The Way of Seeking Mind

The Way of Seeking Mind

By Alexandra Yurin Geller

I suffered from severe panic attacks secondary to traumatic life events for many years. The way these attacks would manifest themselves was terrifying: I would get heart palpitations, shortness of breath, shake violently, and become completely dissociated from the world around me. It made me feel like I was losing control. All I wanted to do was escape my pain. I didn’t even want to exist in my own body.

Another aspect of my disease was a phenomenon called agoraphobia; meaning certain places where I had previously suffered a panic attack before would consistently trigger another panic attack in me. I recall one of those places was a classroom at my veterinary nursing school. It was one of my favorite classes. I would try and sit through the lecture, but inevitably, I would suffer a severe panic attack so I’d grab my backpack and run out of the room. I couldn’t even sit in a class I loved, in a place that inspired me, because I was so uncomfortable in my own skin. Eventually the Agoraphobia started bleeding into previously comfortable spaces like my work and even rooms in my home; I really never felt safe.

I spent a lot of time in the emergency room or even sitting in the parking lot outside because I was sure something terrible was about to happen with my health. I began drinking a lot when I felt anxious, trying to numb out. Unfortunately, that only provided me with temporary relief, and the backlash was tenfold. It was a viscous cycle. I began to wonder if life was even worth living and how I could possibly continue to bare the pain of human existence. After exhausting a lot of options with pharmaceuticals, psycho-therapy, and my own self-medicating, I started seeing an acupuncturist named Alexander Love. I didn’t know this at the time, but Alexander’s mission is to illuminate the purpose behind our pain, and rather than take his patients’ pain away, he teaches them to hold it within their hearts- a place where compassion becomes the center of existence. Alexander would actually use acupuncture needles to trigger my sympathetic nervous system, mimicking a panic attack.

At first, I wanted to fly off the table. How could this person who I’m trusting with my care cause me to feel this uncomfortable? Allow me to shake violently on their table and do nothing to help? As I cried and suffered and wanted to run away, he gently held my hand and told me to “stay.” He was teaching me in the safety of this space to be fully present with the physical and mental discomfort of a panic attack. This was my first taste of what it’s like to get the rug ripped out from under me, so to speak, and settling into that groundlessness.

Now, if only I could say that’s when I figured it all out and became enlightened and lived happily ever after! What I can say, however, is that learning to stay with discomfort had planted a deeply rooted seed, one which will always be there and from which formed the basis of what my practice is today. This seed lay latent inside me for several years. My panic attacks were better, I had moved to San Diego and found my passion for surfing. There was not a lot of pain in my life. Everything seemed light and airy and no big deal. Life was a party. I didn’t think I needed any kind of spiritual practice. Looking back, I think that is a dangerous place to be in. Because then when the rug does get ripped back out from under us again (and inevitably it will), it becomes unbearable to not have any solid ground under our feet. My groundlessness struck unexpectedly (as it tends to do), when I suffered an agonizing breakup. The pain was so unbearable and I tormented myself with obsessing and overthinking and trying to fix things every minute of every day. It was tiring. I think maybe all of us can relate to finding this practice because we become tired. Tired of holding on all the time. Tired of trying to get rid of our pain to find happiness. It was this pain that connected me with the tiny seed that had been planted so many years ago. It connected me with that place within me that knew how to surrender.

I was moved to start exploring meditation, and I remember listening to my first ever Pema Chödrön talk. She likened our addictive qualities and behaviors to a child having scabies. She said, if the child keeps scratching, they will get temporary symptom relief, but the rash will get worse. It is only when the child can have enough compassion for themselves to stop scratching and sit with the discomfort that the scabies will heal. This really struck me. I realized I didn’t want to be bloody from scratching any longer. I started reading the dharma and the teachings inspired me to attend a talk at the Dharma Bum Temple. It was there that I met Alberto, or Anzan. He introduced me to his sangha and to Sensei Shinzan, and quickly they became my own sangha. My own family.

Why do I still practice? Because I don’t want to go back to being tired. I don’t want to go back to scratching. Once I realized that no amount of running away was ever going to bring me permanent happiness, there was no going back. This practice, albeit not an easy road, has taught me pure joy. For so long I believed that what happiness was, was in fact suffering; and that to get away from suffering is what would cause happiness. I was so conditioned to run away from my pain that I was blinded to the truth. This path has connected me with my birth right to feel true, unadulterated happiness. This path is also very painful; but I know now that pain serves a purpose. Hasn’t it always been pain that has inspired change in my life? I truly believe that people who are in a lot of pain are the ones who get really serious about a spiritual practice, and I am grateful for my pain.

Today, I have the honor of spreading Alexander’s legacy of love with my own patients. I always told myself that if I ever recovered from my panic disorder that I would help others recover from it too. Only now I realize that I would be doing others a disservice to take away their pain. Instead, I want to help them sit right down in the middle of it. Help them say “bring it on” to their panic attacks and truly mean it.

The interesting thing is, that my panic attacks never really went away. They’re still there. What’s different is my perception of them. Sitting in meditation has trained me to learn to stay with favorable and unfavorable conditions, and sometimes, a lot of times, I don’t get it right. That’s why it’s called a practice; but I always have a place to return to. That tiny seed has rooted and blossomed and is woven into the tapestry of my existence. It continues to weave a web which is by no means pre-fabricated; it changes moment by moment; and that’s what I love about it and also what makes it the most difficult.

I continue to practice because I want to relate to my circumstances with openness. We live in difficult times that are likely to become more difficult, so for me, this practice is imperative. Perhaps the thing I am most grateful for about this practice, is that it has led me to my sangha, to each and every one of you. Thank you for allowing me to share my story with you, and for your practice.