Lessons from the Wisdom Within
By Peggy M. Fisher

Synopsis: A woman’s marital crisis in mid-life spurs a brave new beginning through Eastern practices. She discovers both inner wisdom and the courage to change.

The year was 1970 and I was approaching my fortieth birthday when I became uprooted. Didn’t they say that life begins at forty? Wasn’t I a survivor: a person who moved from one bump or collision in the road to a more viable path? Hadn’t I conquered my fears and walked with determination as a young student nurse, an Army officer, a teacher and now a counselor?

But after twelve years of marriage and three children my marriage was falling apart and I was slipping into a cave of darkness that tormented me. I spent hours searching in my library of psychology textbooks from Sigmund Freud to Harry Stack Sullivan. I bought new books about the theories of depression, but the words on the page had no meaning. I had earned the title of a clinical specialist in psychiatry and thought, / can find my way out of this. There had to be something out there that would be helpful to me, but I didn’t have a clue as to where I would find it.

My church attendance which had been sporadic, now folded. There were conflicts surrounding the removal of the minister that were troubling to me. Because my spiritual roots were strongly anchored, my daily prayers remained constant. It was my lifeline to the next day.

I struggled to refresh my survival skills. I took belly dancing and line dancing to elevate my spirits. I hid the intensity of my pain behind multiple masks. During the day, I wore the mask of a serene and organized counselor helping my students to make decisions. When I arrived home, I became the loving mother involved in my children’s needs. The weight of the masks was tiring and the living room couch became a resting place between my family chores: cooking dinner, helping them with their homework and finally getting them ready for bed.

I dreaded the nights because I knew my sleep would be interrupted by the haunting questions of “Why?” I was tired of wondering when, or if, my husband was coming home by morning. The questions gnawed at me. Why did Ross agree and then turn his back on me when the time arrived to keep our appointment for marriage counseling? Why did he ignore my words and rush out the front door without telling me when I would see him again? How did Ross expect me to stay in a relationship that had become a battleground? But the answers were hidden in the darkness of my nightly anxiety attacks of rapid breathing, followed by exhaustion. I watched the clock, waiting for my morning chores to mobilize me.

We had all the ingredients for a happy marriage: good jobs, healthy children and supportive families, activities that we enjoyed together and marvelous sex when he came home. But Ross continued to struggle with his adjustment to civilian life after serving twenty years in the Navy. I knew that he loved to gamble—something that he had done for years—but I thought I could deal with it as long as he contributed his share of the expenses. Was there another woman involved? I felt that I could compete with her; however, there were no conclusive answers for me. Most of the time Ross would sleep for a few hours, shower, change his clothes and head right out the door. He seldom ate any meals at home, and if he did so it was on-the-run. I knew he was spending less time at the college where he worked because sometimes they called when he left his student assistants for prolonged periods.

My love for Ross was entangled with feelings of pain and frustration. The churning knots in my stomach seldom relaxed. It was though I was being slowly strangled and left gasping for breath throughout the day. The face in the mirror was that of a stranger because I had allowed the omnipresent darkness to claim me.

As Ross’ unexplained absences and gambling problems escalated, I became armed for a battle. A battle that I didn’t even care who won. One morning just before dawn, I heard Ross drive up and shut the engine off. Every sound echoed in the quiet of the morning. I waited for him to unlock the front door and come upstairs. I hadn’t seen him since he left for the weekend. Ross slowly made it up the stairs, visited the bathroom, and finally made it into our bedroom.

I was waiting for answers. Ross undressed in the shadows of the morning light, climbed in bed and turned his back on me. When I asked, “Where have you been?” He said, “Can’t you let me get some sleep?” I smelled the odor of alcohol on his breath, but I knew he must be sober enough to give me some explanation. Before I knew it, we were engaged in a shoving match. Both of us had rolled off the bed and onto the floor. My daughter, Melanie, who was twelve years old, rushed from her room shouting: “Mommy, Daddy, stop it! Stop It!” Her intervention luckily kept us from a major encounter. I quickly leapt off the floor and put my arms around her shoulders and said, “I’m sorry Melanie, this won’t happen again… I promise you.” When I returned to our bedroom, Ross was snoring. As I climbed back into our bed, I knew Ross would have to move out or else I wouldn’t be able to keep my promise to Melanie.

When Ross got up the next morning, I said, “We can’t live this way around the children.” His reply was, “I don’t see why I have to move.” Yet, Ross’ unexplained absences continued. I had made up my mind that I would stop the war of words and simply ignore him. Within a few weeks, Ross moved to an apartment. He left abruptly one day while I was away at work and the children were still in school. Ross took our entire bedroom suite and left a cot for me to sleep on in the middle of the room. My clothes from the dresser were neatly folded on the cot. I was stunned! I knew he had been looking for an apartment, but Ross hadn’t told me he had found one. Later, I learned that he “borrowed” the cot from his sister. However, my anger quickly subsided into relief. I was bristling inside and poised for a fight that I had put on hold for the sake of our children. I could always buy another bedroom suite.

I quickly made an appointment to see the family lawyer. He said, “You could have someone follow him.” I raised my eyebrows in surprise, but in a calm voice said, “Why would I pay someone to trail him, if he doesn’t want to be with us?” My lawyer smiled and shrugged his shoulders. He knew my position was firm. But I rushed to change the locks on the doors when my lawyer said, “Everything in the house is up for grabs.” I wasn’t going to allow Ross to take another thing, except for the few personal items he had left.

My other children, two boys, were eight years and four years old at the time. I knew they were aware of our bickering and I thought they would be relieved. Since I am a survivor, I thought I can make it without Ross—not realizing that there were dues for me to pay. I ran out of answers when my children asked, “When will Daddy be coming back?” Although I knew I had made the right decision, their searching looks made me feel guilty. My unspoken thoughts were, Ross was never home anyway. Maybe he would take more interest in the kids now that we both have some space. Our separate lives evolved into days apart and finally months. At times Ross, stopped by the house and talked to the children, but his participation in their lives remained marginal. I continued planning activities for the children: dance and piano lessons for my daughter and music lessons for my eldest son.

Suicidal thoughts often taunted me when I stood on the platform waiting for the train to take me to work in the morning or return me home in the afternoon. If my stomach churned, I would move away from the boarding area and puff hard on a cigarette to relieve my tension. I couldn’t quite give into the quiet voice in my ear saying, “Jump.” I was no longer a “closet smoker” and brushed aside my remorse about this.

At work, I clung to my privacy. I revealed my newly single status but nothing else to Kathy, the school nurse, and she never questioned me. We were kindred spirits and each day we shared part of the commute home as far as the downtown Philadelphia train station. Once there, we traveled our separate ways. One day when there was hardly a glimmer of light in my path and each step I took was an effort she broke the ice.

Kathy said, “Peggy, I heard about a yoga class being formed in this area.”

I smiled and said, “Sounds interesting, maybe I’ll look into it.” I hadn’t told Kathy how desperate I was to find something before I succumbed to my omnipresent darkness. Perhaps she knew.

Within a few days, I had decided to go. Yoga was something I had read about while searching for a way out of my self-imposed cage. Dr. Vijay stood at the top of the stairway to greet us as I arrived in his class. Dressed in a long white garment, his smile and dark eyes radiated vitality and warmth. In the early 70s, the few Americans were avidly exploring this medium; however, Dr. Vijay had already developed a following. There were about fifteen people of various ages, ethnicities, and sexual orientations in the group.

As we settled onto our mats, he said, “Lie on your...