Get that woman into therapy now...

This was a jokey line that my husband and I used to use when we watched The X-Files.  Agent Scully was always finding her way into a jam...and you know, stuff like being abducted and probed by aliens would likely cause many psychological problems.

At that time, it never would have occurred to me that one day it would be me in therapy.  But today I graduated from it.

Right after Mum died, I didn't really feel I needed counselling, but later, even before my breakdown, I knew things weren't quite right, and I started a search for a good therapist.  I had recommendations from friends, from family, from someone with insight into which therapists were best trained in cognitive behavioural therapy.  I had numbers, I had names.  But I didn't do anything.

Leaving things in my own hands doesn't always work well, and I found I had to wait until I was pushed to crisis point before I could make that step.  Once I had the breakdown, I went to the GP and told him point blank that I needed to be referred to someone.  I needed to be told what to do, where to go and who to see.  I received six funded psychotherapist sessions and was on my way.

Enter Linda.*  With appointment duly arranged, I turned up at the unassuming offices that made up the substantial practice that Linda was a part of.  Linda met me at reception, and led me up to her office tucked away upstairs.  She was a striking looking woman in her early 40s with big green eyes, who walked like a dancer and always had grey regrowth showing at the roots of her long brown hair.

Fortunately, I had been pre-warned by a friend that I might wonder what was being achieved in the beginning.  There was a bit of knitted eyebrows, nodding, 'Hmmmm..' and 'tell me about your mother.' 

But over time, we managed to get to the bottom of how deeply my loss had effected me.  Linda helped me understand the gravity of what had happened, and helped me deal with how my body was processing what was going on in my mind.

But not only that, she helped me get to the bottom of other anxieties that had plagued me for years.  Health anxiety was a major one for me.  A headache or pain anywhere on my body would set me off on a spiral of anxiety about having a brain tumor or a heart attack.  Linda helped me understand that this was likely a physical response to what was going on in my head.  Not only this, she taught me about how to stop pushing against my feelings, and start accepting them and working through them, rather than shoving them in the closet and pushing the door shut...even if all my baggage wasn't going to fit in there.  Banging up against a brick wall doesn't get you very far.

Today I started our session by saying that I was thinking of ditching her, but how would I know I was ready? So the hour became a retrospective of the last six months, and what I had achieved.  Linda has the skills to get into my head and to come up with something pithy that perfectly describes what I am thinking but fail to articulate, and many of our breakthroughs will stay with me for life.

In 'Serendipity' my mother talks about the profound effect her psychotherapist had on her life in 1972-73.  She considers him her lifesaver - to the point that she was still contacting him periodically decades later.

Going to therapy is interesting, because you develop a very intimate relationship with someone over time, yet of course that relationship is always one sided.  Mothers often talk about the relationship they have with their midwives.  Perhaps these sorts of professional relationships are unique because those particular practioners are present in our lives at times when we are going through great change.

With Linda's help, I am able to understand that I have been through a life changing experience.  Something in me is different, and something in me is missing.  As Linda said to me today, loss finds a place to settle.  That feeling is never gone, but finds its place in your new life - the new life you have without that person.

After this debrief session, Linda said 'You'll be fine.'  And you know, I think she's right.  There will still be ups and downs.  But yes, I think I'll be fine.



*Not her real name.  And it feels really weird calling her something else.

Finding Solace

I have only ever been to one support group in my life.  Its not unusual for young Mums to attend coffee groups and new mothers' groups, and that may be the full extent of many people's experiences of the support group environment.  For men, nothing may the extent of their's.

Right after Mum died, I was advised about several support services.  Victim Support met us at the retirement village after Mum was found.  We received information about free grief counselling through the funeral director.  And I was told about a group called Solace - a group that existed to support people who had experienced loss through suicide.

Of course, during my year of denial, I decided I didn't need counselling, and I certainly didn't need to go and share with a group.

Of course my mind was changed about many things since Mum's one year anniversary. In February, during a discussion about finding time to do things for myself, my therapist suggested I go along to the Solace support group that coming weekend.  I figured it was worth a try.

Initially, I was nervous.  I got to the venue late, and couldn't see clearly where to go.  I found the right door to the room where they were meeting, and walked in on a surprisingly large group of about ten (which I later found was, apparently, a small turnout..!)

I had been apprehensive about what I would find.  I thought the group would we weighted with parents who had lost children (because, after all, youth suicide is in the media all the time, right?) and that my situation wouldn't be relevant a year on.

How wrong I was.

There was a mix of people - all ages, all walks of life.  The time between their loss and that meeting day varied between months and decades.  But none of that mattered.  What mattered was that we had all, at some stage, experienced a loss we were finding, or had found, difficult to understand.

I immediately felt a connection with this group where I knew I could talk in a non-judgemental space.  And I think with suicide, sometimes you need to talk about things that might be 'controversial' to others, but the people who have been through that loss know what you mean.

If you or anyone you know has experienced loss through suicide, I would highly recommend getting in touch with your local Solace group - there are two (that I am aware of) in New Zealand.

Like anything in life, nobody understands like someone who has been there and done that.



Find your local Solace group here:

Auckland

Hamilton

Freakin' out over four decades

Today I got the bad news that a health professional that I respect and admire had committed suicide.  This was a real trigger for me, and prompted me to finally put this post in writing...

Much of the body of  'Serendipity' was Mum's story of her journey though her mental illness and treatment.  The details of this journey were always hidden from us, although my brother had been told some of the story - hence we had a term for this period of her life - 'The Freakout of 1972'  I never talked to Mum about it, because it had not been her that had told me.  I felt she would tell me if she though it relevant or necessary.  It turns out that she only felt it to be either of those things after she had gone.

In an earlier post on this blog, I talked about what grief looks like.  It turns out that was simply the air punches leading up the the whammy that would knock the wind out of me. 

For most of 2011, I managed to hold myself together remarkably well.  Friends would express sorrow about Mum's passing, and ask how I was.  "I am fine...really," I would say.  And I believed it.  My brother and I sorted out Mum's affairs and tidied up loose ends, and I was fine.  I carried on my paid work, my unpaid work and I was fine.

November 2011 loomed - the first anniversary.  But I was going to be FINE, right?

Enter the surprises that grief had in store for me. 

Right after Mum had passed away, I had been to see my doctor about chest pains and increased anxiety.  See a counsellor, he had suggested.  Because I lived outside the PHO district, this was tricky - he couldn't refer me to anyone, and I was left to my own devices.  My own devices aren't particularly reliable, so despite gathering some phone numbers, that was as far as my actions proceeded.

Having suffered from chronic hyperventilation syndrome for ten years, I had noticed this was becoming increasingly hard to self-manage, and decided to take myself to see a physiotherapist at Breathing Works .  But, before I did that, I wanted to rule out any physical reasons for my feelings of shortness of breath, so went to a new GP in my local area.  He was great, and we talked about lots of possibilities around what might be aggravating my condition.  We talked about anxiety, and different approaches to handling it.  I'll get around to that, I thought....

I started seeing an osteopath about the tension in my back - although rather than it causing the hyperventilation, it was a symptom of it.  I also saw the physio at Breathing Works, which was great in terms of reinforcing some of the knowledge I already had, and providing practical exercises to do to help things improve.

So far, so good.

November rolled around, and I was off to two day meeting for the volunteer organisation I sat on the Board for.  Everything was fine for the first day, but I severely underestimated the impact the location and timing of this meeting would have on me.  The last time I had seen Mum was immediately after the same meeting the previous year when I had dropped by afterwards on the way home, and even over that weekend she had come to take my toddler son away for some respite from boring adults sitting around talking.

On the Saturday morning I began hyperventilating, and needed to lie down.  I decided I needed to leave the meeting, and managed to get myself home by singing along to the radio to stop myself panicking and hyperventilating.  Once home, I went to bed.  Later that afternoon I had an episode of uncontrollable shaking.

I decided I probably needed to see the GP about the hyperventilating again, and after reading some info from Breathing Works, figured I had better get my iron levels tested. (It turned out they were low, but I didn't find this out until a bit later - low haemoglobin is a trigger for hyperventilation syndrome)

I went to work as normal on Tuesday.... but I felt anything but normal.  I had another episode of shaking when I woke up.  Something was just 'not right' - I felt a sensation of constant built up tension that had no release valve.  I lasted at work until about 11am, when I decided I needed to 'get out of there' and see a doctor.  I didn't even try to get into my regular GP, but went to the local Accident and Medical clinic, where I spoke to the doctor on duty about what had happened over the weekend.  He gave me a small prescription of Lorazepam just to 'take the edge off' and provide some support while I sorted myself out.

The next day I went back to my GPs clinic again, and saw a different doctor.  I explained what had happened, and said that this time I think I needed outside help at setting myself on a path to recovery.  Leaving it up to me wasn't working, so could he please refer me to a therapist and give me some medication. That in itself was quite a big deal, as I had resisted the idea of medication for a very long time.  It is a credit to the doctors at this surgery that they do not treat medication as the first or only course of action, but recognise it as part of a package of treatment options.  The doctor gave me a three month prescription for citalopram and put through a referral to that PHO's psychological services. 

That night I took my first dose of citalopram, and overwhelmed by my anxiety about taking drugs for my brain, had the mother of all panic attacks.  I felt my body going hot and prickly, it was hard to catch my breath.  I was so terrified I was going to die that I got my husband to call 111.  I couldn't even tell the operator how I was feeling because it was so hard to catch my breath.  The first response paramedic arrived and took all my vital signs...which were all good.  Terrified of this happening again, I went into hospital for observation for the night. 

This was a turning point in terms of my anxieties and panic attacks.  Panic attacks produce frightening symptoms that the sufferer can interpret as life threatening - chest pain, shortness of breath, dizziness.  Having been in the hospital and having my vital functions as assessed as all normal is possibly the best thing that could have happened.  I can feel reassured that chest pain does not mean I am going to die.  My heart and lungs are all fit and healthy.

My subsequent work with my therapist has revealed that I had seriously underestimated the gravity of my loss, and that I spent a year essentially 'in denial.'  My body couldn't hold in that tension and raw emotion any longer, and reacted with panic, anxiety, and I now think, depression.  I needed help, but I had to reach a crisis point before I would admit it and before I would really push to ask for it.

Anxiety and depression are such difficult beasts to tame.  Mostly the problem is in recognising them in the first place.  Then getting to the bottom of why they are lurking in that corner in the shadows.  If you leave them there long enough, eventually they will turn into the monster that becomes bold enough to step into the middle of the room and roar!

I could recognise my anxiety easily - depression, less so.  And although I thought I had grief pegged - how wrong I was.

I realised later that the first pages of "Serendipity" describe Mum's early encounters with the psychotherapist that changed her life, and enabled her to achieve all the things she dreamed of. 

In March 1972 she began that journey.  Forty years ago. 

I am Serendipity's Daughter, indeed.