Combat Is The Only Survival Mode I Know

And why I want this to change

Are you multi-resilient?

One of these individuals whose journey has been made of many hurdles, failures, griefs, and recoveries. And life is a long-haul struggle prompting physical and mental pain, streams of silent tears, and tight jaws hidden behind smiles. Are you one of these strong characters who seek respect in their boundless ability and apparent facility to bounce back?

I am one of them.

My life is full of bloody stories, painted in haemoglobin-red.

What does not kill me makes me stronger — Friedrich Nietzsche (Twilight of the Idols)

I am alive. I am strong. However, not sure how to be happy when life doesn’t send more reasons to fight — just yet!

Forever, I have been shining in a non-natural version of myself, a splendid manifestation of the Intricate Duality of Life. I am a combatant, though fighting hardly drove me halfway through where I wanted to go. I take reflection as a more reliable weapon.

Plus, I dread fighting. Combat is not my mode. It makes me sing out of tune. But it’s the only key I can play.

I turned 40 last year. A few weeks before my birthday, a substantial wave of desperation hit my back at the less-expected time. For as far as I could remember, I never had a more fulfilled life: a happy marriage, healthy daughters, a good job, a large and lovely house. We were touching home from a summer trip around Canadian lakes, forests, and the invigorating views over the St. Lawrence River. My hands were full of happiness and easiness. Something I had been craving for years.

Cause, yeah! I told you, I had rough times back in the days. Listing them wouldn’t make any sense and waste your time. So I sorted them, 3 fights against and 2 for.

• Against disability and subsequent issues like deep bone suffering. (Here is a story about overcoming pain). This box contains everything from multiple surgeries — starting when age counted in weeks and devastating many vacation seasons overtime — uncertainties of the future, and unequal opportunities comparing to non-disabled kids.
• Against difference and mental health issues which trigger low self-esteem, anxiety, and unclear self-definition and identity. Plus, a severe need for others’ approval.
• Against severance, including my parents’ divorce when I was 5 and my sister-in-law’s death when she was 22. Life is painfully mischievous at times. And delivers intolerable grief shortly after a tremendous bliss. Her accident befell less than 90 days after I climbed the Paralympic podium in Beijing.
• To achieve performance in my studies first, then in sports. I reached the top of wheelchair tennis international rankings and grabbed two Paralympic medals plus a few Grand Slams titles.
• To achieve maternity and its massive cost. We talk of 3 years, here. 12 hormonal therapies, 100+ self-administered shots in my belly and thighs, 6 I.U.I procedures and 4 I.V.F. One miscarriage and an ectopic pregnancy later, I gave birth to a beautiful pair of babies, with whom I fell in love in a second. Though, twins-parenting feels like a combat sport sometimes, especially when one of them has respiratory issues. We added aerosol-device-snuggles to our family routine, and off we went.

Ask my entourage. My mother will swear, I am a smiling warrior. I have incredible resources to overcome adversity and help those around me.

Many blocked artists are powerful and creative people who have been made to feel guilty about their own strengths and gifts. Without being acknowledged, they are often used as batteries by their families and friends, who feel free to both use their creative energies and disparage them. Julia Cameron (The Artist’s Way, 1992)

Multi-resilient people are like blocked artists. We are often used as batteries. We are strong. The mighty ones. We look unbreakable. We can take it all. And, we don’t even believe in our extraordinary powers.

The pattern is dangerous, though, as our true selves are rarely acknowledged — a lack of recognition which channels to a need for approval. The need for approval sustains the energy devoted to the combat. Repeat.

Most of us also develop an Impostor Syndrome concealing guilt, insecurity, or shame about our self-strength behind a determined face. We are seen as courageous, but this courage lies on weak grounds. Our resources’ stream seems endless, but we are craving comfort and safety — comfort and security that scares the hell out of us.

I know it sounds insane. We are complicated characters. We call for help, but we are embedded in a sort of LockedIn Syndrome. We don’t believe any healing hand exists for us. We don’t think we deserve to be rescued anyway.

There’s no way out of the combat mode because of the evil voice singing in our head. “Others are more miserable. Their difficulties are much more demanding than mine. I can’t complain. I must help. Let’s keep fighting.”

This is how it works. This is how combat is the only mode I have known for my entire life. And why I am lost when there’s no hurdle ahead of me. My identity is challenged. I feel dead inside.

You know the darkness always turns into light — Coldplay (What If)

Almost 40, then. There was light everywhere in my life — no more clouds. My Grand-Father, a pilot in WWII, was right: the sun always shines beyond the clouds. What if I don’t fancy blue skies? What if I can’t bear summer for the rest of my life?

I was unable to navigate calm seas. Somewhere in my head, I heard this music, you know, the one playing in action movies when something naughty is about to happen.

I started to feel hopeless and pointless, feeding the not-enough-inner-voice day after day. I was selfish for not helping others enough. Articulating a simple “no” was beyond my reach, as were drawing personal plans and granting me self-love and time for self.

Early menopause saved me. It was planted under the Xmas tree a month before my 40th. No fancy wrapping. I endured hot flushes, stubborn weeping, insomnia, exhaustion, and stress — a perimenopausal depression my family couldn’t understand. The battery had run out of power. Period.

On January 2nd, I crashed with my blood-test results at my bewildered doctor. You’re far too young, was his opening line. He then gathered himself and cracked a joke about not having the periods’ load when you don’t want any more babies. Eventually, he took his prescription book and offered me my first H.R.T. (Hormonal Replacement Therapy). Happy Birthday! He saved my life and mental health.

As the symptoms erratically decreased, I welcomed this new fight as the last one. I had to get over the early menopause. And grow out of it.

A new sense of purpose arose as I had, one more time, something to survive and to figure out. An identity to dress in, after all the challenges I had put on before. I, the disabled. I, the athlete. I, the understanding wife. I, the incapable mother, then the mother of twins. I now was the “Yes, already!” one. Somehow it was comforting my fighting-spirited mind.

H.R.T. is colossal support for perimenopausal women. It’s not magical, though. As my boat was tossed up and down, I did my research. Connected with other women. Read essays and studies. I discovered that self-awareness, self-love, and mental peace were the best weapons to embrace this new life era.

I had to let go of the fighting mode.

I had to get to know me better and to love me. I mean, my true self, not the warrior. I had to cherish the exhausted and scared little girl inside. The one who used to think she was a freak.

I turned insomnia in early gym sessions, an hour or two before the household called for its semaphore. Working out in a much softer way than my athlete-self used to do, helped me cope with maternity relishes, the weight, and the flabby body. I changed the way I eat, lost 20 pounds. Along that way, I recovered an image of myself strong enough to acknowledge my need for protection. Meditation has entered my daily routines too.

I am not there yet. Out of the combat mode, I mean. But I am ready to embrace my flaws. I now see the pattern and know the way I don’t want to walk down anymore. Opening up sometimes grants me understanding. Sometimes, not. That’s ok. I can’t blame people for wanting my help. I can only blame myself for forgetting myself in the process.

Most of all, I am ready to let the little girl raise her voice. Your story matters, that’s all I have to tell her.

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I am a writer, speaker, Paralympian, mother of twins, and constant dreamer. I earned bronze in singles and doubles in Beijing 2008 as a wheelchair tennis player.