Part I: Misunderstanding

“If the only thing people learned was not to be afraid of their experience that alone would change the world.”

Sydney Banks

“I do not ask anyone to ignore their past experiences. This would be denial, and denial is not a healthy state. Instead, seek a clearer understanding of the past; realise that the negative feelings and emotions from past traumatic experiences are no longer true. They are merely memories, a collection of old, stale thoughts.”

Sydney Banks

1.

Falling Over the Edge of Despair[1]

The Great Depression

There was a time when I felt my whole life was about suffering.

Ever since I can remember, I had moments when I was very low. These weren’t just blips or bad days. They were very dark moments. And then they would melt away somehow, and the suffering would ease.

I never understood why there were certain times when I struggled and other times I did not; it all seemed quite random. So I came to the conclusion that I had some kind of chemical imbalance or at least a hereditary predisposition to depression. I dreamt up all kinds of theories and reasons why, but in the end it didn’t really matter. What mattered was my belief that I could do nothing about it. It was imprinted in my DNA. This was my script. It was who I was.

I had been prone to mild post-partum depression after the birth of the first four boys, so I wasn’t surprised when I started to feel low again within a couple of months of my son Daniel’s birth. But what soon began to scare me was the depth of these feelings. This period of depression seemed longer and darker than any that had preceded it. The usual bout of Prozac wasn’t helping. Isolated and worn out, I could sense the darkness enveloping me, smothering me, suffocating me. And I couldn’t see a way out.

My husband Brian did his best to be supportive, but he was out of his depth. So too, it seemed, were the various therapists and psychiatrists whom I sought out, desperate for some relief from my inner pain. They were well-intentioned yet light years away from understanding what was going on inside of me. We reviewed my past and explored parts of my personality together, but the therapy never seemed to precipitate any lasting change. My heart and soul felt locked. And nobody had the right key, or even knew where to look for it - least of all me.

Things went downhill quickly. Most critically, I did not know how to find the capacity to manage the tumultuous feelings welling inside. Running out of energy and fight, I was overwhelmed with feelings of desperation. A volcano was rumbling within. I had no idea what would happen when it finally erupted.

I managed to hang in there for a while longer. Until the onset of what I would later come to think of as the Great Depression...

October, 2003

I watch the psychiatrist’s mouth move as his tired eyes flit back and forth between Brian and me. “I know it’s hard to be convinced,” he intones, “but the good news about depression is that it does, eventually, get better. You must have hope that this will lift; that you will, in time, feel well again.”

But I don’t believe him. I glance at Brian, who is squeezing my hand and nodding earnestly, desperate to accept any encouragement that the good doctor is offering. The cocktail of anti-depressants and anti-anxiety medications aren’t working. But hope is a very powerful drug to which my loving husband is clinging desperately.

But they just don’t get it. I can’t feel hope. I can’t feel anything. Over the last few months, I have become the “walking dead” and there is nothing anyone can do, or say, or put into my body, that is going to help. Maybe depression does lift for some people, but what has that to do with me? The pain is so palpable, so intense, so entrenched, that it seems absurd to assume that it will release its grip on me, that I will get better. It clings to me like a leech, sucking out the lifeblood, impervious to my futile attempts to shake it off.

I sit in resigned compliance while Brian and the doctor discuss “options”. There is further talk of new medication and different therapeutic approaches. An almost out of body experience washes over me in the drab consultation room. I feel as if I have been pulled over to the side of the road and am standing passively next to my car while a police officer issues me with a speeding ticket. I nod dutifully, acknowledge my fate and accept my fine. But this vehicle is steering out of control and it doesn’t matter how many warnings, tickets, or corrective driving courses I attend.

Terror wraps its tentacles around me. I am experiencing the worst kind of nightmare - awake, aware and unable to escape. This car is going to crash soon, and who knows how much damage will occur when it does?

For all it matters, the earnest doctor and my caring husband could be telling me that I had just won the lottery. I am so desperately low that whatever they are saying is irrelevant. I am sinking fast and nobody and nothing can save me.

So though my eyes remain open, I shut my ears to whatever they are saying. I just want to rest, to sleep, to escape the noise in my head. Left alone inside my mind, I drift towards the dark memories that always accompany me wherever I go...

November, 1984

I am ten years old, the top student in Mrs Baum’s class and captain of the netball team in my local junior school. A good pupil, I have never been in trouble and am well-liked by all my teachers. A button on my uniform has fallen off on the playground somewhere. The others, taking my lead, think it’s cool. So each girl asks me to cut off one of their buttons. Unthinkingly, I oblige.

We are called to the headmaster’s office where I am accused of being the ring-leader. Mr. Ludke, the strict Afrikaans principal, casts his harsh gaze down on us. We are sure we have a caning coming. But it’s my lucky day. I guess he knows I’m a good girl, because we are let off with a stern warning and a disapproving shake of his mop of grey hair. Yet the damage has been done. My bubble has burst, the veil lifted, my true identity exposed. Now everyone will know: I am not perfect.

Best Little Girl In The World

When I was fifteen years old, I read a book which later became a Hollywood movie. The Best Little Girl in the World told the true story of Francesca, an exceptionally talented teenage girl living a charmed life. Until the day she was diagnosed with the severe eating disorder of anorexia nervosa. This was not a story about me. But when I read the book for the first time, I knew instantly that it could be.

Growing up in the privileged northern suburbs of Johannesburg, South Africa, I exerted a great deal of effort in the quest to become the best, most exceptional little girl in the world. The daily, unrelenting battle - the yearning to be popular and pretty and perfect - was all-consuming. When I failed to meet my own impossible expectations, confusion and despair descended.

I needed help to re-align myself to a place of resilience and well-being. But no one and nothing was pointing me in that direction and I lacked the insight to access it from within. In its stead, I was filled with immense anxiety that I would mess up, fall short, let myself and everyone else down. Doubts plagued me incessantly. I would get an A when only an A+ would do. So I just worked harder. But l was chasing shadows. Little did I know that I was looking in the wrong place for fulfilment and meaning. Devastating feelings of disappointment and failure always lurked like shady figures, ready to pounce around the next corner.

I would later come to see that there were two Terrys: one was the version forever intertwined with the story I wove, and to which I had been committed for as long as I could remember. But there was another dimension that remained hidden and obscured. It was the part of me that could feel content and pure and innocent and whole. It wasn’t long before the gap between the two versions became a huge, unbridgeable gulf. Frustration, guilt and depressive thoughts occupied the intervening chasm.

The doomed dance of my childhood was amplified throughout my teenage years. Desiring perfection, I continued to obsess about being the best. I must have watched Nadia Comaneci’s famous Perfect 10 performance at the 1976 Montreal Olympics one hundred times. I dreamt of being just as flawless as that brilliant, petite gymnast on the balance beam of my own life. But of course I could not be the best at everything, nor perfect at anything. I could not engineer the outcome which I was convinced my script demanded.

I didn’t know where to turn for perspective or guidance. My family seldom engaged in deeper, more meaningful conversations. Feelings, emotions and matters of the soul were not up for discussion. My parents were good people who saw it as their unflinching duty to ensure that our day-to-day material needs were taken care of. Although both of them - and especially my mother - were always around, they lacked the wherewithal to have the kind of conversations I craved. They were doing their best, but they could not offer the insight I needed to help steer me through my confused, disturbing thoughts.

Six years younger than myself, my little sister Lara was preoccupied with Barbie dolls and braiding her long brown hair. Meanwhile, Mark, my older brother by almost two years, was going through his own version of “The Best Little Girl/Boy” story. Considering we were two teenagers with limited understanding and even less perspective, it was no surprise we often seemed to end up encouraging each other in our negative cycles of murky thinking.

Without realising it, I had built fictitious and false realities. Sucked into a black hole of despondent thoughts, I was losing myself. Yet for a long while, my healthy side managed to keep pulling me out, in stark contrast to the underlying dysfunction that often felt all-enveloping. This hinted at a natural well-being that undoubtedly existed within. But at the time, fuelled by my own script and the stories I had been telling myself for so long, I failed to recognise my own innate health. And even when I did feel well, I did not know how I could access that feeling more frequently.

Desperate to wield control over something, I developed a fixation with dieting and body image. Nobody could interfere with what I did or did not put into my mouth. In my distorted thinking it was a stepping stone towards achieving my goal - to becoming the best little girl in the world. Deception became both my greatest vice and most necessary skill. I became obsessed with the daily challenge of eating as little as possible and hiding my pitiful intake of calories from my parents, doctors and teachers. And I saved my best lies for the therapists who reinforced my beliefs and inadvertently justified my behaviour.

October, 1991

I steal a glimpse at my watch, hoping she won’t notice.

Another ten minutes to go until we are finished.

“Terry, I want to ask you something,” my therapist says. “Why is it so important for you to be thin? Why can’t you just settle for being a normal size, like me?”

I stare back at her blankly. She’s nice enough - middle aged, slightly overweight, ordinary looking. I keep my face a mask, but it’s a struggle to prevent myself from blurting out what I really want to say.

She just doesn’t get it. Why would I want to be like her? I want to be pretty and special and different. The last thing I want to be is normal.

But I can’t say that. So instead I smile vacuously and politely respond:

“I’m not sure. Can I think about it and get back to you when I see you next week?”

My mother is waiting for me in the driveway when I walk out of the therapist’s rooms. As I slam the passenger door shut, I turn to Mom and declare:

“That woman is light years away from understanding me. I’m not going back to see her again.”

And I don’t.

Different theories were put forward: I was going through all of this, they told me, because of an inherent, immutable personality; I had a predisposition toward a depressive state over which I could exert very little control; I was the product of how my parents had raised me, and what they and society expected. And yet, for all their experience and qualifications, nobody suggested a different way of understanding my thoughts. Considering it was my own thinking that was limiting my entire psychological experience, this omission carried grave consequences.

I wish I could have understood what was happening back then; it would have helped steer me through the murky waters of my dark thoughts. There were good moments, but they had been dulled by the intensity of my struggles during the bleak periods. Drawn to drama in the quest to find myself, I mistakenly assumed that the emptiness within should be filled with intensity and heaviness.

Now, a lifetime of insight later, I realise how hopeless it all was. Nothing demonstrated this more that the extreme contrast between my first A-Level results and my body mass. While my grades soared to such an extent that I received a full university scholarship for outstanding academic achievement, my weight plummeted to frightening levels. When the scales began showing dangerously low numbers, a moment of synchronicity spurred my desperate parents to intervene.

Walking along Cape Town’s beautiful Clifton Beach, they bumped into a long-haired, tanned lady who introduced herself as Janet, and soon discovered that she lived only a five minute drive from our family home in Johannesburg. Without explanation, the conversation turned to their respective teenage daughters and the unexpected discovery that both girls were struggling with eating disorders. Mom and Dad were struck by the extroverted, unabashedly warm personality of this unconventional woman, who offered to help them address my anorexia.

When they returned to Johannesburg, my parents offered me a stark choice: enter a hospital-based programme to address my anorexia once and for all, or move in with this comparative stranger named Janet who had assured them that she would be able to help me overcome my severe eating disorder. The thought of leaving my parents’ home for the first time left me feeling vulnerable and uncertain. But I knew I had no choice. A part of me understood that we had all run out of options. So in spite of my fears, I went along the Janet path...

March, 1993

I am staring up at the high bedroom ceiling in Janet’s sprawling house, which, until a few months ago, was occupied by her ex-husband during their separation period. Janet is different from anyone I’ve ever known. A free spirit who doesn’t conform to the conventions of “normal”, responsible, adult living, she is not that dissimilar from the teenager that I still am. Janet says what is on her mind. She doesn’t hide her feelings, nor try to avoid the fluctuation of her emotions. The divorce she is going through is painful and leaves her vulnerable, messy and impulsive. But she is experiencing it with a heart and soul that is wide open. There is a willingness to explore whatever she is going through, and I find that at once both refreshing and disarming.

My reverie is disturbed by the high-pitched chime of the doorbell. A moment later, I hear voices at the front door. Intrigued, I make my way from my bedroom and down the long passage, with Janet’s fifteen-year old daughter Jesse right behind me.

At the doorway, Janet is embracing a dishevelled young woman - she looks only a year or so older than me - and beckoning her into the house.

“Girls, this is Nola,” Janet announces. “She’s been sleeping rough on the streets and has got into some bad habits with drugs and a few other nasty things. But now she’s going to stay with us for a little while. And don’t worry, Nola - we’ll sort you out. You’ve come to the right place,” Janet declares matter-of-factly.

Jesse and I exchange a quick glance of recognition. This is typical Janet: unpredictable, demonstrative, overflowing with love and goodwill, and always looking to reach out and offer help to someone in need.

While Jesse shows Nola upstairs to the guest bedroom, I consider how different things are from my own parent’s home, less than a five minute drive away. There, all is ordered and predictable. Like most people, we all live within the confines of what makes sense to our own families. There is no way my parents would ever let a drug addict they had met on the downtown streets past our front gate, never mind invite her to live with us. To be honest, I’m not so sure it’s a great idea either. Yet it is so liberating to witness an alternative way of embracing life.

I don’t know how long I’ll stay with Janet, Jesse, Nola and whoever else pitches up. But that doesn’t really matter. As long as I’m here, I’m seeing the world differently. Which seems to me to be the best form of therapy and support available right now. It is just what the doctor ordered at this stage of my life.

The fact that Janet barely knew me gave me permission to slip back into a natural and easy way of being. Away from the various script-writers who had played such a key part in my journey thus far, I began to relax internally and see the possibilities of a different pathway. I felt freer than I had in a long time.

This feeling intensified when I suddenly dropped out of my fully subsidised three-year university course after exactly one week. My parents were devastated, their hopes for my future crushed. But somehow I sensed that the pressure and weight of expectation would simply be too much for me. To the outside world, a waif-thin university drop-out, living away from home and clearly too clever for her own good, may have seemed pretty close to rock bottom. But I knew differently. As my weight finally began to stabilise, my troubled soul began to do likewise. Janet was sure she could save me. I had my doubts, but loved her for trying.

I was also trying. Although still a teenager, I dreamed of having a baby. I’m not sure why, but the desire to become a mother, even then, was extremely powerful. But that was not going to happen as long as I stayed so painfully thin. The physiological impact of years of pitifully low body-weight played on my deepest fears that my body would not be able to bear children. And though the irrational desire to avoid putting on weight was still alluring, the longing to have a family one day was even more compelling. This deep, maternal instinct, almost inexplicable in an eighteen-year-old girl, helped pave the way for my recovery. My ever-present issues with food lost some of their powerful grip. There was still a long way to go, but the danger of irreparable damage to my body receded as my weight crept up slowly from its perilous levels.

During this fascinating and surreal period of my life, I also discovered a love of Judaism and its spiritual teachings. Janet herself was going through a period of exploring a spiritually-oriented life; an atmosphere of openness and searching permeated her home, making it rich with possibility. All this was vastly different from the conventional, staid environment with which I was familiar. I was born into a traditional Jewish home, but the profundity and depth of my religion had always eluded me. Now, however, living in Janet’s house, I was free to seek out the underlying meaning that I greatly desired. The independently-minded, spiritual seeker in me took over, prompting a yearning to connect, to immerse myself in a divine relationship which offered much more than the relatively superficial, materialistic existence of my first eighteen years. A deeper journey of the self and soul was taking hold.

After six months living with Janet, I returned to my parents’ home, and life settled down somewhat. I must have been one of the first students to receive a full scholarship to South Africa’s top university and then opt to study as a kindergarten teacher. But I loved the pure, sweet innocence of young children and the intimate atmosphere of the small school where I taught every day.

I had also decided to steer clear of the dating scene. Focussing on my spiritual growth, guys had become pretty much a no-go area for me. Until my brother Mark intervened...

July, 1994

The waiter puts our drinks down with a slight chink and turns away. I look across the table at Graeme and wonder what I am doing here. It is the third time this week that we have seen each other since my brother insisted we go out. Mark was convinced that we would have much in common. He believed that we would be drawn to each other not only by our shared spiritual commitment, but also by our mutual history of attachment to a dark, inner world of psychological complexity.

But I know now he is not for me. An insight emerges. For the first time in my life, I realise I might need a different sort of guy. One who will be less enamoured with the places I’ve been to in my pained mind, and more interested in those parts of me resonating with health and well-being. I’m not sure yet who that will be, but I know for certain it is not Graeme.

Three days later, I pick up the phone on the third ring and recognise my rabbi’s warm, welcoming voice straight away. He is one of those rare breed of men, full of sensitivity and a profound understanding of people. I assume he is going to ask me if I can babysit his kids tonight, but instead, after a brief preamble, he gets down to business.

“There’s a guy I would like to set you up with - Brian Rubenstein. He’s a couple of years older than you. Not the tallest chap around; dark hair, blue eyes, kind of stocky. He has a university degree, but has also been pursuing his religious studies in Jerusalem for the last year or so. He’s back here for a couple of weeks on holiday. What do you think?”

I had seen the boy in question a couple of times. A bit on the short side, but cute enough with a natural, easy way about him, or least that was the briefest of impressions I had gained. Hmmm, I think. Maybe it’s worth a try. I let out my breath slowly. “OK, I’ll go out with him. Thanks, Rabbi.”

I hear the doorbell ring. A minute later, Lara, my gangly-limbed thirteen-year-old sister, comes springing down the corridor. “He’s here!” she yells. “And he looks a bit like a cross between Tom Cruise and a chipmunk!” (I’m sure he heard that).

Casting a final furtive glance in the mirror, I adjust my green polo-neck sweater and straighten my navy, knee-length skirt one last time. I run my fingers nervously through my long dark hair before turning away. I haven’t put on any make-up - it’s not my style - but I have a feeling that won’t bother him at all. “Good luck,” my mother calls hopefully from her bedroom as I head down the passage.

I glance at my watch while he calls for the bill. I can’t believe it’s been almost three hours already. We’ve talked and talked yet there seems to be so much more to say to each other. He’s smart and sensitive and has an underlying confidence that stops just short of arrogance. Brian laughs easily, if a little loudly, and I find myself laughing with him. He has an endearing, slightly awkward way about him that makes me feel comfortable; different from anyone I’ve ever dated before. And when we both stand up to leave the hotel coffee shop, I am grateful I haven’t worn my high heels. We’re not quite back to back, but I’m pretty sure we are the exact same height.

Brian walks me to the front door. “Thanks so much; I had a really nice time,” he says self-consciously.

“Me, too,” I reply, instantly worried the words came out a little too quickly.

I close the door behind me as calmly as possible. And then I turn and sprint down the passage towards my parents’ bedroom, banging my head on the lowered lintel above their doorway as I leap in delight.

“How was it?” Mom asks, though the outcome of the date is writ large on my beaming face.

“Great!” I exclaim, as I flop onto their king-sized bed. “He’s a really good guy. And not too complicated, either.”

My parents exchange a hopeful glance while I giggle away like a school girl.

It’s our fourth date: we’ve progressed from anonymous coffee shops to the Lion and Rhino Park on the outskirts of Johannesburg. Brian is clearly becoming more comfortable around me. He is wearing dusty white trainers that don’t quite match his navy blue suit trousers and white button-down shirt. (He is not a nerd, but this look is a little too close for comfort.) He becomes serious as an enormous creature with two curved horns ambles past.

“I want to tell you why my parents got divorced when I was twelve,” he begins. It’s sad in parts and there are tears in his eyes at times, but I get the feeling that he’s all right with his family history, that he’ll be fine. He shares it all with me, his whole background and the secrets he has kept to himself for so long.

And as I listen, I realise that it is safe to share all of me with him as well. He is willing to trust, to open up, to express his love in spite of - or perhaps because of - everything. He talks too much sometimes, but I can’t deny it any longer - I am falling for Brian.

Things happened quickly after that. Lion and Rhino Park date number four took place at the end of July; by mid-September, we were engaged. I had just turned 20; Brian was 23. We were virtually kids; we barely knew each other and we had no discernible plan for making a living, or for creating any semblance of a responsible life. Yet our initial chemistry had taken over and propelled us both forward.

Brian was offering me something precious and rare that I had never experienced before. No matter how much of my inner world I shared with him, he just seemed to want to be with me more. It became clear that whether this was the new Terry or the old Terry, it simply didn’t matter to him. He was falling in love with Terry - all of me.

This was my first taste of unconditional love, and unbeknown to me at the time, it was to become one of my most powerful life lessons. Brian was not just the right partner for me. He would be the catalyst for a new understanding of who I really was beneath my own perceived flaws and constructs. He understood and loved me in my entirety - with and without my story - and though it would take time, I would eventually come to see and love myself in the same way.

The breakneck speed of my life showed no signs of slowing down: a mere two years after finishing high school, less than eighteen months since my weight had stabilised, and just over five months since meeting Brian, I was preparing to walk down the aisle and accept him as my life partner. And as he slipped the gold wedding band onto my index finger under the traditional wedding canopy, signifying our formal union according to Jewish law, I burst into the widest of smiles.

Now that I was married, the yearning that had helped me overcome my eating disorder took centre stage. I was desperate to have children. After an anxious wait of almost a year, the day arrived when my elation knew no bounds. And as the long summer days merged into weeks and then into months and trimesters, I allowed myself a glimpse of the most glorious, most elusive of dreams: I was going to become a mother.

From the moment our first son Steven was born in the late spring of 1996, I fell head over heels in love. To call him cute in the classical sense may have been a bit of a stretch; according to Brian, Steven’s cone-shaped head bore a direct resemblance to Bart Simpson. But his squashed appearance only added to my joy. Motherhood came naturally to me: there was nothing else I wanted to be doing and nowhere else I wanted to be.

Only a few months later I fell pregnant again completely unexpectedly. Since I was still breastfeeding Steven, it never occurred to me that I would or could conceive again so quickly. There was no time to think about it all, as I was fully immersed in learning the ropes of motherhood for baby Number One. And before we knew it, a second Rubenstein boy had entered the world. We named him Jacob after Brian’s late father who had died at a tragically young age.

The contrasting moments of my life were not lost on me. Only a few short years earlier, I had been mired in a state of anxiety, convinced that my eating disorder would affect my fertility. Now, just 23 years old, I was the mother of two beautiful boys separated by a mere fifteen months. How blessed I felt.

Meanwhile, I was discovering that my husband had his own journey to travel. At a time when many people might slow down and consolidate their growing family, we were doing the opposite. Driven by Brian’s exuberance and desire to make things happen, the high-speed tempo of our life was gathering momentum. Having completed his two-year communal leadership and study programme, Brian now wanted to use his creativity and energy to make a difference. An exciting, sought-after job opportunity had suddenly materialised and it was not even a consideration that I would stand in Brian’s way. So just a few short months after Jacob’s arrival we were preparing for a new chapter in London, England.

I was excited and pleased for him. Yet I couldn’t help but feel that events were overtaking me, and that I had little or no control over their outcome. Without either of us really realising it, I was finding it hard to keep up, establishing a pattern that would set the tone for the next few years of my life.

Before we knew it, we landed in one of the Western world’s largest and rainiest cities on a cold, damp February morning. Within weeks, Brian was fully immersed in his highly demanding, poorly paying, but deeply rewarding work. So while my husband thrived, I focussed on bringing up my two young sons in a grey, impersonal metropolis where I had no friends and an almost non-existent support system. It took all my inner resources to keep my head above water.

We entertained often and extensively, our home a magnet for the students and community members with whom Brian was building relationships and teaching. Our young family and evolving home had its own unique brand of warmth, care, openness and dynamism, giving me confidence and pleasure. At the same time however, I often found myself pushed to my limit - and sometimes dangerously beyond. Attached to a personality that always veered towards the extreme, I struggled to find the necessary balance to cope with the lifestyle we had chosen and to meet the high expectations I always placed on myself.

Obsessive Thinking

May, 1999

“Mommy, look at me!” shouts Steven, as he dangles precariously by one arm from the ladder on the jungle gym. Startled out of my musings, I muster a smile. Lifting my eight month pregnant body off the park bench, I grab the bulging nappy bag and make my way over to where he is playing. Little Jacob looks up from the sand-pit nearby before returning happily to his bucket and spade.

We are in the midst of yet another outing to Princes Park, our “local”, just a few minutes around the corner from our rented house in Golders Green. It’s a typical London day in early spring: shifting clouds and a slight breeze, but just warm enough for the boys to have discarded their jumpers on the bench for the first time since last autumn. The kids are having a great time and despite my fatigue, I want to join in and encourage their fun. Hoisting myself onto the side of the steel frame, I reach upwards and show my nearly three-year-old son how to grab the bar above his head and shimmy his body along the apparatus.

I become aware that I am the only mother on the climbing frame. Glancing backwards, just beyond where Jacob is playing, I see a gaggle of moms chatting casually on the small cluster of benches located near the front of the playground area. They all seem so familiar with each other. And in that moment, a terrible aching loneliness tears at my insides. While the others laugh and gesticulate at their children, an overwhelming sense of alienation envelops me. They appear so relaxed, so comfortable, so at ease - with themselves and each other. Me? As so often seems to be the case, I am on the outside looking in. I sit on the periphery of life, rather than in the midst of it.

The thought hits me so powerfully: I don’t fit in here-in this park, with these people, in this world. I am not fully here, not fully present. As I contemplate my painful isolation, my mind drifts...

“Momma,” Jacob calls plaintively. “Where spade gone?”

I release my grip on the jungle gym and shuffle over to the sand-pit. Bending down uncomfortably, I kiss his forehead and pull the tiny implement out of the sand.

The old Terry, full of insecurity and low self-esteem, continued to make a guest appearance whenever the opportunity presented itself. I felt as if I was engaged in a constant, unremitting battle to keep the sadder, darker side of her beyond reach. For long periods, I succeeded. But she was always there, hanging around in the shadows, plaguing me, as she had done for so long, with self-doubt and anxiety. There were interludes of therapy and medication to alleviate those times when she became too demanding and overbearing. There were other periods when she drifted so far away that I thought I might never see her again. But that version of Terry was a persistent bedfellow, and always managed to re-connect whenever it seemed as if we were starting to lose touch.

Seemingly unperturbed by my private struggle, the events of my life showed no signs of slowing down. In something of a blur, a new batch of boys arrived. First Josh, born exactly eight days before Steven’s third birthday. That made it officially “three under three”. We took a short break thereafter, but the combination of our desire for a little girl and our strong faith played its part. Moreover, though there were moments when I was battling to keep it all together, I was still fully committed to having a large family. Filled with our still youthful and compelling idealism, we ploughed ahead. Benjy, with his chubby cheeks and thick brown hair, soon arrived on the scene. And not long afterwards, somewhat unexpectedly, twinkly-eyed Daniel made it five.

But the pace of our lives was catching up with me. I was exhausted much of the time, overwhelmed almost all of the time. It didn’t take long before I began to feel trapped by my life and circumstances. I soon recognised it as more than the depression I had struggled with after the previous births. This battle felt longer, tougher and more hopeless than ever before. Everything seemed so precarious, like Humpty Dumpty teetering on the edge of the wall. There were moments when I felt as if I was crawling to safety. There were others when the fear and desperation were so palpable that I sensed I had already fallen over the edge. I continued to hang in there - barely.

September, 2003

The three older boys are sitting patiently at the table waiting for their supper. Six-month old Daniel is screaming in his baby-swing. Benjy is throwing the food off his high-chair tray. I glance at the kitchen clock. 45 minutes until Brian gets home - at the earliest. Stirring the noodles with one hand, I pick up the phone again with the other and hit redial.

“Hendon Practice, can I help you?” chimes the all too familiar voice of the receptionist at our local surgery.

“It’s Terry Rubenstein,” I say for at least the fifth time that day. “Is Dr Zokora available yet?”

“Mrs Rubenstein, this is an NHS practice. And as I think I’ve already explained to you, the doctor is unable to return calls until after 6pm. I’ve left him your messages and I’m sure he’ll get back to you soon.”

“OK, thank you,” I mumble with embarrassment, and put the phone down. My eyes drift back to the clock: 5:27pm. I can’t wait until 6! Don’t they know how desperate I am? I need the doctor to radically up the dosage of my Prozac. Or to prescribe something way stronger. I must anaesthetise the pain. Something, anything. I just need help. Fast.

“Mommy, the noodles are boiling over!” Steven calls out from the table. Returning to the stove, I turn down the flame as water runs over the side of the pot, uttering a silent prayer as I do. “Please, God; just help me get to 6 o’clock.”

What was missing for me throughout this period of my life was an understanding of the nature of the mind. Without this understanding, we tend to become consumed with, and overly attached to, our thinking. This leads to strong feelings that we feel compelled to act upon.

But it doesn’t matter what we are actually thinking about. When we step back from the content of our thinking and the accompanying feelings, we begin to see an opening of potential beyond our current pain. This is the porthole back to a kinder reality.

But that understanding was still a long way away. In the turmoil of my flailing attempts to cope with the circumstances of life, my negative thoughts and feelings were running amok; they were beginning to overwhelm me. Everyone else I knew seemed to be coping. And so was I - in some ways. Most days I functioned OK, yet I couldn’t free myself from the insidious and grim sensation clawing away inside. The slide down a slippery slope had begun, and I was unable to grip any branch to break my fall.

And then everything collided at once. Our nanny walked out on us. In the throes of the chronic digestive disorder which affected all my babies, little Daniel screamed constantly. Four other very young boys clamoured unremittingly for my time and attention. Brian, busy and fulfilled at work, seemed unaware of the extent of my plight. The GP wouldn’t call me back. Medication wasn’t helping. I couldn’t find the right therapist. I felt very alone, a continent away from the friends or family to whom I could have turned for help.

The ominous maelstrom of desperate thoughts swirling inside my head frightened and alarmed me. I was 29 years old with five children. What choice did I have but to stagger along? Like a condemned woman waiting for the executioner, powerless to alter my fate, I quietly swallowed my Prozac and tried not to fall too hard or too fast.

February, 2004

I can hear my son’s voice but he seems so far away. My eyes are open but I cannot see clearly. Another one of the boys is calling me but I cannot respond. No part of me is able to move. No part of me wants to move. All I feel is pain - the deepest, most searing pain. I can do nothing to relieve it. So I just lie - and wait...

Brian is calling my name. He is here now. But it doesn’t help. It can’t help. The pain is too great. It ravages like waves of intense contractions. There is nothing I can do, he can do, anyone can do, to stop it. I resisted for as long as I could, but it has finally worn me down. My body is healthy, but my heart and soul feel broken.

My eyes flew open, then close. A grave-faced, middle-aged man is looking down at me. He has a white coat. It occurs to me that this is a hospital and I am the patient. But patients can be helped, healed. Not me. The pain feels as if it has always been here. It will always be here.

I catch a glimpse of myself in a hospital mirror. I barely recognise the woman staring back. Her usually olive-toned complexion has taken on a disturbing pallor: taut skin stretched across a gaunt face. I notice black lines under once bright green eyes. The face is mine - Terry’s. But I’m not sure who that person is anymore.

Brian’s face is etched with concern. He looks terrible. I am asked a question by the doctor:

“How do we know you will be OK? How can we be sure you won’t do anything to harm yourself?”

I find the strength to ignore the pain for a moment. And to resist giving the answer he wants. So I say something that I never thought I would:

“You don’t,” I reply petulantly. “I have choices.”

And with that, I collapse back onto the stiff hospital bed, back into a mind full of confusion and misunderstanding.

“The fly, trapped in the bottle, bangs its head against the glass, trying to find a way out. The one thing it fails to do is to look up. The Godly soul within us is the force that makes us look up, beyond the physical world, beyond mere survival.”

Former Chief Rabbi, Lord Jonathan Sacks

2.

Emerging Into The Light

When it is Dark Enough, You Can See the Stars

I had reached my lowest ebb. Yet to my surprise, within days of returning home from my brief time in hospital, something shifted. Although there was no rational reason, I was filled with an underlying sense of peace. I had endured a very traumatic period in my life and there was nothing obvious in my future indicating that things would be different. Yet I felt different. My circumstances had not changed, but in the blackness of the night, it had become dark enough to see the stars.

This sense of peace was deeply reassuring. I intuitively grasped that there was a place within me independent of anything that was happening in my life at that moment - psychologically, physically or on any level. Over the next few weeks this feeling gradually faded. But the glimmer of hope that it offered stayed with me. Not in an obvious way, yet it was there, somewhere beneath the surface. It was comforting to know that innately within a person, deeper than the conscious mind, lies a profound feeling of peace. It was something that I would come to realise as a fact only later.

Heavy clouds were hovering over my life, but in the midst of that intense, paralysing bleakness, a flier of light had come shining through. That glimpse of hope would be critical: the next few months would prove to be an unpredictable roller coaster. There was still much confusion I needed to sift through in the recesses of my mind before those stars would shine brightly - and stay shining.

June, 2004

I stare vacantly at the framed graduation certificates on Dr Roberts’ wall. We are here for our regular appointment, a monthly check-up to assess how I’m feeling, how the medication is working, how I’m sleeping, what other options could be explored. It’s been over a year since I started on the most recent course of meds. There are brief periods when I feel some improvement, such as the days immediately following my return home from hospital. But overall I don’t really feel as if I am getting better. It’s been a long time. Too long.

Meanwhile the meds are affecting me in all kinds of strange ways. I feel jittery and forgetful and detached. I definitely can’t laugh, but I can’t cry either. I don’t remember the last time I felt an emotion deeply. Most of the time, I feel very little at all. I am becoming a ghost, invisible, slowly disappearing.

Brian is asking questions again - he is full of them - so I take the opportunity to slip quietly back from where I came. Inside my head, I don’t really hear these two men in dark suits and serious tones discussing my life. But try as I might, I can’t shut them out entirely, especially when Brian gently squeezes my hand and asks:

“Terry, are you listening? We’ve got some important decisions to make about your medication.”

I chide myself to keep quiet for a moment so I can attend to their conversation, though if I had a rolling pin on hand right now, it would be aimed at my husband’s head.

“Well, I think we need to stick with the diazepam to address your anxiety for at least another few months,” Dr Roberts declares.

“I know the side effects are quite disturbing and that your body is very sensitive to the drugs, but we should persist. It will help to stabilise your moods and curb your anxious feelings. And if that doesn’t work, we can look at returning to the more traditional anti-depressants like fluoxetine or sertraline. We can also continue with the temazepam to help your sleeping, although there is always the option of a mild tranquilizer like buspirone. Of course, as you know, each of these drugs offer different benefits and comes with a range of side effects, so we’ll have to continue to monitor everything and experiment a bit to see what works best for you. But don’t worry; I’m sure we’ll get it right over time.”

Don’t worry! Is he joking? Never mind that I feel I need a PhD in pharmacology to understand what the psychiatrist is saying. Of course I’m worried! That’s the whole reason I’m here, isn’t it? I’m anxious and depressed and experiencing sudden mood changes and barely sleeping. It might be the doctor’s job to keep me well-informed, but this guy could do with some serious work on his bedside manner.

Knowing that’s unlikely, I retreat back inside myself. Alone with my own dark thoughts, a terrifying image appears: a woman is walking down a long, lonely, empty road. That person is me... but not really. She is a shell, an outer wrapping. Very little is left inside. No spark, no soul.

I have glimpsed my future. If I listen to the doctor and Brian and what well-meaning, sensible people are saying, this is who I will become. My life is already about drugs and psychiatrists and side effects and therapists and new courses of trial medication. I’m heading down a path of stronger and more powerful drugs that I might be taking for a long time - maybe for the rest of my life. I am becoming a well medicated chronic depressant.

The doctor glances at his watch and coughs slightly, indicating our time is up. So we head for the door, promising to make an appointment with his secretary for a month’s time.

I am quiet all the way home. Brian tries to engage, discuss how I thought the appointment went - anything to get me to come out of my head. But I cannot vanquish the terrifying image of a heavily medicated, emotionally numb Terry from my mind. Is this going to be the narrative of my life?

A radical thought begins to take root. Right there in the very midst of the darkness, I catch a glimpse of the stars again. They are tantalisingly far away, so elusive. But they are bright and beautiful and illuminate my pathway. I can see them now.

As we turn into the driveway and Brian removes the key from the ignition, I grab his arm.

“Wait!” I almost shout. “I need to say something. Don’t judge me and don’t interrupt. Just listen. OK?”

He nods slowly, too startled to object. I take advantage of the opening.

“Maybe I don’t need all of this. Maybe this isn’t really helping me. I don’t even know anymore what’s making me feel so bad: is it the depression and the anxiety, or the sleeping problems and the other side effects? I think it’s time to test what happens if I give the meds a break for awhile. I want to see what it feels like without all of these drugs, so I can assess where I’m really at. I’m losing myself, Brian. I need to feel me again. I need to find Terry. And if it doesn’t work, I’ll give up and hand myself back to the doctors.”

There is a moment of stunned silence. The only sound I hear is the thumping of my heart against my chest. Then Brian shifts his body towards me in the car seat. Taking my hand and giving me his most gentle, loving look, Brian says: “Terry, I don’t know about that. It’s a very big, risky step to stop taking your meds. And I’m sure Dr Roberts won’t think it’s a good idea.”

He pauses for just a moment as a more determined expression crosses his face.

“But I know you, I can see how certain you are about this. I trust you. I trust your clarity and conviction. This is an incredibly courageous call on your part. But if this is the way you think we need to go, if you are so sure this is the pathway for you to get better, let’s do it. I’ll support you in this decision. I’ll always support you. We’ll work it out.”

Unconditioned Mind

The decision to drop my medication stands out as a pivotal moment in my journey towards health. But this decision was far more significant than going off all the drugs, though that was exactly what I did. For the first time in a long while, I deviated from the route carved out by my doctors, one that looked responsible from the perspective of society and its cultural norms. I had stepped into a different place inside of myself, connecting with what felt true to me. It was a place I would come to call “formless”; a place that was not already known, tried and tested. I had peeked into a lucky dip and discovered a precious treasure, a new way of moving forward.

Intuitively, I was learning to touch a deeper “knowing” that was there to guide me. I found myself drawing on an intelligence which I would later come to understand, trust and deeply respect. I had stumbled onto the unlimited possibilities of the unconditioned mind. It was one of the most important discoveries I would ever make.

I would not have called this an insight at the time, but I know it as such now. You realise it’s an insight when a new thought occurs that feels so intrinsically right you can trust it completely and unconditionally. Amplified by the accompanying feelings of lightness, freedom and clarity, I experienced no doubt or uncertainty about coming off my meds. No rational thinking accompanies insight since it originates from a source that transcends the intellect. It comes from the soul.

Within the fertile expanse of the unconditioned mind, insight emerges as a benevolent gift which resonates with a deep truth and certainty.

I would not necessarily advocate such a drastic measure for others struggling with their own mental health issues. It would be presumptuous of me to give advice regarding their medication and choices. The good doctor and Brian’s reservations were well-founded and understandable, but I went with what felt right to me at the time. And I am so grateful that I did.

Unlike Dickens’ Pip, I didn’t have great expectations. I knew I would struggle. I understood that I would experience withdrawal; that in coming off the meds I might suffer increased anxiety, exhaustion and fluctuating moods. With great effort, I managed to purge myself from a reliance on sleeping pills. It felt like a huge victory every time my body fell asleep of its own volition, even for a short while. I cut out the caffeine. I started to eat better. I read uplifting books and listened to inspiring talks. I became increasingly curious about the human experience. I was fascinated that some people seemed to go through life effortlessly, as if it was theirs for the taking. What was it that they knew that was still hidden from me?

It would be wonderful to imagine that I sailed through the next period of my life. But I didn’t. Confusion, doubt and fear did not simply fly south for the winter. The following six months were full of ups and downs, and everything in between. There were times when I felt dreadfully low, and almost buckled. Having dispensed with the psychiatrist and his scripts, I was isolated and exposed.

But I had decided to back myself and so I stayed the course. I wanted to give myself a chance to find the healthy me, the Terry underneath the layers of confusion and medicine-induced haze. Who knew what she would look like when she finally surfaced? My intuition was so strong and true I could not ignore it. And as the haze started to lift, I began to feel clearer, less isolated and more connected to life.

Over time, I noticed that it took less of life to satisfy me. It used to feel as if I could drink a river and still be left with an unquenchable thirst. Now, I could be filled by very little. Whether it was being in the car with the kids, chatting with comparative strangers or spending time in nature, I began to encounter a richer yet simpler experience of all aspects of existence. In meeting myself again, I discovered the joy and security of what I would later come to know as the “inside-out nature of life”.

I rejoiced in being able to cry and laugh again, and to feel a range of emotions - anger, pain, elation, sadness, serenity. As my soul started to awaken, I knew I was coming back to life. It was still very tough going, but I couldn’t deny that I was more hopeful than I’d been in a long time. I was healing, slowly, but there was a lot more work to be done.

And fortunately, a helper was on his way...

November, 2004

Chris slouches in his armchair, his heavy eyelids closed. I can’t tell if he is awake or asleep. He has neither spoken, nor looked at me for at least fifteen minutes. I shift uncomfortably on the soft couch reserved for his patients. I’ve been telling him how exhausted I am; how much I’m struggling day to day; how anxious it all makes me feel. And just as I’m about to give up on him, he swings one long leg over the other, runs a hand through his thinning grey hair, and shuffles forward in his chair. Opening his light blue eyes which sparkle in a way that belies his 60 odd years, he finally speaks:

“Oh, so you’re feeling overwhelmed. Well, you’ve got five young kids, so that makes a lot of sense to me. I can see that.”

I want to shoot Chris. He really irritates me sometimes. But I also know, at this precise moment, why I keep coming to this cramped, stuffy Belsize Park consulting room twice a week - not to mention the added difficulty of having to navigate North West London’s arcane parking restrictions. He doesn’t need to fix me or save me. He doesn’t take my intense introspective thinking too seriously. Ironic as it may sound for a person surfacing from depression, I am coming to recognise that this approach may be exactly what I need.

February, 2005

“I feel like such a failure,” I sob, burying my face in my hands.

Chris looks at me with those penetrating blue eyes, a quizzical expression on his face. “I don’t really get it,” he says with a straight face, though I don’t believe him.

I stifle another sob and respond with a noticeable tinge of frustration and self-loathing in my voice.

“I know I’m not a good enough mother. And the same goes for me as a wife, never mind everything else I seem to be getting wrong in my life. I know I can do better and I’m not. I’m just letting myself and everyone else down.”

Chris continues to stare at me impassively. And in that moment, I realise he really doesn’t get it. He just doesn’t do guilt. Period. He can’t relate to what I am saying because it’s simply not in his frame of reference.

Chris is clever enough to see that I have developed an ideal image of who I should be. But in his world, there is no benefit to be gained by pursuing an idealised self. He recognises that inevitably this will lead to a sense of failure. He understands I am twining a noose around my neck, slowly strangling my inner well-being. Yet his lack of concern for my chronic guilt shocks me. It is hard to believe that anyone could be so uninterested in a pattern of behaviour I had painstakingly cultivated for so long.

In the past I would have argued my case, explained how and why guilt serves me. But this time, something different occurs. We sit in silence and a deep feeling of stillness envelops me. Chris’s indifference is a catalyst for my own curiosity.

And then I see it. I don’t have to do guilt either. It’s not useful to me; it’s not serving me in any helpful way. I can drop it now, if I really wish. I can finally let go of this whole notion of my ideal self. I can because I have choices. So I drop the guilt, just like that.

I never did return to guilt as the strategic pathway to reaching my “ideal self”. That snake was no longer coiled around me.

My sessions with Chris gave me the space to talk, to filter and to sift through my thinking. And what he did uniquely well was not to take my thinking too seriously. My habitual thinking was all about drama and intensity. But that had no impact on him; it failed to register. He would just slouch back in his chair, tilt his head slightly to the side, and continue to listen and speak and listen some more. There was almost a blithe disinterest in what I was sharing. Whatever was going on inside my own fluctuating drama, he remained outwardly and impassively indifferent to it.

The intensity of what was going on inside my mind had always carried considerable weight for me. I was accustomed to attributing great value to my thoughts, transforming them from neutral ideas into highly potent weapons that framed my feelings and the entire quality of my experience.

Now, for the first time, guided by Chris’ reactions, I started to question my own constant stream of noise and commentary. He gave a fresh perspective to all my ongoing internal chatter, helping me to see that there were shades of light, not just darkness.

We experience our thinking as real to us. It appears as fact rather than what it is - just transitory thought. We misunderstand its role, attaching too much importance to our thinking, and in so doing, turn it into a force with far too great an influence.

I was reluctant to let go of old thinking. Yet I could now acknowledge it wasn’t serving me. As I began to access something deep within, I found I could release powerful and intense feelings that had held me captive for a long time. The “old” me was habitually drawn to bleakness, to the belief that there was something fundamentally wrong with me. But as we spoke about the choices I had, something began to shift. I no longer felt quite as stuck, trapped by circumstances.

Often, it was less about what Chris said in our sessions and more about my listening. I was discovering that, if I listened deeply enough, I could hear the meaning behind the words, something that transcended what was being said. It was as if I had a built-in barometer that lit up every time I heard truth, guiding me towards my own wisdom. As I stepped outside my preconditioned mind, I became far more interested and curious about what I didn’t know than learning more about what I did know. I was digging up the tangled weeds that stifled my mind, leaving space in the rich, fertile soil for new understanding to germinate.

This “learning state” was not unique to me. We are all designed to constantly learn and evolve. It is a natural state of mind that is available to everyone. And suddenly it had opened up for me.

After two years of twice weekly therapy with Chris, it was time to move on. I was a different person by then, sensing I could see beyond our conversations, delighting in exploring fresh horizons and discovering parts of myself previously beyond my reach. I felt great potential flowing through me. I was beginning to see a future of countless possibilities previously hidden. I was ready... ready to emerge from the darkness for good.

Extraordinary Potential of the Human Spirit

Throughout this challenging rollercoaster period, Brian was extremely supportive. At a time when our marriage could have been placed under incredible strain, we felt closer than ever before, allies in the joint battle to win back my well-being and mental health. But Brian risked all that when he bought me a gym membership - not exactly my idea of a “get well soon” gift! At first I was resentful; I immediately assumed he had an issue with my weight, which had gone up again as a side-effect of the meds - and hadn’t yet come down. But I got over my reaction soon enough, and since he dropped me outside the gym most days, I didn’t have much choice: the ageing public library right next door was even less appealing!

July, 2005

A new phase in my recovery has begun. While the stationary bicycle and cross-trainer quickly emerged as my go-to apparatus, there is one machine from which I have steadfastly kept my distance. I am terrified to step on to one of the hulking treadmills looming ominously like a menacing monster waiting to chew me up and spit me out onto the linoleum floor. I have never tried running before - at least not if it isn’t in the direction of a NEXT Boxing Day sale - and don’t intend to start now.

But over the past few years, I have faced immigration and multiple child births. I have trodden the path of isolation, depression and chronic anxiety. So in a sudden moment of clarity, I decide I am not going to be stopped at this stage by a continuously rolling black rubber mat and a couple of oddly shaped handle-bars!

I clamber onto one of the “monsters” and get going, one step after another after another, gradually building up my speed and intensity. Legs pumping, the adrenaline coursing through me, I find myself thinking:

I don’t know anything about how to contend with life and how to be in the world. All my techniques and strategies have failed. My depression has brought me to my knees. I am like a new-born baby who needs to learn from scratch. I need a detox - not to clear my system of medication - but to empty my mind of its tangled, intense and overly-attached thinking.

And I am also discovering that I’m really enjoying this running thing. Surprisingly, I’m pretty good at it. Who knows what else might fall into that category if I’m just willing to give it a try?

The treadmill experience was indicative of a new openness and humility now forming the basis of my psychological and spiritual functioning. I had always considered myself humble, but in truth I wasn’t. Although shy, I was full of my own ego without even being aware of it. My crowded thoughts focussing on myself had left very little room for humility. This newly discovered humility offered me a surprising glimpse of the infinite pool of resources available to me: the extraordinary potential of the human mind.

Nine months after that decisive first day on the treadmill in the high street gym, Brian bundled me and my pink Asics trainers into the car one crisp January morning and drove us down to Regent’s Park Inner Circle. Pointing smugly at the path, he blithely declared: “Come on, let’s run!”

So I started to run. And I ran and ran. We lived less than a brisk fifteen minutes from the magnificent Heath, so at every available opportunity, I found myself there, loping along with the Labradors and well-groomed Hampstead ladies under the wizened branches of those splendid oak trees. I felt the endorphins flowing through me and, fuelled by the power of my own mind, I discovered I could run for long periods over almost any terrain and in any conditions. I did not just become fit. I fell in love with running.

When I returned from these uplifting journeys of both body and spirit, Brian would ask me which route I had taken and how far I had run. He would then proceed to interrogate me about how much liquid I had drunk, how undulating the paths were and what the weather had been like. My answers were invariably vague, a direct consequence of my notoriously poor sense of direction and almost comical inability to discern distances. So I would resort to saying:

“Well, I ran from the house and kind of ended up going past the Whittington Hospital, and then landed up in Highgate Village, and sort of got to the top of Parliament Hill somehow. And then I got a bit lost on the way back so I ended up going round the Heath an extra time or so. But I made it back eventually just before the kids got home from school. I think I ran for a couple of hours at least.”

Brian would just stare at me with his mouth open and a look of bewilderment on his face, before managing to ask: “Are you serious? Aren’t your legs killing you?” Inwardly, he was probably contemplating for the first time in a long while whether we should go back to see the grave-faced psychiatrist. It’s important to record here that around the same time as my extensive excursions to Highgate Village and beyond, he was already the veteran of three London marathons. So Brian’s incredulity was justified in his mind based on years of experience as a long distance runner.

But here’s the thing: when I was out there running, I didn’t notice or think about any of these considerations. I knew nothing about running. It didn’t matter to me if it was raining or not; it didn’t occur to me that I needed to drink every few miles; it was not even in the realm of my consciousness to worry about the undulating nature of the route. I had no preconceived ideas about running. Instead, I relied on my instinct and common sense. As I said - I just ran...

Until I started training with my loving husband, that is. As the so-called expert (let’s face it: the competition wasn’t that stiff), Brian attempted to school me in the art of running. And as we began running long distances together, an amazing thing happened: I began to notice steep inclines and bad weather. I started to calculate how far I was actually running, and worry about whether my legs would manage the distance. One day I was bounding up Fitzjohn’s Avenue leaving Brian for dead in the pounding rain, as if I didn’t have a care in the world (that was such a special moment!); the next day I was dry-mouthed and desperate to reach the summit of a steep hill while fretting over my dripping gear and soaking trainers. Where I had once run ten miles and more without hesitation, I now found these long runs playing on my mind and my body.

What changed - other than the addition of a somewhat unwanted training partner? The distances were no different. My capability, physiology and motivation were the same. London’s weather definitely hadn’t worsened. But when I reflect upon all that I now know concerning the way we construct our internal experience, the answer was obvious: my thinking about running had changed. Just as my Asics trainers strode a path through the streets of London, so too was my thinking leading the way, forming an impression of my moment to moment experience.

Unbeknownst to me, thoughts about running had snuck into my consciousness, creating a new reality around this once quite simple endeavour. What had until then come naturally and spontaneously was now increasingly subject to various considerations and calculations. Some of the sheer joy and sense of freedom that running had given me dissipated. The carefree runner who simply laced up her trainers and hit the road, to return when she felt like, was in danger of being replaced by a more automated, less natural version.

But I was learning to appreciate the source of these limitations. I grasped that Brian’s thinking didn’t have to be mine. I could have my own thoughts and my own experience of running. Ever since that critical decision to come off my meds, I had learned to trust myself: my common sense, my intuition, my inner wisdom. It was so liberating to find this confidence in my own mind. So with the greatest of respect to my superstar athlete husband, the next time we went for a long run together... I pretty much ignored him! And in so doing, I revelled in the sheer joy and freedom of a new part of myself that had been dormant for so long.

June, 2006

I feel the sweat trickling down my back, my soaking shirt clinging uncomfortably to my skin. My breath comes in short, staggered bursts. My legs are like jelly. My back is aching and my head throbbing. I cannot see the path clearly; I am uncertain which way to go. It is dark overhead but I must press on. I have very little left to give, but I cannot give up now.

And then, just as I wonder how much longer I can keep going, I burst through the thick, encircling canvas of enormous ancient oaks and into the exquisite sunlight. I come to a halt and take in the immense beauty of the moment. Gazing at the magnificent vista before me, I am profoundly moved. I cannot recall feeling more at peace than at this moment, amongst the pristine rolling hills and towering trees of one of London’s most glorious places. Hampstead Heath has never looked more beautiful.

The solitude and serenity that surround me touch my soul deeply. I’m tired and lost and sweaty and aching all over-I must have run at least ten miles already-but the feeling of wholeness welling up within is irrepressible. I sit down on the soft grass and turn my face towards the sun, towards the light.

A Common Thread

Life had settled into a fairly stable routine. Daniel had just turned four and was now in kindergarten for much of the day. As a result, I had more time to myself than I could ever remember - in fact, since Steven, our firstborn, had arrived on the scene almost seven years back. This gave me the freedom and mental space to explore whatever felt right for me.

At the same time as I was developing my love affair with pounding the pavements, I was also reading voraciously. I consumed any book I could lay my hands on about recovery from depression, abuse, illness, or any form of loss or personal ordeal. I was fascinated by stories of overcoming adversity, of immense accomplishment in the face of overwhelming odds. I was yearning to understand how people acquired the capacity to transcend their suffering and trying circumstances. My curiosity was that of a thirsty child, not readily sated. I didn’t yet have all the answers, but I was greatly interested in those who did.

So while I ran and read, reflected and recovered, I perceived a common thread at work. Not the little things people discovered about themselves nor the individual insights, but something more far-reaching, a level of consciousness that we all share: the universal power of the human spirit.

Each of us has the potential to transcend our limited thinking, to reach a place of being that exists independently of our experience and circumstance.

We are able to elevate ourselves to higher spheres of functioning whatever our background, upbringing, physical limitations, education, financial status, or other external factors. This potential is not unique to any one type of person. It was available to me. And it is available to us all.

November, 2006

Standing in front of our full-length mirror, I adjust my blouse one last time. A second later, Brian comes bursting into our bedroom.

“Come on Te, we’re going to be late. The dinner starts in a few minutes and ...”

“Don’t I look beautiful?” I interrupt my husband mid-sentence.

Brian looks at me in sheer bewilderment. Not because I do-or don’t look beautiful - but because he has never heard me utter those words. They are simply not in the lexicon of the woman he has been married to for twelve years.

“Um, yeah, you look lovely sweetie,” he mumbles.

“Thanks. Now come on, stop standing there with that strange expression on your face. Let’s get going.”

I grab my coat off the dresser stool and glide past my speechless husband. And as I make my way downstairs, I smile to myself. I do feel beautiful. It is deeply gratifying to know that I can say something about myself - to myself - that I have never said before.

I love the new me that is emerging and I know that Brian does too.

I was returning to a place where I had started off as an infant. A place of quiet and wholeness. A place of purity of mind and purity of soul, where I felt vitally alive and deeply connected. And come one morning, I just knew that I was fully healed. The depth of feeling was so profound. I felt at peace. I felt the beauty of the world. I felt healthy, complete and full of gratitude.

And I fell head over heels in love with myself and the universe.

1 Part I recounts key moments in my story. It is not my intention to write a complete memoir filled with copious biographical details. I share only those pivotal recollections and formative events that will enable you to appreciate the fundamental misunderstandings that informed my first 29 years. But stay with me: the insights that overturned those misunderstandings, which led to a completely different experience of life, come later.