A few years ago, I discovered EFT—the Emotional Freedom Technique—which involves physically tapping certain points on the body that correspond to acupuncture meridians while simultaneously reprogramming the subconscious mind. It’s sort of an East-meets-West healing modality. You look and sound really stupid while you’re doing it, but, hey, I’m not proud. Apparently it had been wildly successful in helping veterans overcome their post-traumatic stress disorder without drugs. Not that I had anything to be stressed about. I was just curious as usual, and figured I’d try it in a proactive way.
I found a talented practitioner named Marelon Bjorkaes (who also happened to be an excellent astrologer) and we had a phone session in which I did the tapping on myself based on a diagram she’d sent me. She would ask questions that got to the heart of the matter, crafting the verbiage in just the right way, and these I would repeat after her when prompted. What makes EFT so powerful, I think, is that it’s a dynamic process acknowledging changes as you go along. For example, “Even though I still believe X, I now choose Y.” It’s all about keeping it real, and the subconscious mind seems to like that. The tapping, subtle as it is, can magically clear out stuck energy, in a sort of homestyle do-it-yourself version of acupuncture needles. And often with enormously positive results.
The subject I chose to focus on with Marelon was the ever popular boyfriend acquisition project. Largely unbeknownst to my conscious mind, I had some deep-seated beliefs that were staving off the mating season. I mean, besides the obvious. Sure, my emotional crisis-mode emanation had been acting as man-repellant—or maybe even a sledgehammer crushing all potential crushes within a thousand-mile radius. But then again, I had been more or less single for a whole decade before the Crisis came to town. Marelon used my astrology chart and her intuition to get down to brass tacks. Some of the stories on my internal newswire were: “there aren’t any age-appropriate single men” and “all the guys around here are wusses” or “I will lose my independence if I get hooked up.” Helpful stuff like that. So with her able assistance, I talked and tapped the crapola out of my circuitry.
A week later, I met a man who was cute, charming, about my age, interested and assertive enough to ask me out. That hadn’t happened since, oh, I don’t know, ever? And this was in that itsy-bitsy town in the country, against all statistical odds. I’d been living in a city of half a million people for years with very little action, then I rolled into Hooterville and had me a date before the end of the barbeque. Utterly astounding. Marelon had positively earned my praise and respect. It was a sweet little affair that endured for all of a month, at which time it was eclipsed by the next chapter in my romantic saga (more on that later).
I was so impressed with the power of EFT, I picked up a read-it-in-one-day paperback manual and also downloaded some free guides from the web. The authors explained that many phobias and conditions of a psychological and/or physical nature can be cleared up—and often within seconds. Well, I had a few phobias myself, as a matter of fact. I was afraid of heights under certain conditions, though this didn’t really interfere with the quality of my day to day life; I mostly considered it an asset of self-preservation. But I had this other little problem. For years I could not drive on the freeway without having a full-blown panic attack. Living in the city without owning a car, this weirdness of mine hadn’t caused much of a ruckus. When I did drive, I would just stick to the back roads or city streets. Usually someone else did the driving anyway, and that was just fine by me. I’m not sure exactly when or why I developed the freeway anxiety, but I supposed it wasn’t all that fruitful to ruminate on its origins.
With my back-and-forth city mouse/country mouse life unfolding, at one point I found it necessary to make a five hour road trip with a borrowed car. Until then, I’d gotten rides, taken trains or buses, patched it together somehow. But there was no getting around it this time. I had to go retrieve my stuff—and soon—because the friend who’d been letting me store my things in her garage had a sudden change in priorities. I still had a lot of tools and raw materials because I figured I’d be building an eco-house in the near future.
With nothing to lose but my panic attacks, I applied EFT. I did a few rounds of it, then bravely set out for a test drive. Miraculously, everything was fine! Then I embarked on the big trip. About an hour into it, I felt a mild version of the panic coming on, so I pulled over and did more EFT (there must have been a little residual “stuff” left) and that took care of it. I’ve been driving calmly on freeways ever since: a total success story.
EFT probably works better for some things and certain people as opposed to others. But it’s just as likely that success hinges on how adeptly the tool is wielded. It’s definitely worth trying for anything that ails you, especially since you can do it yourself and without spending any money. The only real risk is in looking ridiculous if someone happens to catch you in the act.
Of course there are people who annoy everyone around them by constantly talking about EFT and applying it to everything and anything. Which makes me think of that Mark Twain adage: “When all you have is a hammer, everything looks like a nail.” Not everything’s a nail, agreed, but when you do hit the nail on the head, there ain’t no disputin’ it.
(Excerpted from “What I Did On My Midlife Crisis Vacation” by Debbianne DeRose.)