[Mental Health] Mental Illness is Practice
Hey All,
Today (well, yesterday, March 27, 2024) marks my 1 year anniversary of coming home from a 33 day stay in the psych ward. I wasn’t well. I was in an awful place mentally. It had come to a point where I needed to be monitored 24/7 for my own safety. I had an entire team of medical professionals doing what they could.
While I was there, I practiced Zazen. Actually, practice became a very big part in my continued recovery. I sat Zazen on my bed until I was allowed to have my cushion. I made a sign that I would tape on my door each day letting the medical staff know that I was sitting (they all came into my room anyway!).
I had daily 1-2 hour long therapy sessions that were mentally draining. My doctors knew I was Buddhist and that it was a big part of my life. During these therapy sessions they would often ask me about my practice and what Buddha would do/handle whatever we would be talking about. Sometimes I could give a guess while other days I didn’t care.
I had a lot of time to think while I was hospitalized. I thought about my wife, my friends, my practice. I wondered if I would ever get better and be able to go home. I missed home dearly. I missed waking up in my own bed. I missed eating my wife’s amazing cooking. I missed our fur baby family.
As the days went by I did everything that my doctors asked of me: I participated and completed programs, I attended groups, I took changing medications, I tore my heart open and shared my deepest fears inside of my head.
And slowly, I began feeling just a bit better. Of course not perfect. Hell, I still take all sorts of medications for mental illnesses to this day and I might have to for the rest of my life.
But something that never changed despite everything around me changing, including my own brain chemistry, was my resolve to practice. Practice was inside of my veins, inside my heart. The Dharma continues to be with me and, occasionally, holds my hand when I can’t get out of bed.
Practice is my life. My life is practice. The psych ward was my practice. I didn’t see it at the time but I do now.
Mental illness is my practice.
I think it always has been-I simply refused to acknowledge what was right in front of me.
Gasshō,
On
Today (well, yesterday, March 27, 2024) marks my 1 year anniversary of coming home from a 33 day stay in the psych ward. I wasn’t well. I was in an awful place mentally. It had come to a point where I needed to be monitored 24/7 for my own safety. I had an entire team of medical professionals doing what they could.
While I was there, I practiced Zazen. Actually, practice became a very big part in my continued recovery. I sat Zazen on my bed until I was allowed to have my cushion. I made a sign that I would tape on my door each day letting the medical staff know that I was sitting (they all came into my room anyway!).
I had daily 1-2 hour long therapy sessions that were mentally draining. My doctors knew I was Buddhist and that it was a big part of my life. During these therapy sessions they would often ask me about my practice and what Buddha would do/handle whatever we would be talking about. Sometimes I could give a guess while other days I didn’t care.
I had a lot of time to think while I was hospitalized. I thought about my wife, my friends, my practice. I wondered if I would ever get better and be able to go home. I missed home dearly. I missed waking up in my own bed. I missed eating my wife’s amazing cooking. I missed our fur baby family.
As the days went by I did everything that my doctors asked of me: I participated and completed programs, I attended groups, I took changing medications, I tore my heart open and shared my deepest fears inside of my head.
And slowly, I began feeling just a bit better. Of course not perfect. Hell, I still take all sorts of medications for mental illnesses to this day and I might have to for the rest of my life.
But something that never changed despite everything around me changing, including my own brain chemistry, was my resolve to practice. Practice was inside of my veins, inside my heart. The Dharma continues to be with me and, occasionally, holds my hand when I can’t get out of bed.
Practice is my life. My life is practice. The psych ward was my practice. I didn’t see it at the time but I do now.
Mental illness is my practice.
I think it always has been-I simply refused to acknowledge what was right in front of me.
Gasshō,
On
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