Talking about talking

Wow, starting with a new therapist is harder than I thought. I’d forgotten about all the “ickiness” that comes up; the squirming and the shutting down. I’m three or four months in with PNT and am just realising that all that ickiness doesn’t go away. I’ve caught myself a couple of times with her – almost saying something and then someone or something inside stopping me. The fact that I notice this and recognise it is probably a good thing – may be there is some progress, after all? It seems I still have trust issues, though. I’m sure that’s not really surprising – in fact, any one of you could have told me that! It did take me a little by surprise, though. I’d almost forgotten what it was like to sit huddled in the chair, studying the carpet or the paintwork in depth, wishing the floor would open up or the clock would tick over and your hour would be up. Uh huh, that’s still with me.

The PNT is almost nauseatingly keen on talking about all this. I foolishly sent her an email before today’s session saying I’d like to “talk about the talking”. Silly me! Well, silly because she’s onto me like a rabid dog and doesn’t let me get away with my usual avoidance tactics LOL. But also not silly because it helped me clarify that this is fundamentally about trust, and the fear that she’ll hurt me. Irrational fear, of course, because she can’t really do any such thing.

She prompted me to think about how I resolved this with the WT. I’ve found it hard to remember, but of course, I did have trust issues with the WT! The solution? Time, of course, to get to know her (and her me) – her approach, her likely reactions (or non-reactions), her (therapeutic) heart. And a spoonful of sugar, by which I mean a giant – and I mean GIANT – leap of faith. I remember the first time I realised I’d have to put my faith in the WT, how hard that was. How it felt like inching towards the edge of a cliff and then stepping off, not being at all sure what was over the edge, if I’d need a parachute, or if I’d have one. Please tell me I don’t need to do that again??? If you believe this guy, then yea, I do need to do that again. Sigh.

Of course trust, in my view, needs to be earned. I’m not sure what the PNT has done  to earn my trust, if anything. Of course she gets a level of trust and respect by being another human being, with a heart. And she ticks all the basic boxes – she’s reliable, maintains confidentiality, etc – but I need something more than that. I don’t know what, but may be I do need something from her. I remember the early days with the WT – she made an effort, it seemed, to get me to trust her. Things like  going the “extra mile” with appointment times, out of session contact, etc. And of course there was all that weirdness about her not thinking I was a “freak” – that probably engendered some trust. I’ve not had that same experience with the PNT – perhaps because I’m still seeing the WT, so there’s been no real reason to trust her?

And what am I afraid of? Sure, being judged, even though rationally I know she won’t really judge. Feeling like a failure. Feeling not good enough. (Who said there’d been progress? Phooey!) Better to just keep quiet, right?

The unaskable

I can’t thank you all enough for your messages of sympathy and support in response to my last post. You helped me feel validated in my devastation, and less alone than I have felt. So thank you.

I confess I’ve spent much of the last week in tears. I’m not sure how I’ll ever come to terms with this. The PNT says I probably won’t. For a control freak like me, that’s hard to take.

Mum and I haven’t talked much about her new diagnosis either. It’s not her way; not our way. I have, of course, been reading endlessly to find out as much as I can about this new hideousness. It’s not good news. So bad, in fact, that instead of celebrating my first festive season without my ghastly father, I now fear this will be my last with Mum.

Mum, of course, hasn’t been reading and even if she had been I’m not sure how much of the horror she has understood and absorbed. I know she hasn’t been telling her friends the truth. Not the whole truth, anyway. She’s mentioned something about another cancer, but that’s about all. Not the ugliness of it being highly aggressive and incurable. I’m not sure if this is because she needs time to process it all, or is in denial, or both.

The obvious question, of course, is why don’t I ask her? Yea, right. How do you ask someone how they feel about dying? Do they want more treatment, or not? Is there anything they want to do before they go? How do they want to spend what might be their last few relatively healthy months? Is there anything I want to say to her before I lose that opportunity forever?

Of course, now is precisely the time I should be having these discussions with Mum. I’m not sure I can. Not only is it not our way, but I’m constantly afraid I’ll cry. And I’m afraid she’ll get snippy and cross and defensive. The Wonder Therapist said all of those things are pretty much guaranteed, but there are more serious things to worry about here. She’s right. I need to find the courage, somehow, to ask the unaskable.

How did we get here? – Part Two

Wow. I’d almost forgotten how difficult therapy can be sometimes. After all this time I never imagined that starting with a potential new therapist could be as hard as starting with the old one. I never imagined it would bring up some familiar issues – my old “friend” fear, especially the fear that she’ll see the “real” me and toss me out on my ear.

I still like the Potential New Therapist (PNT for now, I’ll christen her, in time ). I like the way she draws attention to my tears (which is mostly what she’s seen in our two sessions together ) and asks what they’re about. I like that it makes me look inside and check what’s going on (even if I can’t name it yet). I like that she uses psych terms for things, which enables me to bring the intellectual and the emotional together. And I really like that she wants me to bring what I’ve learned so far, rather than start afresh.

But I definitely don’t like that all this is making me feel less healed than I thought I was. And I don’t like how emotionally wobbly it’s making me. I’m also not that fond of the “50-minute hour”, though it’s made appreciate the Wonder T’s flexibility with her time.

My challenge for tomorrow is to talk to the Wonder T about how to tackle all this without falling apart, and whether this is the time for that, given everything else that’s going on. I can’t tell you how scared I am. Scared. To. Death.

How did we get here?

I’m not sure quite how this happened, but I may be on the verge of starting with a new therapist.

Like many a therapist, the Wonder T is keen on me having a number of people from whom I can seek support; a “back up”, so to speak. Hence, the Back Up Therapist, who’s had not infrequent mentions on this blog … and earlier (thankfully brief) episodes with pdoc and Stone Therapist. For one reason or another, I’m not entirely happy with Back Up T, so the Wonder T referred me to someone else.

I went to a session with New Back Up Therapist last week, expecting it to be just a “meet-and-greet”; an opportunity for her to see me when I’m not wigging out, so that if I ever see her when I am wigging out, she’ll have a baseline to compare it to, if you know what I mean.

What happened was something more. Something entirely unexpected. I like this therapist – she ticks all the boxes in terms of having a personality, a sense of humour, being a little self-deprecating … oh, and mature, which I’ve realised is important to me because I don’t want someone who’s straight out of school and only just finished reading the chapter on PTSD!

But she also ticked some other boxes, that I didn’t even know existed. I like her approach; I liked the way she drew attention to things I was saying in ways I haven’t experienced before. I liked the way she paid attention to her own reactions and the space between us, in a way the Wonder Therapist doesn’t always do. I also liked that I didn’t have to relive all that heinous sh** from the past all session. I even liked the way she said, “and how did that make you feel?” without seeming like a soggy blanket or hippie therapist from the 1970s. And so I made another appointment. I don’t really know why I did that, I just did; it felt right, I guess.

I don’t know what this means for my work with the Wonder Therapist. And that’s where things start to get wiggy inside. I know that seeing the two of them will do my head in, but whenever I think about not continuing with the Wonder T, I just completely freak out. The Wonder Therapist says I should do ‘what I want to do‘, but what does that mean? I think I know, I’m just not quite ready to admit it or deal with the fall out.

Manning up

I started to write this post about how I’d stepped up (or “manned up”) this week in coming clean with my therapist. And then I realised that I’d actually “manned up” in a few situations, so thought I’d give myself a big bloggy pat on the back.

1. I finally came clean with my therapist. Funny, I had avoided this in the session after my post, and by the time the next session (or the one after) rolled around, I felt much more able to tackle it. So much so that I barely squirmed or cried or anything – just had a “normal” (at least “semi-normal”) discussion with her about it. I’ve waxed lyrical on the benefits of talking to one’s therapist so many times in the blogosphere. Seems that sometimes there’s benefit in waiting, and not blurting.
2. I reported a guy at work for giving me a work nerd stick that contained p0rn0graphic material. It was gross and freaked me out … It came on the back of the bad trigger at work, so possibly I was more sensitive than I ordinarily would have been, but seriously people, pornography at work? Just. Not. Appropriate… EVER.
3. I’ve been feeling lazy and lardy and awful lately. For months actually. And then my BFF online pointed out that I used to go to the gym regularly, and it seemed to help with all the body tension. She’s right. What she said triggered a massive “a-ha!” moment in my brain, so I went to check out a new gym after work yesterday. Spur of the moment appointment to check out the gym, and a spur of the moment decision to sign up. I felt really motivated while I was there, so I went again this morning. It really brought my focus back to my body, and made me aware of all the places I’m carrying a ridiculous amount of tension. Of course it also made me aware of how much condition I’ve lost, but I’m hoping this will ease as I get back into a fitness regime, and (hopefully) gain some of my fitness back. Thanks BFF!

I also bombed my therapist today (as in ‘last minute bomb’ or LMB – kinda love it when we get to throw them occasionally) – “Why do you always ask the hard questions at the very end?” she asked. Ha ha! I asked her about my intense fear of abandonment and can she talk to me more in “intellectual terms” about it. I’m desperate to understand it, though I do fear it’s a bit like therapy in this regard – that if I stop intellectualising and just go with it, I’ll start to get better. Of course, I’m not sure what the “it” is in this situation. I guess that will be top of the agenda for next week…

Coming clean

I talked to a friend about my last post and everything that was going on. She said some things that really hit home.

First, that the dissociation I felt – the separation between the semi-functioning adult and the crying, hurting child – was sort of normal. I say ‘sort of’ but I mean normal, or normal for someone like me – someone with my history of PTSD, now under huge stress (think dead father, mother with cancer and in hospital coming up to six weeks, new job … need I go on?), with a little bit more stress piled on top and it all went to sh*t. So yea, kinda normal… kinda that thing Back Up Therapist called “climbing Mount Everest and complaining that it’s cold,” only on steroids. No wonder that when Little Kid Me was hurting so badly Grown Up Me decided not to feel anything at all.

The second thing is that I haven’t been entirely honest with my therapist about how I’m feeling, or what’s been going on. She of course doesn’t realise how scared I am or how stressed, because I haven’t been telling her. In fact she thinks i’m doing amazingly well. Guess I got her fooled, huh? My friend hit the nail on the head – and made the little Wonder Therapist homunculus in my head start jumping up and down – when she said that my therapist “isn’t a mind reader.” I forget that sometimes because she’s so good at reading people.

I haven’t told her about the dissociation. I haven’t told her about the way I’m stuffing those emotions away and hiding them behind my old friend food, and my new friend internet shopping.

I haven’t told her how scared I am about not having her there to support me. That the thought of this changing just terrifies me.

I haven’t told her because I’m scared she’ll think badly of me. She’s been talking about how well I’m doing, and yet, underneath, I’m a quivering mess. I don’t want to disappoint her. I don’t want her to judge me and I don’t want her to dislike me. That’s the truth.

And when my friend reminded me of the almighty explosion that inevitably occurs when you continue to stuff the emotions away…I was reminded of the reason I went into therapy in the first place – I’d been stuffing the emotions away and there was an almighty explosion. Apparently I’m on the fast track to doing that again, if I haven’t already.

Clearly I need to come clean with the Wonder Therapist.

Struggle City

I found myself on the Trigger Train the other day and ended up in Struggle City again. It’s been a while since I went there – I’d almost forgotten what it’s like. As an online friend said, it’s like all the coping skills I’ve gained just went flying out the window. This (extremely long) blog post is my attempt to download what happened, and figure out where I went wrong.

Anyway, last week I was at work and had to look at some DVDs related to sexual assault/abuse for something I’m doing. The company I work for has done some work in this area, and I was looking at what we’d done. “Uh oh,” I hear you say. Yea, I should have seen those neon warnings flashing as well. I’d been doing so well; I thought I was strong enough. Apparently not. The DVDs show interviews with victim/survivors and within about a minute I’d lost it. Tears streaming down my face, shaking like a leaf, and frozen to the chair. I couldn’t even explain it. It was like the reaction came from something deep and untouched inside. It’s the second time I’ve frozen in a short time, and that in itself freaked me out. I mean, what if I’d really needed to escape, but couldn’t?

Once I’d thawed enough to move, I g00gled ways to cope with PTSD triggers, remembered the coping mechanisms, breathed, then went for a walk in the gardens near my office. That helped; or helped enough for me to do some work, even if I was pretty wiggy and ineffectual for the rest of the day.

I also texted my therapist, who has always encouraged me to do that if I need help.  She was tied up, but suggested I contact the Back Up Therapist – another little technique of hers that has entered the fray recently. I didn’t feel comfortable doing that, and at that stage, thought I was ok.

I was still wiggy when I got home, and starting to feel a bit rejected by the Wonder Therapist. I had a long chat with one of my besties online. She did a great job of cheering me up and making me laugh, connecting me back to the real world. (If you’re reading, thank you!) I ate some dinner and watched something light on TV, feeling good that I’d been about to deal with a pretty awful day.

The next morning I felt pretty flat. I had to drive to my mother’s for the second time in a week, to pick up some stuff for her (she’s still in hospital) and to deal with her cat. She’s a lovely cat – at least to look at. She’s got a pretty little face and long silvery hair that unfortunately has become quite matted in Mum’s absence. The neighbours are doing a great job of feeding her, but not such a great job with the brushing. It’s hardly surprising – the cat practically takes your arm off if you try to brush her; even goes for Mum’s jugular sometimes, the little minx.

Anyway, to cut a long story short, I’d spent half the week ringing vets and catteries trying to find a reliable groomer. Finally found one and arranged to drop the cat off yesterday morning.

Apparently the adult part of me was with it enough to drive, though the whole way there some other part of me (Little Kid Me?) was upset, in tears, and cowering in the corner.

The cat groomer is lovely. She’s kind of eccentric, but very warm and gentle. I warmed to her almost instantly.  She certainly has a special something, because within about half an hour, Mum’s vicious little princess was crooning sweetly and looking quite at home (having yowled and hissed at me most of the way there). The Cat Lady said she couldn’t do the grooming in a couple of hours, and suggested I leave the cat with her for a week or two – which I did. I wouldn’t ordinarily just leave a cat anywhere, but I felt really comfortable with her. She obviously loves animals – has a few old strays of her own, a beautiful tank of marine fish (which she hand feeds), and is surrounded by a kind of Cat Disneyland, which even I wanted to play in!

I felt fine while I was with the Cat Lady, though once I hit the road, the wigginess started up again. I was freaking out about the sense that there were two of me – a Grown Up Me dealing with all the “practicalities” of the day; and a Little Kid Me who couldn’t cope with the practicalities or the emotions of it all, and just wanted to sit in the corner and colour in (literally).

I texted my therapist again – she’s often working weekends, and I thought may be she could squeeze me in. She sent me what I interpreted as a terse message saying she was having a day off and I should contact the Back Up, who was available.

Of course, Little Kid Me instantly felt rejected and abandoned, and thought the Wonder Therapist hated us. (Yea, I know that isn’t necessarily very rational, but that’s what we thought.) I managed to hold it together enough to get home and to the hospital to visit Mum. Mum was in a foul mood – she’d had some unexpected heart trouble the previous night and been transferred to the cardiac unit for monitoring. Of course “monitoring” means they interrupt you every few minutes, day and night, to check your stats. Not only that, but the cardiac unit is a bit of a dump compared to her other ward – and the nursing staff pretty terrible. Needless to say she wasn’t in a very good mood.

When I mentioned about the cat groomer, Mum flipped. And when I mentioned that I’d left the cat there, she practically hit the roof. I couldn’t believe it. Once again I just froze. I didn’t cry – not in front of my mother, hell no – but Little Kid Me was certainly crying on the inside. I’d spent the whole day trying to help Mum, trying to do the right thing for her cat, and I just got in trouble for it. I knew I shouldn’t have told her, but after the heart trouble she’d wanted me to spend the day in the hospital with her, but I couldn’t because I had Cat Lady teed up, so I told her, and initially she was understanding… but not after the fact.

Eventually I escaped the hospital … still traumatised by my mother, and the text message from my therapist, and wondering what I’d done to make them both hate me. I got home and burst into tears. I sent a text message to the Back Up Therapist, thinking at worst she would help short-circuit the hell inside; at best, she’d help me. I still haven’t heard back from her. So much for being available. And now Little Kid Me thinks she hates us too.

I have to say I felt pretty alone at that point, realising that there really is only me, that help isn’t there when you need it, blah blah blah. I decided I deserved some chocolate … and some more chocolate … and pretty soon found myself eating fries and ice cream and all sorts of crap … until I was sick. Clearly the healthier coping strategies had flown out the window after all.

I eventually got to sleep, with the help of some sleeping pills, and when I woke this morning, my first thought was “ugh, I don’t want to wake up. I don’t have to feel anything when I’m asleep.” I got through today’s hospital visit with the help of some more junk food to squash down my emotions around Mum. That worked, though it upset my tummy (probably a left over from last night) and now I have a massive headache

And now I’m just exhausted. And scared to hell that my therapist won’t see me anymore. Scared that the Trigger Train will keep coming through for the rest of my life; that I will never be able to cope with it. But mostly scared my therapist will kick me to the curb and I’ll be left all alone, with no real way to deal with any of this.

Anniversaries

They say anniversaries – birthdays, holidays, etc – are difficult times when you’re grieving. Today’s my father’s birthday – or would have been, if he were still alive. For some reason it’s affected me more than I expected. I can’t even put my finger on why that is, though I’m trying to accept that perhaps it just is.

And yesterday was father’s day here, and I was reminded of all the good father’s out there, though I’m not even sure what a good one looks like. I was particularly stung by a message from our nation’s leader on that social networking site wishing “all” father’s a Happy Father’s Day. All fathers? Really? Even the crappy ones? Even the ones who do unspeakable things? She’s kidding, right? They don’t deserve a happy anything, in my book, let alone a day that recognises them.

Perhaps I’m feeling stung it’s because I didn’t have to ring him and wish him happy birthday, or feign interest in father’s day, which is something I did every year, though I’ve no idea why (except to keep the peace). Perhaps it’s because I didn’t have to buy him a gift only to have him tell me it was cr*p. Perhaps it’s because I realise how dysfunctional his behaviour was, and know now that I deserved better. I don’t know.

My mother also had her major surgery a few days ago. She’s doing ok, although it’s difficult seeing her so frail, doped up, in pain, attached to a bunch of machines. Much more difficult than I imagined. She was a little emotional today about my father’s birthday – go figure? – though I’m sure it was the drugs talking.

Perhaps I’m also stung because my father isn’t here to not give a sh*t about my mother’s health. He wouldn’t have. Couldn’t have cared less. Perhaps his physical absence is a reminder of all the times he was emotionally absent as well. I don’t know.

Last week the Wonder Therapist talked about me needing someone who will scoop me up at the end of a rough day. I needed scooping up today, it was a rough day. And yet, again, I was reminded there isn’t anyone.

She’s right, damn her

Damn that Wonder Therapist. Sometimes she gives me the you-know-whats. Of course, it’s only because she’s right – she’s ALWAYS right – and she’s a certain star-sign, so she LOVES being right. Hmph.

It’s been a chaotic week here, running around to doctors and tests for Mum, organising the nursing home for the father, and dealing with things in my life (yes, apparently I still have one). I haven’t had a minute to myself, and it’s taken its toll.

I’ve also been overwhelmed by my mother’s incessant negativity and nagging – much of which I’ve wrongly taken personally. As a small example – driving home from one of the many hospital visits, I decided not to take the main road as I knew Mum would complain about the traffic. So, in a bid to protect myself, I took the back streets, only to have to endure this as we got near home:

Mum: “Why didn’t you take the main road instead of all these small windy streets?”

Me: Thinking, ugh, I can’t win. Because I knew you’d complain about the traffic, so I went the back way and instead I got to listen to you complain about the small streets.

Mum: Laughing.

I realise now this had little to do with me and was just mindless venting on my mother’s part, and thankfully I had the presence of mind to bat it back to her, but it’s still exhausting.

The Wonder Therapist pointed out that this is exactly why I went to see her in the first place, and that I’ve very rapidly fallen back into old patterns.

Yep, I have. And I hate it. No wonder I’ve been feeling completely out of control and like I have no ‘self’. I even remarked to myself during the week that I felt the same way when my father had his strokes and my life became a cycle of hospital visits and work.

The Wonder Therapist also pointed out that I’m falling back into that hideous co-dependent thing with my mother: “who needs who here?” she asked.

Yep, I’ve done that, too. It’s true that I need Mum here, both in the physical sense, and the metaphysical. It’s nice to be needed. We all want to be needed. At the moment, I feel like my mother is the only person on the planet who needs me (though she doesn’t, really). I could list a whole lot of other people who “need” me, though at the end of the day they don’t really – we are all dispensable.

After wallowing for a couple of days, and alternately ranting and raving or laughing at the Wonder Therapist in my head, I’ve resolved to try not to get trapped in the old pattern anymore. I’m much healthier mentally when I don’t do that.

My mother will be coming to stay with me while she has medical treatment. There’s a geographical, as well as emotional/physical reason for this. Her treatment is to take place in town, a little over an hour’s drive from her place. She’ll have to go in to the hospital every day and as the treatment goes on, it’s likely she won’t feel much like driving home. It will also be nice to have her close by, so I can look after her a bit, make sure she eats properly, and all that jazz.

So this is going to be a testing time, in many senses of the word. A time also to try my hand at some new ways to break those old patterns. A friend suggested I try things like:

“Mum, in case you hadn’t noticed, I’m a grown up now and I can decide when I need to eat/drink/sleep/wee” or

“Mum, how about we set ourselves a challenge and have a whinge-free day?”

I like those, I might try them. They might not be perfect, but they’re a (safe) start. I also thought this might be the impetus I need to get back to yoga. There’s a lovely little studio just around the corner from me. And, double bonus, this will get me out of the house when my mother’s around

Updates, bravery and naughtiness

I’m home. My trip was amazing, but I’m glad to be home. I’ll admit that I didn’t want to come home; didn’t want to come back to my life, but now that I’m here, I’m glad. It’s nice to be around trees and gardens again and nice to have rain, having spent time in rainless countries. It’s especially nice to be able to eat and drink without thinking too much about hygiene or nasty diseases.

The other reason I’m glad to be home is that I’m not around my mother any more. I’ve spent three weeks with her and it’s just about done me in. Enough to bring back the darkness and thoughts of doing myself in. (To all you Captain Obviouses out there, yes that was probably predictable and thanks, I’ll know that in future.)

A contributing factor to the darkness is that I reduced my meds a few weeks ago, just before I went away. Yea, I know, not smart. I know that now. I was feeling good and taking two pills a day was annoying me so I thought I’d reduce the dose. Silly me. Actually “naughty” me, as the Wonder Therapist said, with a smirk on her face – “you naughty, naughty girl.” (She’s a member of the Captain Obvious club, too.)

I could spend this post on tales of woe about my mother’s behaviour, or how ordinary I feel, but I won’t. I’m feeling down enough as it is. Instead I thought I’d share a few marks of progress I experienced while away. I even surprised myself!

• Almost no pre-flight anxiety on the day of my departure, not even at the airport or on the plane. Once on board, a couple of drinks and some magic pills and I slept nearly the whole way
• I rode a camel AND on the spur of the moment, without “preparation” (whatever that might have entailed)
• I rode a donkey, also on the spur of the moment, and even if I was scared to death the whole time it was prancing up the side of a cliff knocking pedestrians out of its way, I still did it
• I talked to strangers (tourists and locals) interestedly and comfortably, without being embarrassed
• I went out looking for supermarkets in strange towns – WITHOUT A MAP! and without consulting the hotel concierge about where to go or what I might find
• I took taxis in countries where I don’t speak (or read) the language, without having a panic attack about where I might end up or what might happen
• I realised that my body is just my body, it’s not disgusting as I once thought, it’s just as “normal” as everyone else’s. Ok, I still don’t like it, but I don’t feel as disgusting about it as I once did
• I ate foreign food, without getting paranoid about what it might do to me
• I generally got through the days rolling with whatever happened, not worrying about what might happen next or getting paranoid that something bad would happen.
• And even when I was anxious, I was generally able to talk myself through it, without descending into a total panic-merchant

Even though my fortitude didn’t last the whole trip, I did well with these things. So a double smiley face to me