Gutted

A Story of Misfortune that Shows a Third Way to Resolve Tension Without Hastily Aborting New Growth

Misfortune is brutal, comprised of the most humbling emotional ordeals that uncover what it means to be a human and the indomitable power of our spiritual core that graces us with kindness and empathy that we never knew possible.

Hardship recovery is not a contest. Not one of us is better at it than the next yet all of us garner a mode of resilience that is crafted for our unique situation and growth.

Carl Jung believed, “that if we held the tension between the two opposing forces, there would emerge a third way, which would unite and transcend the two.

Holding an inner or outer conflict quietly instead of attempting to resolve it quickly is a difficult idea to entertain. It is even more challenging to experience.

If we can hold conflict in psychic utero long enough, we can give birth to something new in ourselves.”

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Two days ago, a full-time in-home assistant for my twin daughter (Abby) quit with a text that said,

I can’t bring myself to come in. I am having mental health issues. I am not able to keep this job.

The sudden loss of support for my twins and their complex needs triggers memories of years of ongoing tension. I tell you a condensed version of a pivotal chapter in my memoir Edge of Grace, A Fierce Awakening to Love, and how huge life events change us over time. We learn to get the help we need and new responses emerge.

Abby practicing circus arts at home with her trainer Jeanette

I'm Gutted.

This is not a new feeling for me.

I've been here before.

This is not a story of flamboyant flamenco in the dazzling stars of a clear summer sky.

No. The sky is pitch black.

A Prolonged Midnight—All doors invisible—Arrested in my house without a buoy.

The only sound I hear is the burly, maroon recliner rocker squeaking—as I sway back and forth, back and forth.

For three years since leaving the NICU with twin neonates that began at one pound each, I’ve sweated through the motions of living like a rag doll deprived of hormonal injections—schlepping to piercing calls to mother the unimaginable.

I’ve been rocking inconsolable baby Libby for more hours than I can count. Since she woke from a semi-coma, her only respite comes when I hold her tight in a sling, bounce, walk, or line her scalp with acupuncture needles. She screams, projectile vomits, and is without myelin sheath to shelter her from the sound of a pin drop. I am the same, yet my screams are not heard. I am without a partner. Friendship is hard.

Abby and Autumn are tucked in bed upstairs. If my eyelids close, they will not open again, not in an earthquake. My right ankle swelters from repetitive rocking like an ember on hot flames. I dare not stop rocking.

Then, it happens: my eyes seal shut, the rocking stops, the night crashes—I am gone, wasted, knocked out, whipped to the gills, gutted.

Over the past few months, after our trusted doctor moved his acupuncture clinic and our full-time nurse left due to a family emergency, I drifted into a familiar fugue state, neither awake nor asleep. I’m in a fog—fatigued, pushing through the daily mechanics of cooking, nursing, and hygiene routines.

When night falls, I can’t sleep. I’m anxious, like a vigilant soldier in the trenches, not sure when the next bomb will explode. I’ve lived in this state of hypervigilance for nearly three years, and now another force is robbing me of sanity.

Dangerous thoughts haunt me regularly, the ultimate taboo of all cultures and religions, more so for a mother of three—absolutely for a woman in recovery with spiritual training and realization.

I cannot do this.

My inner cheerleader voice with all of its spiritual platitudes and slogans—Breathe. Meditate. Pray. You got this. One day at a time—is on pause.

A plea entrains me and ignites the repetitive rocking motion and burning ache in my ankle. “Get out!” it says. “You have to get out. Walk. Go. Get out!”

In my mind, I hear a high-pitched shriek like the scream of a banshee, signaling something terrible is about to happen. Like the tales, my Irish Nana spooked us with about the shadows of our ancestors.

The voice compels me to an unassailable place, ruthlessly coaxing my dense body into the night.

I force my corpse-like body out of the chair, my arms automatically take over rocking the baffling creature nestled tightly in the sling that binds my torso. Without the continuous rocking motion, Libby will scream and wake the other babies. She weighs only sixteen pounds. She is minuscule, yet her rigid limbs weigh heavily on me.

I stumble to the front door a few feet in front of me. It opens. The ocean air and the barking of sea lions invigorate my gait, mocking the morbid sense of isolation I live with.

I regret that I rarely go out during the day anymore to enjoy the ocean zephyrs, the sunsets, the redwoods, and the blooming plants.

Over the past few months, I’ve walked only after twilight.

I don’t want anyone to see my tears, my sorrows, my failings.

Few people know my secrets that, in rare moments, I long to uncover.

No, I’m the self-reliant, competent Scorpio yogini with Capricorn rising. I’m the woman who broke free of a tumultuous Irish-Catholic patriarchal family, conquered self-destructive addictions, put herself through university, built a successful alternative therapy business, and learned to love herself.

I never imagined I’d be here decades later, fraught, alone with three young children, twins I was unable to protect at birth. Now all the customary frilly outfits that our relatives gift to our twins go straight to the Goodwill donation basket, as they will not be worn. There will be no commemorative milestones for the girls, and no need for such dresses. Instead of being a family amidst a thriving community with two healthy hands in which children are the long, slender fingers, some of the fingers are bruised and broken.

I pass the sign marked West Cliff Drive, cross the road without looking left or right, and climb over the fence that reads, “Steep Edge. Do Not Cross. Unsafe.” I do not attempt to see past the dark cloud that enshrouds me. With each stride, it is closing in—drowning out my thoughts, enforcing its agenda. My legs take on a life of their own, traversing the narrow path with untamed resolve.

At this precipitous edge, the rising to be a protective mother and “you can do hard things” are gone. The life presented to me is insurmountable, like the waves crashing on steep boulders below. Noise conceals said and unsaid words, grief over the life I am never going to have—the utterly uncomplicated life of a spiritual honeymoon laced with bliss, peace, and serenity; or a close-knit family with healthy children, an enchanting toddler, capable partner, and close connections to our community.

The life I have is Not the life I can live.

My feet cling to the rough edge. The ocean waves crash fiercely against the rocks and send chills up my tremoring legs. My heartbeat is grinding against my throat. I quiver at the narrow edge of the cliff, baby around my middle. The question—why?—bellows from beneath the knot in my gut.

My eyes close. My body leans, releasing toward the abyss.

Without explanation, the ocean wind howls,

You’re Staying.

Instead of falling forward, the wind suddenly surges, throwing us backward, away from this slippery edge. The electrified air summons me like Hera, the goddess of childbirth. Her matter-of-fact tone is fierce and tender directly seeping into my half-dead body:

Turn around. Go home. Get some rest.

A salty gust invigorates my gait and steers us back down the path like a good shepherd herding her sheep. I’m dazed, unsure of what is happening. I am carried by grace without an ounce of resistance, as though we are being delivered from a nightmare.

When I open the door to our house, the aroma of the sea comes with us. I feel released from a death walk. The verdict is in—Not dead.

I drop into the chair, recline in the big burly rocker, and bow to an uninterrupted sleep that lasts four hours. It is the longest continuous sleep I have had in close to three years. When I wake, Libby sleeps with an intriguing glow of light upon her face, as if she is part of a secret conspiracy.

That’s when I see that many of the truths a mother starts out believing morph into something wholly other.

Libby, the happiest woman I know at age 26 ready for an outing.

The story I told you took place between 1996 and 2000. It is a condensed version of a pivotal chapter in my memoir Edge of Grace, A Fierce Awakening to Love.

Twenty-four years later I tell this story so you can remember that you—like me have navigated a dark night or many and are still standing. No two versions of feeling gutted or descending into darkness are the same but all of us ascend—changed, stronger, wiser, and with more tools and resources than at an earlier time.

Misfortune is brutal, comprised of the most humbling emotional ordeals that uncover what it means to be a human—the indomitable power of our spiritual core that graces us with kindness and empathy that we never knew possible.

Hardship recovery is not a contest. Not one of us is better at it than the next yet all of us seem to garner a mode of resilience that is crafted for our unique situation.

Two days ago, a full-time in-home assistant for my twin daughter (Abby) quit with a text that said,

I can’t bring myself to come in. I am having mental health issues. I am not able to keep this job.

This is the second time within a year that a young person quit by text. Without the courtesy of a two-week notice, without an opportunity for conversation, understanding, or an opportunity to provide additional mental health support.

I responded,

Are you sure this is what you want to do? How can we help?

I tried several approaches to set up an exit interview for all of us to learn and have a sense of completion. Nothing. Cell phone silence.

That is too bad, especially for my daughter. At first, I felt shocked as both of these helpers were integral to our family. Both required time off and support for personal issues. I was happy to generously accommodate. I understand the intense challenge of making ends meet to live in the city of Santa Cruz.

I took time to digest this surprising news before telling my daughter. Suddenly I was flooded with visceral memories of their tragic premature birth at one pound each and the consequences of the unexpected. Once I felt less disjointed, Abby, Woodzie (her service dog), and I drove along the coast and stopped at an accessible beach to breathe in the fresh air.

We sat on a bench, listened to a bird song, and I told her about the text. She swallowed hard and gripped my hand tightly. The right side of her body shook. I held her close, and assured her, it was not her fault.

She told me,

It feels like it is my fault. Like she is leaving me.

The young woman sent my daughter a text,

I still want to be your friend.

Abby told her,

Friends don’t do this to friends.

Libby, Abby, and Mama Prajna — about two years old.

Twenty years ago, I didn’t have a skilled colleague open to receive a message from me at any hour. I reached out. She was glad I did. She was with me through this cascade of events. This helps me to be with Abby and figure out the next best thing.

My colleague/friend heard me loud and clear,

I am gutted by the loss of a 40-hour-a-week helper. I’m derailed once again.

She was my witness and mirrored back to me the tension of opposites I expressed:

On a hopeful note: “We got this. Everything will be okay. I can fix this.”

On the doom side: “F*cking A! This is never going to have a proper resolution. We will not find a sustainable solution.”

She listened between my words and offered a third way.

A Still Point.

One that reminded her of something our teacher Marion Woodman, the renowned Jungian Psychologist said on the topic of opposites:

Holding an inner or outer conflict quietly instead of attempting to resolve it quickly is a difficult idea to entertain. It is even more challenging to experience.

Carl Jung believed, that if we held the tension between the two opposing forces, there would emerge a third way, which would unite and transcend the two.

He believed that this transcendent force was crucial to individuation. Whatever the third way is, it usually comes as a surprise, because it has not penetrated our defenses until now.

A hasty move to resolve tension can abort growth of the new.

If we can hold conflict in psychic utero long enough, we can give birth to something new in ourselves.

I am in no hurry to resolve this issue. Well kind of, as I want to write. We are posting advertisements. More importantly, we are negotiating Abby’s budget with DDS to see how we can shift resources to offer a higher living wage for greater retention. In our area In Home Support Services pay $18.75 an hour. The fair living wage for our area is $26.75 an hour for an adult working couple. We want to increase to at least $27, hopefully $30 an hour.

I understand the stress involved in making ends meet alongside the unpredictable variables in life and how lack of resources impacts our overall well-being. While this young woman worked for us, we paid for her dog to have surgery, provided two bonuses to help her move into a more suitable home, and granted days off when she needed them.

Ten or even five years ago I did not have the inner resources to fight for a better solution to support my girls to live in our home with adequate support. I avoided hard conversations, did not always see a better option, or took the time to ask for and receive help. This is still hard for me as I advocate for many regularly.

I look forward to pausing with these tensions, listening, and exploring a sustainable solution to welcome a new member to join our home team.  

I hope you will take a moment to celebrate your inner growth, your transformations, and how you respond rather than react to difficult situations.

I want to hear from you in the comments:

How do you hold the tension between two opposing forces, for a third way to emerge?

What are your go-to pause buttons to slow down hasty decisions that abort new growth?

Do you have a story of a third way emerging that you did not imagine possible?

Let me know how you pause, and what you are feeling.

Please share with friends who may benefit and enjoy my stories.

Remember hardship is HARD. It might feel like we have to fix things fast but we don’t. We can pause. It is essential to be kind to ourselves and listen to the spaces between words—before doing.

Thank you for reading and receiving your dose of The Salty Crone.

with love,

Prajna O’Hara @PrajnaOhara.com

P.S. Want to see an 8-minute documentary about our story and the school I created for children with developmental delays—watch below.

If you enjoy this publication, please consider restacking or sharing with friends. My publication is free and you are welcome to donate at any time. Soon I will add ‘good things’ for community engagement.

Thank you for being here!