re·sil·ience   
[ri-zil-yuhns, -zil-ee-uhns]
–noun
1.
the power or ability to return to the original form, position, etc., after being bent, compressed, or stretched; elasticity.
2.
ability to recover readily from illness, depression, adversity, or the like; buoyancy.

The definition is interesting as seven years have passed since Mottsu died by suicide and while I don’t doubt my recovery prowess, my life was changed sufficiently that a ‘return to the original form’ is not possible.

Anyway I am not sure I would want to.

We’re changed by our experiences. How could I not be altered by the loss I’ve endured. Whatever healing has happened with time has not resulted in becoming ‘all better’. I am not who I was, for a start I know more of the darkness that haunts many. I am different in profound ways and in beyond my own knowing. As an example, I certainly appreciate people as more fragile and finite than I knew of before. There is less I take for granted. What I have experienced is not a transformation, it was a recovery, experiences have been integrated and I’ve renovated, rather than restored, back into a purposeful whole.

I am finding my own hero path “…we have only to follow the thread of the hero-path. And where we had thought to find an abomination, we shall find a god; where we had thought to slay another, we shall slay ourselves; where we had thought to travel outward, we shall come to the centre of our own existence; where we had thought to be alone, we shall be all with the world.” Campbell, J. (1949). The Hero with a Thousand Faces. (2nd ed.). Princeton NJ: Princeton University Press. pp.25

Transcranial Magnetic Stimulation (TMS) is a treatment I hadn’t heard of until seeing this report. It looks interesting…

The reporter has a fabulous style balancing curiosity with knowledge, no hype. I appreciate Andria’s informative reporting style. She’s well grounded and she is my friend.

I also like TMS as a treatment option, and I like options because we’re not all the same.

“May I take a chicken fillet, one chop and two pork and fennel sausages?”
“Is that it?” he says.
“Yes, that’s it for today.”
“Do you live alone?”
“Yes”
“What happened to your husband?” Funny he assumes there once was one.
“He died.” I say, one hand flying up involuntarily and landing gently over my heart. Tears ready, instantly present without warning.
“How long ago?”
“Six years”

“…but you always seem so happy” the butcher says.

“I am happy, I have a beautiful life”

A beautiful life, it’s a familiar phrase I used it often more than six years ago and it popped out unexpectedly today, in the butcher shop. It’s true, I do have a beautiful life.

You only get one life. There’s no God, no rules, except for those you accept or create for yourself. Then once it’s over… it’s over. Dreamless sleep forever and ever. So why not be happy while you’re here?
Peter Krause as Nate Fisher, Six Feet Under

I ask about the butcher’s family and the clocks start ticking again, the sunny day continues.

– hold their hand knowing that unslumpling yourself is not easily done
– hold their hand knowing that less than half of us feel comfortable in the company of a depressed person
- by trying to understand you help

Sometimes the hardest thing in the world to do is live. You can extend help to a colleague. You can extend help to a friend:

– Ask, check-in
– Listen closely
– Believe and accept what you hear
– Look after yourself
– Seek help together
– Be a friend

Doing something is more difficult than the steps suggest and it is important to try something. Just being there for a friend in crisis is a gift, a fabulous gift for the world.

To mark the occasion the picture is my favourite it’s the big picture of the blog banner.

I hope you’ve probably read some of the other posts. This blog is about loss trauma and grief particularly in relation to depression and suicide, all topics not discussed often enough. Things we don’t talk about and I believe we need to talk about more.

I have ideas, I have opinions – strong ones as it turns out. I discover myself as I write. It is interesting to encounter oneself in a blog, and your own history; just as you wrote it, but sometimes hadn’t quite noticed.

Good or bad, right or wrong, normal or abnormal. I have a particular interest about how I judge and label. I’m trying to judge less, and I’m learning how to approach the world differently. My blog is helping me to see people, conditions, and issues not as good or bad, nor right or wrong, no normal and no abnormal, less at least. A different me in the world.

“I spent my whole life being scared, scared of not being ready, not being right, not being who I should be.” Peter Krause as Nate Fisher, Jr. in Six Feet Under

I went on living, kept breathing. I didn’t crack up and quit. With that came a sense of wonder, a sense of boundlessness.

It wasn’t like having super-powers but I did have an unusual sense of safe.

I was working in Tampa, Florida as hurricane Charley approached. There were warnings and mounting concern, the almost 400,00 people in the area were advised to evacuate. I decided to stay. I envisioned standing by the quay, leaning towards the sky, lashed by wind and rain. Defiant.

First the office closed and everyone was required to go home. I thought I could ride out the storm in my hotel. The hotel closed, I had to check out. By the time I arrived at the airport there were actions afoot to close that too. So much for pitting my self against the elements.

I made arrangements and brought my flight across the country to Portland forward a few days. The airport was crowded and filled with nervous energy. I was bemused, feeling cosseted from the building threat. It was odd to feel so removed.

I think that facing down the wind would have been and expression of the anger I hadn’t felt thus far. Good old stage 2 of grieving full of anger and resentment could have manifested, except that I had to leave town.

Well, to be honest, it is not quite a phenomena, I have a sample population of one; me.

In the early days of grieving Suz, a friend and colleague, came to visit. Suz was a welcome visitor, she didn’t look to me for direction or conversation. She told me stories of the office and the things I hadn’t missed. She made us a cup of tea. She broke my teapot.

She was horrified, she had come to make things a little better not break something.

I assured her it was just a teapot, things were easy for me to put into perspective. A teapot would hardly be missed. She eventually laughed at the situation and told me that with what I had been through, nothing else would ever be as bad.

Suz suggested I could shake my fists at the sky and defy the world to bring it on…

I loved the idea, I identified with the brazenness of daring the world to hit me again. I did feel invincible, or at least audacious. That’s when I first knew I was going to get through. My own realisation, my own phenomena.

Bring it on world…

My first two experiences with counselling were setbacks that served to make me more determined to find a counsellor I could work with. Perseverance paid off, and thanks to the recommendation of a friend of a friend, I went to see Hardt. A psychologist.

Her dark office offered refuge, and I sheltered there, weathering the storm of emotion the tide of tears. Talking and listening, being allowed to be normal, whatever shade of normal I chose to wear on any particular day.

Counselling allowed me rebuild a relationship with Mottsu and with myself.

I don’t know how often I saw Hardt, many, many, times until things felt sort of wrapped up and settled. Well not done exactly, but the sessions stopped when I felt we had travelled as far as there was to go together, a natural close.

Hardt was fabulous, counsellor-like, and supportive, she helped me to normalise my grief experiences. There was more for me to do, more to discover, more therapy to come. I had yet to encounter Process Work and the process work community.

I was third time lucky, whole but still incomplete. The fourth time around was discovering process oriented psychology , a framework for finding and aligning to your deepest nature. Process work is described as an awareness practice and it did expand my awareness in many ways and particularly about myself. Personal development, I guess.

While I highly recommend counselling I doubly, quadrupley, recommend Process Work counsellors and practitioners to locate solutions for psychological challenges, for understanding your deepest nature, and helping you to appreciate yourself as you are, and for just who you are.

I follow through myself and make an appointment. On the day I take a deep breath as I enter the office, hoping that this experience will be good for me.

It starts well when this counsellor, Abby, gets my name right. That feeling doesn’t last long and Abby asks me if there is anything I would like to know about her. I am surprised by the question, isn’t this supposed to be about me? I feel unprepared for counselling, I’m not in the flow and feeling edgy. No questions for her come to mind and I feel there should be questions to ask. I wonder if I am too self centred.

I don’t have to worry for long as Abby begins telling me her background and qualification, detailing her employment history.

I am surprised into silence, unsure of what to say and feeling it might be irrelevant to run through my own CV.

Abby leads the conversation explaining how grief come in waves and how it can be triggered, almost inexplicably, by unexpected things. I nod, dumbfounded, I already know this. It is not new information.

Abby rabbits on about grief experiences and I listen not knowing what else to do. Finally, and thankfully, she wraps up the session telling me I am numb. Apparently I am too numb for counselling and she suggests I contact her in a few weeks when I am feeling ‘better’. Numb I may be, but her advice makes little sense. Wouldn’t numb be something a counsellor could help with. I decide on the spot that I won’t be contacting Abby again, I thank her and leave.

Baz had been counselling people in Mottsu’s workplace, since Mottsu’s death, he is familiar with the case. When we meet Baz gets my name wrong and can’t recall Mottsu’s name. He puts me off-side in the first two minutes, from there it gets steadily worse.

Baz reads a poem aloud, it is one I chose to include in the funeral service, I can’t help but wonder where this is leading. I find myself holding back, defensive, waiting to see what he’ll do next, the ensuing silence seems to make him nervous so he starts talking.

He explains the conscious and subconscious mind, inexplicably, writing those terms on a white-board. I watch…

Baz related the story of a young girl on a family picnic, she chased a ball into some low grass where she saw a snake. He said that she picked up the ball and carried it to the car. After putting the ball into the car her arm was caught in the door, which (as Baz told it) left her scared of snakes. Even today I am unsure of the point of the story, because he didn’t say.

It sounded like a stupid story with no relevance to my situation. I did try to mull over possible links as he rambled on.

Next, in my counselling session, Baz related the story of a man working in a manufacturing plant who lost his arm in an accident involving industrial machinery. On the anniversary of the dismemberment, apparently, the man would experience the sensation of a whole arm. Again, the connection to my own situation was not obvious to discern and being unsure of what to say I just nodded and stayed silent.

Baz hurried on to another story, this time about a man who was mugged at a Melbourne train station car park. The man was so shaken by the experience of being beaten and robbed he was unable to return to the car park. Baz had helped him by slowly bringing the man closer and closer to the site of the crime. First a few blocks away then, the next week, a little closer until they stood together, somehow triumphant, at having returned to the site.

Irreverently, I wondered if the consultation wan’t working, as I wanted to laugh. It wasn’t mirth, it would have been an expression of disbelief and despair. If this was professional care I might never recover.

After about an hour there was a temporary lull in Baz’s dissertation, but not before he informed me that expressing my grief would be important.

If only I could get a word in…

I had been expressing my grief at home and in the streets, my pillow wet with expressions of tears. This might have been the first dry eyed hour I’d lived through since Mottsu’s death.

I had to tell Baz how I was feeling and let him gently know that I wouldn’t be returning. I told him that he may have made some assumptions or drawn some conclusions about how articulate I was, or wasn’t, based on the little I had said during the session.

I informed Baz that I had failed to establish a rapport with him and that it might be better for me to see another counsellor. Strike one.