorseful. I had to get up as I had an appointment to get to and anyway, lying in bed willing my mind to shut up and praying for more sleep just wasn't working out. It's a good job I did get up as it enabled me to chant solidly for 45 minutes (after forcing breakfast down and making a cup of tea). Chanting on a hangover is not an appealing activity, and inevitably causes the nausea and exhaustion to intensify - at first. But I pushed through and after a while began to feel the joy creeping back in to my life, and caught a glimpse of how I might be able to create value through this experience...

Cut to the late afternoon and despite 2 naps, food, tea, and all the supplements as well as endless refills of hot ginger and I'm still feeling horrendous. Trying to read or concentrate on anything at all made me so nauseous - I had to just stare out of the open window whilst gulping fresh air and giving myself pep talks. Even when I used to drink properly (i.e. more than two beers whilst catching up with an old friend) I never used to feel this bad the next day. Of course my mind kept veering towards the inevitable regret/self-loathing/hopelessness (repeat) washing machine cycle. So, I took immediate remedial action by sticking on a lecture by Richard Causton (the first UK general director of this Buddhist movement) and just letting it wash over me. I'd listened to it before so I wasn't worried about catching every word or straining to grasp every concept.

Somehow I ended up being able to chant again, and really decided to push through the yuckiness  and to demand that I feel better - not just today in terms of the hangover, but every day. It felt very uncomfortable and strange to chant in this way; my default self-punishment mode kept crying out to be resumed. So I just chanted louder and more strongly to drown her out. I realised, possibly for the first time, that this long-held belief: that I deserve to suffer physically after enjoying a drink or two, actually extends to how I feel about my everyday existence. It dawned on me that I actually never chant to simply feel better, because that would mean letting go of the misconception that I should be in pain, and exhausted and suffering with depression/anxiety/insomnia day after day because, because, OF COURSE! It is/was such an ingrained modus operandi, to feel somehow deserving of this dysfunctional life of chronic pain and fatigue, that I'd never truly recognised that's how I think. All of a sudden, the remorse and mental anguish disappeared and I was left with just the physical expressions of a hangover. And it's so much easier to deal with physical discomfort when you're not torturing yourself mentally at the same time!! By the end of the hour-long chanting session I felt positively grateful for having recklessly pushed my limits the night before as it had led to this deeply transformative awakening - to myself and the profound lack of compassion for my own life.

Tired as I am, and still feeling sick!, I just had to get this post written and published before going to bed. If it inspires even one person to forgive themselves and to let go of bullshit self-punishment thinking, then I'm happy. I'm happy.

Back in business

I last blogged about my health back in November 2013 - over 6 years ago, when the chronic fatigue and pain were new phenomena for me. Despite many times feeling the urge to write and share about the on-going challenges something always stopped me, and I've been trying to work out what exactly was keeping me silent. After reflecting a bit I came to the realisation that in my struggle to manage the (ever-evolving) symptoms I felt the need to create distance between my sense of who I am and my status as a chronically ill person. I think on some level, as well, I had bought in to the belief that the key to wellness lay in denying it (effectively). There is a lot out there about "thinking positive" and "mind over matter"; even at the fatigue clinic I sought help from all those years back, I was taught the importance of ignoring the instinct to rest and instead build up an incrementally more active lifestyle. This advice may work on a small subsection of patients, but for me it was outright dangerous. Pushing myself, and ignoring my body's distress signals, has always been my default and is quite possibly one of the main causes for the run down state that's characterised the past 6 and a half years. Failing to rest properly after illness is par for the course in our society but it's costing us dearly. The Victorian custom of convalescence (retreating to the countryside/seaside for complete rest and relaxation for weeks if not months) should be reinstated in my opinion. 

In my hurry to regain a sense of "lost time" after a gruelling eighteen-month journey of cancer diagnosis/treatment/relapse/more treatment, I jumped way too fast back into my self-punishing approach to life. Only a few months after completing the final radiotherapy treatment I was actively job hunting and desperately securing volunteering work to boost my CV. I remember getting shingles (the adult version of chicken pox and EXTREMELY painful) just before a job interview. I obviously went along anyway despite being in agony the whole 25-minute drive there. I was overjoyed to get the role of visitor assistant at the recently opened contemporary art gallery just outside Leeds (where I was living at the time), even if it was just a 0 hours contract. I remember viewing any health issues as a nuisance and tried to hide the lack of stamina I was still experiencing post-cancer. Around 6 or 7 months after starting the job I woke up one morning and felt like I could barely move. I managed to get up and sit in a chair but that was all I could manage. It was like the worst hangover of my life, but I'd had nothing to drink and slept a full 8 hours the night before. I called NHS 24 and was told a doctor would call me back. I felt so confused and, I guess, annoyed that I just dragged myself up, put my uniform on and somehow got myself to work. I remember on my lunch break walking to a bench out of sight of the gallery, and just laying down. I was so exhausted. I had missed calls and voicemails from doctors, which I noticed when leaving work that day but chose to ignore them as I so badly wanted to simply get on with my life. But that was the beginning of a fast descent into unmanageable, chronic fatigue and other symptoms that made it impossible to even drive myself to work, let alone complete a full shift. 

The blog posts I wrote under the heading After the Fact  detail the months after stopping work as I came to terms with being sick again but with something much less definable and relatable than cancer. Around this time I became convinced that keeping busy, by pursuing a Master's degree, would enable me to get over this silly fatigue business and to feel like I was an acceptable, productive member of the human race. I essentially spent £6,500 and two years of my life on attempting to quiet the self-loathing; to smother it with occupation. Of course I am proud I managed to complete the course (and somehow even with a Merit), and I don't exactly regret doing it. I just feel sad that it had to be such torturous experience. Though I did learn a great deal about identifying, voicing my needs, and then ensuring they were met. For example, fighting to be exempted from the compulsory 8-week work placement module after unravelling mentally and physically whilst trying to work part time in a major art institution in the centre of London. 

I'm still learning; these are lessons that require daily repetition in order to stick - but I reckon this experience, harsh as it was, helped solidify the foundations for a lasting sense of self-worth. As much as I learned about museum management, curating, collections management, loans and acquisitions policy etc., it was in the struggle to deeply respect myself and my life where I developed the most. Looking back, I feel awful about the way I treated myself (and still do oftentimes) - pushing and pushing, forcing my exhausted body and mind to keep up appearances.

Fast-forward to now: Whilst I am much the same as I was back at the beginning, health-wise, my attitude towards my body and my life itself is completely different. I've learnt the hard way that years of denial, and positive-thinking and "faking it" does not lead to recovery. It's only been fairly recently that I've fully recognised the deep-rooted sense of shame and embarrassment over my situation - unable to work, largely housebound, and living off benefits. Even writing this makes me cringe. But the thing is, the more we try to ignore something the larger it grows and the more it consumes our every waking thought. I guess I imagined that when I returned to blogging it would be with a triumphant "recovery story" - any other outcome was unacceptable to me. But in a way, this is my recovery story - not so much in the sense of physical health (as I'd hoped/expected) but in terms of my rediscovering my self-worth.

The most common narratives surrounding CFS/ME/Fibromyalgia describe two outcomes: the successful recovery story (or at least significant improvement - sometimes described as achieving remission), or the "it's incurable"/ life-sentence outcome. Unfortunately these models can cause those of us afflicted with the condition(s) to feel like failures. Not only have we failed in terms of career, financially, socially, personally, but also physically - in that we are somehow deciding to remain unwell. This is too much for anyone to bear, let alone somebody with limited energy and ever-present pain/discomfort. Taking the pressure off, and choosing to "style out" this life of mine - symptoms and all - has felt radical, and provided huge relief. Now I can get on with the business of being happy right here where I am, AS I AM. Of course I remain ever-focused on completely regaining my health - this is what I want more than anything, but I'm not going to lose sight of the daily victories and joyful moments that can make up my current, health-compromised, existence.

India

Since returning from a month-long trip to India I have struggled to answer when asked by friends: “how was it?”. They all know I went specifically to receive Ayurvedic treatment and that it was my first time travelling there, and that I embarked with high hopes for recovering my health. What they don’t know is that I returned with a heavy burden and nowhere obvious to set it down. The yoga ashram in Kerala, South India, where I took Panchakarma treatment (a form of intense detoxing) was home for me and all the other “patients” over the 3 or so weeks of treatment. We all arrived with differing health complaints and reasons for wanting to reset and revive our systems – from chronic fatigue and joint pain resulting in loss of mobility (me) to lifelong eczema, to those simply wanting to lose some weight and feel healthier. Whatever the reasons, we all ended up in the same boat – feeling vulnerable, weak, and very much at the mercy of the doctors treating us. It wasn’t a comfortable experience but the beauty and spiritual energy of the ashram provided nourishment for the soul when I needed it most. I would spend hours on the veranda outside my room overlooking the lush tropical woodland below with sunlit hills in the background and either chant, read or just sit in wonder. 

I was nearing the end of the treatment and my sister had just returned from Delhi and joined me at the ashram. We were catching up and she was presenting me with various gifts and creature comforts (including a much needed novel!) she had kindly brought when I spotted a couple of fellow “panchakarmis” and called them over to meet my sister. They seemed pensive and had clearly been in the middle of discussing something serious and quickly filled us in - one of them, Chiara, had heard from another patient who had already been at the ashram for a while completing his yoga teacher training before starting treatment, that some allegations had been made against the late Swami Vishnudevananda who had founded the ashram and all the sister organisations under the name of his mentor Sivananda. It was all relayed in a hurry and the full details weren’t given but she told me to look for myself as the woman making the allegations (his former PA) had published her testimony on Facebook. Immediately my blood ran cold and I grasped instantly the ramifications for this beautiful but fated community. I also remember feeling that I had somehow been waiting for something like this to come about. There was a hypocrisy about the teachings, and I had been subject to various minor but irritating advancements by a staff member and also by a yoga student. My sister cautioned against jumping to any conclusions and suggested we don’t gossip about this to anyone. I agreed and later looked up the allegations by Julie Salter against her former guru – whose statues and portraits were everywhere, images we were expected to prostrate ourselves to every morning and every evening. The very reasonable and sorrowful wording of her statement left me with no doubt of its veracity. She was very open about how conflicted she felt about exposing this and the journey she’s been on since it all began in the eighties, expressing regret at how painful it would be for devotees to hear about.

It felt so strange to be carrying this information around. Suddenly everything was tainted and yet exactly the same. I almost didn’t want to believe her so that I could continue floating around and just focusing on the intense experience of treatment and reflection… But I couldn’t unknow the horrifying truth. I scrutinised the faces and behaviour of the directors and staff, both in the ashram proper and in the health clinic, for signs that they knew also. I detected a kind of heaviness in the air but apart from that nothing. The morning and evening prayers continued as normal, along with the devotional chants and prostrations to this accused swami. I was waiting for some announcement; some acknowledgement, but none came. A few days later I noticed a statement that popped up on the website for the umbrella organisation sivananda.org conveying the regret and sadness on the part of the board members and giving notice of an imminent investigation in to the allegations. This provided some relief but I was severely disappointed that on the website for the Kerala ashram there was no such statement. New yoga students and panchakarmis were arriving every day and all blissfully unaware of the rumbling scandal, along with most people already there (or so it seemed). I started to feel like I was going mad. The treatment was taking its toll on my body and spirit – I was significantly underweight by this point and struggling more and more with the communication style of the doctors. I was homesick, exhausted and in desperate need of privacy and basic everyday commodities – like a washing machine, a sofa to sit on, a cup of tea! 

The anger that was welling up every time I thought about this woman and everything she’d been through/was going through, and every time I was hit on or my weight loss commented on (like a compliment), threatened to topple me. I wanted to get the hell out of there. But I couldn’t. I owed it to myself to complete the treatment and I was too weak to leave at this point anyway. Eventually my sister took matters into her own hands and went to see the director during his office hours. She ostensibly went to complain on my behalf about the inappropriate comments and behaviour of certain men but with the hope that something of the international scandal would be mentioned. And, gratifyingly, it was. He expressed deep sorrow and conveyed how painful a situation it was and hinted at the turmoil the organisation was going through. He was also, according to my sister, appropriately dismayed about the incidents I had experienced and asked what could be done. They agreed together that all staff and the individual yoga student should be reminded of the ashram rules against sexual misconduct at any time. This seemed good enough for me, and since we were leaving the next day felt like a fairly positive place to leave things. I was still, however, expecting some kind of formal acknowledgment to all of us staying at the ashram. To my knowledge there still has been no statement given, and the bow of obeisance still being observed by all - twice a day, every day.

It’s tempting to try and forget about it all, and move on; to shelve the anger and disappointment in favour of looking after myself and my (still) fragile health. But I truly believe that the injustice and essential wrongness of what went on (and the continuing lack of action being taken to put things right) directly correlated to my physical and mental dis-ease and constant state of agitation. By continuing to face this experience and the after-effects (both personally and globally), I am giving myself the opportunity to restore balance somehow. I recently stumbled across this article by Matthew Remski, a yoga teacher and researcher of cult dynamics, which details the background and current situation of the allegations. It’s superbly well-written and is an illuminating read for anyone who wants to find out more about Sivananda ashrams and the (in)action of its board members over this issue. https://gen.medium.com/how-a-metoo-facebook-post-toppled-a-yoga-icon-c25577185e40