The Burn Zone

by Renee Linnell

  I sat down and looked up: Another young, hot guy was looking at me. We danced. He held me close and danced with me in that same slow style. My night continued like this until my feet were so sore I could dance no more.

  And so it happened. A magical door into an unknown world of young, handsome, incredibly talented tango dancers had opened for me. But the key to that door was this: I had to get to that level of ability in that style of dance before I even noticed them, before they even noticed me.

  When I asked them why I had never seen them before, they said they had never seen me either, yet we had all gone to the same milongas for years. All I had seen were old men with large bellies who smelled like alcohol and cigarettes and dirty hair. And I was willing to dance with these men because I loved tango and I thought only old men danced tango. I had no idea I could dance tango with young, handsome men who smelled amazing and didn’t beat me up on the dance floor.

  I also realized I had never watched; I had just been dancing with all the bad dancers. The bad dancers stay in the center of the dance floor, bumping into each other, while the good dancers dance around the outside edge. So all I saw from the center were the other bad dancers. I was so intent on improving my own dance that I never stopped to just watch.

  My entire tango world had shifted from “hell” to “heaven” once I brought myself up to the level of “heaven” dancing. I had held the key to my own liberation in my lawsuit and here, in the world of tango, I held the key, as well. Couldn’t this be true—mustn’t this be true—for anything in life? Finding a partner, finding a job, finding a house or apartment or even magical wonderful new friends—weren’t these the same? If I did the work, if I was willing to change and evolve and grow, to let go of behaviors and ways of being that no longer served me, wouldn’t I, in effect, be raising myself to a new level in life, be opening myself up to wonderful new possibilities?

  Yes! I thought as I remembered this tango experience. Yes! I believe I would. Yes! I believe I will.

  Chapter 35 Awakening

  My therapist, in one of her group talks, mentioned the poem “Song of a Man Who Has Come Through” by D. H. Lawrence. One day, on a whim, I decided to google it and the last four lines broke through to me in a way nothing else yet had:

  What is the knocking at the door in the night?

  It is somebody wants to do us harm.

  No, no, it is the three strange angels.

  Admit them, admit them.

  Maybe because there were three angels, maybe because I was finally exhausted by my anger, maybe because I was so desperate to heal—who knows, but somehow, I finally, really, got the fact that the intense anger I could not let go of was not anger at Hiroto and Lakshmi and Vishnu—the intense anger I could not let go of was anger at myself. I was the one I had to forgive.

  If I truly had the faith I professed to have, I had to believe that Lakshmi, Vishnu, and Hiroto had been Three Strange Angels come to change my life in unique and incredibly powerful ways. They were not mistakes. My decision to walk with them had not been a mistake. I had needed to change. I had needed to be broken open. I had needed to be shattered so that I could blossom and expand and grow. I suddenly realized that this is the whole point of a spiritual path. We need to be broken apart in order to grow. I realized that it is the fire of life that purifies us. It is the pain, the breaking apart, that softens us and allows us to have compassion for our fellow humans. We need the fire, we need the pain, we need the breaking apart in order to stop, in order to slow down, in order to awaken.

  I suddenly saw the beauty of being broken. It made me stop. It was making me stop. It was giving me the time to contemplate what truly mattered in life, like health and friends and family. It was making me turn to the little things I love, like a warm cup of coffee in a pretty porcelain mug, sitting in front of the fire reading, watching the snow fall. These simple things, these tiny luxuries were responsible for pulling me out of the dark and into the light. These tiny steps.

  I suddenly realized how utterly important friends and family are—and kindness. As I was healing, a smile or kind word from a stranger could bring me to my knees in gratitude or infuse me with the energy to keep on going, while a rude comment or mean look from a stranger could crumple me with sadness. I knew I should be stronger than this, that I shouldn’t be so affected by others. I had studied Buddhism for seven years! I should be detached. But I wasn’t. In this utterly fragile state, I was affected by everything—and everyone. I suddenly understood that I had to stop making it about me. It wasn’t that nobody understood me; it was that I wasn’t taking the time to understand anyone else. I was so consumed by myself and my own pain that I was not paying attention to anyone else. I had been utterly self-obsessed. We all go through the same struggles. We all just want to feel love and approval. We all gravitate toward pleasure and run from pain. We are all damaged in our own way.

  I finally saw the key to unlocking my fear of strangers, of being out in the world, and the key to unraveling much of the pain inside my mind: Turn my focus outward. Again, I held the key to my own liberation: I had to focus on others, bring joy to others, listen to and try to understand others, not the other way around. And I could do this in simple ways: I could walk into a store with a smile on my face, notice the salespeople, smile at them, allow them to show me around. It was my job to make them feel appreciated. I had wanted so desperately to be a saint, to spread light. This was one simple way to do that, to be back on my path of Enlightenment. I couldn’t control what other people thought about me, but I could certainly make sure I was open and kind. And, because I was stopped and shattered and broken, I had time to listen to them, to really see them.

  I suddenly realized I could leave a larger tip at a bar or restaurant or in a taxi, I could hold open a door for someone, I could stop and smile at and listen to strangers even though I felt like shit, I could leave fifteen minutes earlier and not be in a rush, not be an asshole behind the wheel of my car, let people merge in front of me in traffic. I realized there were so many opportunities, so many little ways, for me to spread light every single moment of every single day.

  And, most liberating of all, being so incredibly shattered made me stop judging. If I could join a cult, if I could become brainwashed, if I could fall in love with and go into business with a man who was so . . . damaged, who was I to judge anything? Suddenly my super-strong, rigid opinions about everything softened. I realized my way was not always the right way. I realized I had no idea what other people were going through. I had no idea what made them tick, why they did the things they did. Who was I to judge anyone? Who was I to believe I knew what was right for anyone else? Judging was exhausting and depressing. It made me stiff and self-righteous and mean. Accepting was easy; it took no energy. I realized I could redirect all the energy I wasted wanting others to change, wanting the world to change, focusing on what others did that I didn’t approve of . . . I could redirect all the energy I wasted judging others and use it instead on myself: to improve and uplift myself, to create a life I loved. And I noticed that as I worked to heal myself, as love and light and acceptance began to flow through my heart again, I simply stopped noticing what others were doing or not doing. I stopped caring.

  Oh my God, it made a huge difference. I slowly began to enjoy going outside. I slowly became less afraid of others. I started building friendships again. And I decided it really was okay to tell people the truth: that life had kicked my ass and I was taking time to find myself again.

  A few weeks later, I was talking to a friend who had survived cancer, trying to convince her that she was truly healed—that just because the medical community used the term “in remission,” she had the right and the power to instead think “entirely healed.”

  “I believe disease is a result of negative emotion stored in the body, blocking the flow of life-force energy. The destructive, angry thought patterns need to change; the emotion needs to be dealt with and released. If it is not, the body cannot heal,�
�� I said. “But you have changed. You have softened. You have purged so much of the anger and fear that you used to carry. You have forgiven. The disease has served its purpose. You can thank it and let it go.”

  As those words came out of my mouth, it strengthened my belief even more: These seemingly horrible experiences are created by the hand of the Divine in order to push us toward expansion. If we listen and learn and squeeze the juice out of them, we grow, we change, we blossom.

  I was not supposed to be the person I was before the cult, before Hiroto. Thank God, because that person was long gone. Now, I just had to figure out who the new me was.

  Well, for starters, the new me was fat and the new me was introverted and the new me was invisible and the new me had herpes. I had forgiven Hiroto, and with that, I had regained a huge piece of my heart, my power, and my sanity. But I still had a long way to go. I could not get over the herpes thing. I hated Vishnu for that. I started with the self-talk again: If I believed disease was given to us for a reason, then I had herpes for a reason. I had to believe that, on some level, my soul chose it, and that once I accepted it and stopped fighting it and took the time to understand why, and made the appropriate changes, my body would heal itself and let the dis-ease go. And if I was going to forgive, if I was going to let go, I had to take responsibility for it. The more I thought about it, the more I realized having herpes was protecting me from having reckless random sex, from sleeping with men that were not good for me. Herpes was helping me get rid of the sex kitten. Herpes was helping me put on hold an entire facet of my life: dating and men. I needed healing. I needed to mend my soul from the inside out. I had always struggled with my relationships with men; I had often used sex to get what I wanted. It was time for this behavior to stop.

  I had to figure out why I had allowed Vishnu to have unprotected sex with me without first insisting he get tested and show me the results. I had to figure out how I got myself in the cult in the first place, why I allowed myself to be used by Vishnu and Lakshmi and then by Hiroto. What was lacking in me? What was broken in me?

  I began to see that as the daughter of an alcoholic, I had become addicted to emotionally unavailable men who were also addicts. I was drawn to them because their push–pull love cycle reminded me of my mother’s. But I was also drawn to them for another reason: most addicts are incredibly sensitive and lonely people. Life has caused these people to feel isolated. They feel less-than. And because they feel unable to bond with other humans, they bond with an addictive behavior, something that temporarily eases the pain of life, something that is always there for them. I wanted to save them. I wanted to open their hearts again. I could see that they, like my mother, were beautiful wounded souls and I yearned to bring that beauty to the surface, to show them the world was a safe and magical place, to remind them that they are extraordinary and worthy and so deserving of love. Instead, I always got crushed; I always got pulled down with them, because my wounds caused me to become instantly attached, to try to squeeze love from someone unable to give it. A part of me felt that if I could save a man that was emotionally unavailable, if I could melt his heart and get him to open and get him to love me, then somehow I could make up for the fact that I was never able to save my mother. But I realized I needed to remind myself that I was extraordinary and worthy and so deserving of love. It was not my job to save them; it was my job to save myself.

  I admitted to myself that by choosing these men, I was bringing to the surface a wound I had since childhood: judging my self-worth based on the attention I got from an emotionally unavailable loved one. It was far past time for me to stop recreating the pain of a wailing four-year-old desperate for her alcoholic mother’s attention. I didn’t have to wait anymore for something or someone out of my control to come fix my life, to come fill this void, to love me. Again, I held the key to my own liberation. The only thing keeping me trapped in the pain of the past, in a life I didn’t love, was . . . me. I was going to save myself. And I was going to start right now.

  Chapter 36 Warrior

  I turned back to the little things that brought me joy. I continued to nurture myself. I knew self-love was the key. Determined to get my life back under control, I called NYU and started the process of finishing my degree. Even though it was a task given to me by Lakshmi, I was going back to school. I loved NYU. I loved New York. As soon as I was reenrolled, I signed up for Body Pump classes and started doing Power Yoga. Yes, I had accepted the fuller version of me, and she had served me well for over a year, but I was tired of being soft and lethargic and flabby; I was ready to get strong again, in body and in mind. I made a play list called “Back in Black.” It started with AC/DC’s “Back in Black” and then went to Ozzy Osborne’s “Crazy Train” and Marilyn Manson’s “The New Shit.” I added Eminem’s “Lose Yourself” and Ludacris’s “Get Back.” I played it loud in my car, on repeat. I was done being a victim. I was ready to become a warrior.

  I had to start school in April, on the Global Study Tour, with a new class, in South Korea. I had to show up as the new girl. It wasn’t easy. Especially after being out of school for over a year. Especially after spending almost all of that time sitting alone in the mountains. Especially having no idea who I was. When I landed in the middle of the new MBA class, some students were nice and welcoming; others ignored me. When people asked me why I took a break from school, what made me leave, I told them that I had been in a cult and had gone into a radically failed business venture and then moved to the mountains to heal and figure out who the hell I was. When they asked why I decided to get my MBA, I said, “Because my spiritual teacher told me to.” When they asked why I finally left the cult I said, “Because I was screwing my guru’s boyfriend, and she threw me out.” I was so totally fed up with pretending to be anything besides my true self that I couldn’t twist the truth even a little bit.

  To my complete surprise, most of them were fascinated by the story and couldn’t wait to hear more. Not only were they interested, but most of them also instantly offered their own very private stories of struggle: divorce, recovery from addiction, embracing their sexuality, and so on. Most of them accepted me immediately. When they invited me out after class and I told them I was not really ready to socialize, they were incredibly understanding. My honesty and their acceptance was a huge part of my rise out of the dark and back into life. And I believe that in my willingness to be vulnerable with strangers I invited them to be vulnerable back. I lowered the walls on my side and it gave them permission to do the same, causing instant, real bonds with amazing people that I may not have bonded with otherwise.

  The study load was exhausting, but it gave me something to focus on. I had to keep up with the other students; I couldn’t wallow in self-pity anymore. It also helped me forgive Lakshmi; I was going to school because of her. I allowed myself to see the myriad ways in which Lakshmi had pushed me to change and to grow. The truth was, in many ways, she had liberated me.

  I eventually felt strong enough to spend time with my brother and his family. I vowed to tell him the full story and I did as soon as I saw him. One evening, while I was sitting at a bar with my sister-in-law’s sister, the handsome bartender asked how often we got to see each other.

  I said, “We haven’t seen each other in seven years.” When he asked why, I said, “Because I joined a cult and pushed everyone I loved out of my life.”

  He laughed.

  Then my brother chimed in, “She’s not kidding. It’s true.”

  Everyone at the bar got quiet. They all looked at me like I had just landed from outer space. And then, seemingly at the same time, they all said, “Seriously? We have to know the story.”

  After that, I began to realize my story had worth. It was interesting. I grew less afraid of having people know the truth about me. I began to own it. This brought my power back even more. I was no longer afraid to run into old friends; in fact, I started trying to find them online. With each old friend that came back into my life, my sense of se
lf, my power, increased. They reminded me that I was loved. They all forgave me for disappearing. Many of them broke down crying when they saw or heard from me.

  “I’m just so glad you are okay,” they would weep. “I was so worried about you. I thought I might never see you again. You mean so much to me.”

  A few jokingly said they were going to kick my ass for joining a cult, but they all surrounded me with so much unconditional love. They understood that I had changed, and they welcomed, embraced, supported, and encouraged this newer, softer, more introverted version of me.

  The idea that Lakshmi had implanted so deeply in my psyche, that I was a sorceress and a witch, that I was evil, that I was manipulating people energetically, slowly began to fade. The belief that I was lovable, kind, compassionate, and giving began to rise more forcefully to the surface. With my old friends back by my side, my self-confidence grew, and I became happier, kinder, more loving—an upward spiral of light.

  That summer, I went out to a restaurant in Colorado and, on a dare, got up on the bar and started dancing. People stopped eating, stopped talking, and turned to stare, and then almost everyone in the bar started dancing. A bartender turned the music up. The party had ramped up ten thousand notches. A super-sexy, muscular, tattooed guy, at least ten years younger than me, handed me a shot. As he was helping me off the bar I said, “That’s my first shot in seven years.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Because I was in a cult and got ordained as a Buddhist monk.”

  “Seriously?”

  We were smooshed together, body to body, in the middle of the dancing crowd. I looked up at him. “Yup,” I said back.

  “You are the most interesting person I have ever met,” he said, with a sparkle in his eyes.

  My body was coming back, my sense of self was rapidly returning, and apparently, it was time to start dancing again. Dancing had been stripped away early in my years with the cult. I had forgotten that my fearlessness of dancing when no one else was dancing liberated others, encouraged them to do the same. I had forgotten how that one simple action always turned a mundane event into a party. And I had forgotten how incredibly good it felt to dance! It was, after all, my God-given gift.