Where the Acute Morphed Into the Chronic

As life as I know it would, I wrote a very good blog posting this morning - if I do say so myself.  I was so excited about it. I saved it, I thought, scheduled it to post on Friday at 3 a.m., started another blog posting, and left to run some errands.  When I went to do the final edit, I discovered much to my chagrin and dismay that everything I wrote, even the captions of the pictures, etc. was gone.  All gone.  If I had the energy, I would cry.  Should I see what I can do to recreate it?  Or should I just post that today's blog is missing because the dog ate it?

Oh yes.  I don't have a dog. 

Our campsite at Lands End park in Tobermory, ON.  Hubby setting up.

There are times in life when you have a clear cut beginning to a different phase in a situation whether it be physical, emotional or both.  There are other times when you don't, when things just morph from one thing to another without a clear cut divide.  For me, when the acute phase following workplace bullying morphed into the chronic phase, there was a dividing point I can look at and recognize as we were heading to a camping vacation about six months or so after the first stress breakdown.

Although I knew I hadn't been feeling up to par, I had no idea that there was something called the chronic phase after a trauma much less what it looked like, tasted like and, most importantly, felt like. This is the phase that feels like it never ends.  The one with intangible, mostly vague symptoms which are both physical and psychological: a fatigue that never seems to end, lack of balance, hyper vigilance, combined with the aforementioned continuation of both cognitive/psychological problems and verbal screw ups.

Oh joy, oh delight.

Just what I didn't want and also  something I was totally unprepared for.

Decommissioned Lighthouse,  Tobermory, 

I hadn't been feeling my best for some weeks before we left for a car camping adventure the fall after the end for me at the workplace came and the breakdowns started.  My mind was definitely down for the count.  It wasn't working well enough to get all our gear together.  So helpful hubby put everything together.  He chose the tent, our small canoe camping one - which turned out to be a good decision as I started seeking places that felt safe and the smaller tent felt safer to me than the larger one we usually use for what we call car camping.  He also forgot to test things beforehand, so we had a few surprises and had to find a hardware store first off.

I had two indications right off that something was definitely off inside me.  First, I was always tired.  So tired, that functioning wasn't  happening and sleep didn't help.  I never felt refreshed after a sleep.  I still felt tired and draggy without any let up.

Second, is what I now know is hyper vigilance.  At that time, I didn't even know the term existed, let alone what it translated to in real life, my life.

As we were walking in the small town of Tobermory after getting set up at the campground, a young child ran past me whooping loudly just as she passed me.  I jumped.  I started breathing rapidly.  I was scarred and ready to run.  Only hubby's presence kept me vertical.

It was then we realized that going into a crowded, noisy restaurant was not going to happen.  So hubby suggested we go to the grocery story and buy sandwiches, drinks, etc. which we then took to the lighthouse to eat.  All around the lighthouse are rocks.  Big rocks,  Uneven rocks.  Hubby found a crevice in the rocks where we could be half hidden from other humans as we ate.  It was good.  Very good.

First crisis averted - barely.

Cedar Strip Canoe

While sitting in our little hidey hole, we had a good view of the water around us watching boats including this one which paddled ashore.

That first night, I was snuggled in my warm, down-filled sleeping bag by 7 p.m.

Cabot Head Lighthouse

We've been to Tobermory many times over the years so it was familiar to me.  Kind of a safe place for me.

This time we did different things than we'd done before.  Partly because of my symptoms but also because the weather was bad and most boat excursions were not going out.

Therefore, we went to Cabot Head Lighthouse for the first time.

Looking at the picture above, I look "normal".  I look like everyone else.  There is no indication that I have PTSD and trauma.  There is no indication that anything is wacky inside me.

That's what PTSD and trauma are about.  They're invisible to the naked eye.  One has to look below the surface.  Way below the surface to "see" it.  One has to engage the person in conversation and listen - really listen - and get to know them under the skin.  Get to know the person inside the outward shell.

Which most people don't have the time or inclination to do.

Cabot Head Lighthouse

At that time, I was still thinking that the exhaustion and fatigue I was experiencing were short-term and would go away soon.  I had no idea that not only had they come to stay but were in the process of making themselves at  home in my body.

I was still looking for ways to go forward in my life not only post workplace abuse but also post work.  I discovered that people who below to the friends of Cabot Lighthouse association could volunteer to spend a week or so in the lighthouse in the former lighthouse keeper's accommodations for a modest fee in exchange for volunteer work which could range from groundskeeping to lighthouse tours.

Cabot Head Lighthouse

We spent time inspecting the lighthouse, walking various trails around the grounds and, of course, taking lots and lots of pictures.

Sunset at Singing Sands, part of the Fathom Five National Park

No trip to Tobermory would be complete for us without a trip to Singing Sands especially at sunset where the above picture was taken.

Friends of ours were also in the area at the same time.  When we were at Tobermory at the same time, we would arrange to meet at Singing Sands to enjoy - and photograph - the sunset together.  This time, the weather was bad and hubby and I discussed if we should go to Singing Sands as we weren't sure that the other couple would come.  After some discussion, we went anyway.  Just in case.  It turns out the other couple had the same discussion and came to the same conclusion.

The picture above came out of that meeting.  That decision to go just in case the others did too.

It reminds me of how there is always hope in even the darkest of situations.

In my case, hope for healing.

Time to leave Tobermory and head on to new adventures.

As with all good, and even not so good, things must come to an end, so did this part of our adventure along with this part of the noticeable beginnings of the chronic stage post trauma.

We left on the ChiCheemaun (Big Canoe) ferry across Lake Huron on one side and Georgian Bay on the other to Manitoulin Island and from there to the mainland and the Trans Canada Highway.

This part of the adventure ended, but more both good and bad are around the corner.

Looking down from a passenger deck

*****

Although I've done my best to remember and recreate what I wrote this morning, it's not the same.  There are things added and there are things which didn't make it into this narrative.

Even though it's not the same as the original narrative, I hope it will still speak to you and let you know that you're not alone.

My Happy Place

Sitting with a new friend the other day who is going through many challenges, I asked her: "What is your happy place?" 

Where do you go when life overwhelms you?

For her, her happy places, the places where she finds relief from her constant battles with different illnesses are such things as tae kwon doe, the video game of warcraft where she can "smash" things and relieve the stress, knitting which is a great right brain activity and watching a favourite TV show.

We all need those happy places we can go to no matter what our life looks like.

In my journey of recovery, I have several happy places.  Cycling.  Walking.  Knitting. Watching DVDs, gardening ....

My favourite is to watch growing things grow in my garden. To watch them come up again year after year, grow, bud and then burst into full bloom all in good time.

In the very back of my long, narrow backyard is a flower garden which I created in memory of my mom shortly after her passing several years ago.  She loved flowers.  She had a garden for many years with both flowers and tomatoes.  She always started tomatoes from seed in the large picture window in the living room.  At some point, she branched out to other vegetables including squash.  I remember we ate squash one year until it was coming out of our ears.  She got got creative in how she cooked it.

In my yard, Mom's garden is mostly flowers - with the one exception of tomatoes grown by seed in my living room.  Under gro lights. No garden in her memory would be complete without at least one tomato plant started from seed

It makes me feel closer to her.  It's my way of honouring her memory in a tangible way.

Last year, for the first time since the "injury" from workplace abuse, I was able to do more things in the garden such as pulling weeds and  enlarging several areas in other parts of the yard.  I called those areas my "do it by self" gardens as for once I didn't rely on hubby for the heavy work.  I felt strong enough to do it by self.  I grew more flowers from seed and they flourished which brought joy to my heart and soul.

Daily, once it gets warm enough for things to start waking up from their long winter's sleep, I go outside and make a tour of my yard and see what new things are coming up.  What new things are blooming.

Spring is an exciting time for me.

I love the orderliness of nature how one type of flower proceeds another.  First are the late winter, early spring flowers such as snow crocus followed by other types of crocus which in turn are followed by daffodils and tulips.  Then comes the iris.  The parade of flowering plants goes on throughout the spring, summer and even fall.  A cacophony (visually) of colour.

Last fall, I planted more than 100 spring bulbs - my mom always liked the spring flowers coming up yearly in her garden - and am waiting for them to peak through the ground, grow and then bloom.

Just like cycling where each kilometre peddled is a huge victory for me, so is my garden.

Each weed pulled.  Each bit of border enlarged.  Each new plant inputted into the ground.  Each new bloom.  These are all victories on my journey of recovery.  Mixed in the back garden along with the flowers are the tomatoes.  For me, the joy is in growing them.  Eating their fruit is a byproduct.  A good byproduct.

As the spring and summer progresses, I like to sit on my patio in the evening with hubby on the new deck he built two years ago watching birds flitting about.  Drinking in all the colours of the plants in front of me. 

When I look at all the blooming things, I feel peace.  This is why this is my happy place. It is a place filled with peace in an otherwise chaotic world.

One Thing Leads to Another

My life is a series of interconnecting threads all involving the same person - me - going in different directions all at the same time.

For the purposes of this blog, I'm separating them out.  Kind of like teasing out the separate strands of knotted yarn.  Especially when they're all different colours connected to different skeins each of which will be used (eventually) for a different purpose.

So right now, we're looking at one skein, one colour of yarn.  A vibrant one.  A necessary one.  One which brings joy to my life.  One which makes me feel vibrant and alive.  

A happy place.

One which has been significant on my personal road to recovery post workplace abuse.

Cycling.

*****

In my life I tend to go with the flow.  I start out with a plan but then it kind of morphs into it's own thing.

Take cycling for instance.

What started as a simple goal to get out of my house and become more active morphed into a journey of sorts.

A journey of adventure.

It began with a parking lot cycling round and round and round again - in both directions.

Then it morphed into challenging myself to master what we locally call the Lancaster Hill - because it's a steepish hell on Lancaster Street.

I mastered that hill - once - two years in succession.  On my first mastery, I found myself sitting on large rocks outside the Tim Hortons which sits at the top of this hill breathing heavily, resting to get enough strength to go back down the hill and home.

I stopped a passer by who gladly agreed to capture this moment of victory on my cell phone.

I'm inordinately proud of every milestone I make on this road to recovery.  Especially this one on this bike.

She's exactly what I need to be able to ride again, but she is one heavy sucker.   She's also not as manoeuvrable as a two-wheeled bike.

What can I say?

She gets the job done.

By the way, she now has a name: Freedom Hope.

Just in case you're interested.

The adventure morphed some more once I got a car with a trailer hitch so my bike could be taken to different areas.

I have a fertile imagination.  That fertile imagination led me - and my bike along with my long sufferin', ever lovin' husband - to Tobermory, Ontario at the tip of the Bruce Peninsula.

No major reason except that I just wanted to and that Tobermory is part of my "comfort zone" in ways as we've been there many times over the past

The weekend that worked for us turned out to be the weekend of Tobermory's annual ChiCheemaun festival named after the ferry which takes people and vehicles across Georgian Bay on one side and Lake Huron on the other to Manitoulin Island and from there to the Trans Canada Highway.

Cycling Tobermory was more of a challange than I had bargained for.

For one thing there were hills.  Lots of them. All over the place.

Riding an adapted bike has it's good qualities - and it's negative ones.  It's not as maneuverable as a two-wheeled bike.  It's not lean and mean.  More like overweight and clumsy.

It does get the job done, but has it's own challenges.  I discovered much to my chagrin that some of the roads are built on a slant.

My bike with that extra pair of wheels on the bike doesn't do slants.  It tends to develop a mind of it's own and go one way or the other.  Hence the middle picture.  Freedom Hope bucked me off.  Fortunately it was a soft landing.

Riding around Tobermory led me to cross paths with with this cardboard and duct tape monstrosity: a "rubber duck" cardboard boat for the annual cardboard boat race in Little Tub Harbour in the heart of Tobermory.

It was hysterical.

One of the best experiences I've had in my journey of recovery.

In addition, while talking with the family who built the duck boat, I discovered that a huge, six story tall rubber duck was coming to Toronto Harbour for Canada's 150th anniversary of Confederation.

Which led to another adventure.

Not to Toronto.  Oh no.  Hubby does not like big cities.  However, we discovered that this giant rubber duck was going to make a short tour of Ontario.

The next stop after Toronto was Owen Sound which is a day trip for us.

We got there early.  And just walked around.  Me with my camera around my neck taking pictures of anything that caught my fancy.

No, I didn't have my bike with me.  I did have my camera and my hubby - which were just as good.  Actually, even better.

Just going out and doing things makes a huge difference on the road to recovery.

Looking at the pictures aka memories aka endorphins of that day keeps the journey alive.

The journey that is not just about cycling but about reclaiming what I lost in the workplace:  ME!

After all is said and done, I can definitely say: "I saw the Rubber duck".

And I'll even let you touch me.

Regaining Me: First Steps

The photo above was taken June 7th, 2017 at a high point in my journey toward reclaiming my life post workplace abuse on the #GCCCanada when I mastered what is known locally at the Lancaster Hill - a personal nemesis and challenge.  It took a lot of steps to get to this point. 

It took a lot of work on the general journey toward recovery on many fronts to get there.

It was not just about riding a bicycle after so many years, it was also about discovering and reclaiming what I had left post workplace abuse.

It took pressing forward and not giving up.

It also took learning to be gentle with myself and accepting and valuing myself for what I am now.

It took realizing that I'm not the leanest and meanest in the pack but am closer to resembling the tortoise rather than the hare.  And being OK with that.

It took perseverance, determination and willpower.

My primary motivation was to find a safe way to get out of the house and into the wider world.

In the aftermath of my experience in the workplace, I adapted to a largely sedentary lifestyle, one in which I spent the largest part of each day in one small room in my house.  It goes by different names according to who you ask: the office as it has my computer there; my creation room as I keep yarn, patterns, and project there so I can create in this room; my safe room as only people like hubby and people I deem emotionally safe as allowed inside.

It is basically the only place I felt comfortable.

I wasn't even comfortable in the rest of the house.  And it's a small house.  I would get out of my safe room to go to the kitchen and fix food and then immediately head back to my safe room, my comfort zone.  I would cook and eat supper with hubby in the kitchen and then immediately head back to my safe haven. Ditto personal needs.  The only other room I felt somewhat comfortable in was my bedroom and only then if I were huddled under the covers with a pillow over my head thus creating my own personal safe space in which to read, sleep and pray.

Therefore, this was a huge step forward on my personal journey of recovery post workplace abuse.

*****

My first attempt at getting into shape to ride for my first GreatCycleChallenge stint did not go well.  Okay.  It went very poorly.  My idea was to ride my bike on the sidewalk to the nearest corner - a whopping distance of three houses.  The bike though had a mind of its own refusing to cooperate at all.  It would not go in a straight line.  It veered this way, than that like a bucking bronco trying to throw me off.  To make matters more humiliating, I had an audience - my 20 something male neighbour's child who was tidying up his parents' front garden.  I kind of semi sort of made it to the cross street then wisely decided to dismount and walk the thing back home.  Again passing my neighbour.

It turned out that the tire was flat, the odometer wasn't working because it needed a new battery and I think a few other things were amiss.  My ever lovin', long sufferin' hubby made these things right.  It's amazing how much better a bike works when there is air in the tires.

Things went a lot better after that, and I slowly built up confidence, speed and endurance.

My primary goal was to ride 50 km during the month of June and raise $50 for paediatric cancer research at Sick Kids Hospital in Toronto.  Neither of which I was 100% certain I could reach.

However, I had goals within that goal.  Secondary goals. Personal goals.

I wanted to be able to ride 5-10 miles (notice the change in measurements from miles to km and back again?  I did my first riding back in my 20s in the States hence the miles, now I live in Canada hence the kilometres).

 I wanted to be able to ride a set route which involves hills and country riding.

I wanted to be able to ride my bike to Uptown Waterloo which I believe is a distance of some 5-6 km and again involves hills.

I wanted to be able to use my bike as a secondary means of transportation.

I wanted to master what is known locally as the Lancaster Hill.

Most importantly, I wanted to get into better shape physically - and mentally.

Then there were what I call objectives.  There's a bike route/path from Niagara Falls Ontario to Niagara on the Lake, Ontario which I'd seen on day trips there and I wanted to cycle it at least in part.

I wanted to cycle the bike path along the Welland Canal at least in part.

I wanted to reclaim me.  Whoever that is now post workplace abuse.

I wanted to see how far I could go.

To accomplish some of these goals and objectives, I needed a car equipped with a trailer hitch for a bike carrier.

I needed the help of a collaborator, and hubby became a willing participant and even encourager in all of this.  He found bike trails for me - and transported me there and back.

He kept an eye out for me when I rode - and still does.

And by the end of the first cycle challenge, I'd accomplished more than I thought was possible.

Reclaiming Me

In my mind, I'm lean and mean flying like the wind on my light weight 10 speed Raleigh Grand Prix.  Long legs pumping.

In reality?  

Ummmmm ... the reality is far different from the dream.

I'm not over six feet tall.   I'm not lean and mean.  I'm not n my 20's anymore.

My legs are short.   So is the rest of me. I'm a bit overweight. And I'm over 60. Well past my prime.

However, adapting to everything that life and workplace bullying has thrown at me and getting out and riding again is still satisfying.  Oh so satisfying.

Even if I am an overwide load.

*****

In my 20's I started riding a bike.  The idea was to get healthier and to provide transportion while a university student.  My bike at the time was a green five speed Schwinn.  It was sturdy.  Built like a Sherman tank - and weighed about as much.

After university, I still rode that bike for exercise.  I got so I could go 5-10 niles a day.  I was still short, but leaner and meaner then.

When I moved to Texas, the bike went with me.  Again, we rode 5-10 miles a day in heat, in wind (which always blew), in sun.

I eventually got my leanest and meanest bike ever - a 10 speed, brown Raleigh Grand Prix - which I still have.  The problem was I was living in a border area where it was not safe for a woman to ride alone.  So eventually I stopped riding.  When I moved to Canada, my bike moved with me.

After all was said and done in the workplace, I wanted to ride again.  I wanted to feel free.  But I never got into the groove again.

The problem was, I was no longer lean and mean.  The aging process and the chronic affects of PTSD post workplace bullying/abuse and a few extra pounds gathered along the way, changed things for me.  Aging has caused some stiffening in joints that wasn't there when I was in my 20's.  The chronic after effects of what I survived in the workplace, affected my balance (among other things) that also weren't there when I was in my 20s.  Getting on - and sometimes off - the lean and mean 10 speed Raleigh Grand Prix was a problem.  Once on, I could ride as long as I kept going.  The problem is there are times you have to start and stop.  After I fell off the bike in the middle of the road, I gave it up as a bad idea.

BUT ... I still wanted to ride again.  So my analytical skills went into gear.  After analyzing and getting ideas from the web, I went into the local bike shop. King Street Cycles in Uptown Waterloo.  The picture below is what we came up with to deal with both issues: training wheels for balance; a step through which we used to call a girl's bike back in the day for arthritic joints.

Definitely not lean and mean.  More like overwide, slow and wobbly.  But it got the job done.

It turns out that my mind was so fractured that I actually had to relearn to ride a bike.  I know they say that you never forget how to ride a bike; however, the mythical "they" have probably never encountered what workplace abuse plus stress can do to the human brain.  I literally had to relearn how to brake, how to turn - both directions, and how to change gears.  Thankfully there is a church in our area and I used their parking lot to regain my skills.  I also discovered that I not only could not walk in a straight line - which I already knew - but I couldn't ride in a straight line.  Which made riding on sidewalks and in bike lanes were problematic.

However, after I relearned how to ride a bike again, I needed more space than I could get within the confines of my small "hood".  I wanted to be able to go 5-10 miles a day.  I wanted to go out of the city - which isn't that far as I live three blocks within the city limits; but there were problems.  There are hills.  Anyway direction I go, there is going to be a hill.  There are busy streets.  Even the street outside my house which leads to the country is a highway which people use to go back country from one place to another.  There was fear.  There was a lack of comfort level.  So I stopped cycling.

And then

 one day I came across something called the Great Cycle Challenge  which is a fundraiser to raise funds for research for paediatric cancer for Sick Kids Hospital in Toronto.

The difference between this and other bike-a-thons, is that the participant sets their own goals, both monetary and distance.  It is done anytime throughout the month of June.  Since my physical and mental condition is still such that I can't guarantee that I'm going to be functional on any given day, a traditional bike-a-thon where you meet on a certain day at a certain time at a certain place and ride a certain amount of kilometres wasn't and still isn't going to work for me.  But this one had definite possibilities.

So I signed up.  I signed up for $50 and 50 kilometres.  I doubted I could meet either goal; however, I figured out that with a goal of $50 dollars if no one sponsored me, I could do it out of my pocket.  Within 24 hours, a friend had donated $50!  Wohoo!  I couldn't believe it.

That was the start in far away 2016 of an adventure that's still going on.

Another instalment in the office.

Stay tuned for further updates on the adventures of Suzanne on her adapted cycle.

What Out of Control Looks Like - A True Story

As I've mentioned previously, being in control - or rather being perceived as being out of control - was a factor in both workplace abuse situations.  However, in these cases being loud - once - was perceived as being out of control.  Allow a single tear to roll down my cheek in the first situation when faced with being overworked and being criticized for it, was also an instance of not being in control.

****

During the time period when I was going through the first situation of workplace abuse, hubby and I took a trip to an Outlet Mall in New York State.  Parts of it are indoor including a food court, parts are outdoor.

We were at the food court when hubby drew my attention to something that was happening.

A  reak life "cat fight".

I'd never seen one before.  It was enlightening.

Two girls had some sort of an issue with each other.  Their voices sounded like the howling and yowling of two cats: hence the name cat fight.

One of the young ladies was standing on top of a table yelling at her adversary.  She even threw her shoe at her nemesis.

People were standing around watching, staring.

I was waiting for security to come and separate these two.

At some point, the voice of reason in the guise of a friend persuaded the lady on the table to get down.  Trying to get her to walk away from the conflict, the young lady turned back.  She had to get her shoe!  And put it on.

Afterwards, her friend did get her to head down a corridor and get away from the conflict.  We were behind.  Not so much by choice as by accident as we both were heading toward the same exit.

The young lady was visibly volatile.  Her friend kept trying to calm her down and get her out of the mall.

At one point, the young lady broke away from her friend and headed back to the food court. Fury visible in every line of her body.  I tried to get hubby to intervene.  However, getting involved in a cat fight is not his idea of having a good day.

Instead, I moved to the centre of the corridor, right in front of her.  All five feet zilch of me.  Looking at her directly, willing her to turn around.

She did.

Not one word was spoken between the two of us.

Crisis averted.

*****

I've never been on top of a table in a food court - or anywhere else.

I've thrown a shoe - once - when in therapy probably about 40 years ago.  My therapist got ballistic and threatened to terminate our counselling relationship.  I never did that again.

I slapped another person - my mother - once.  Again in the late 60s about 40 years ago.  Her reaction was so violent that I never attempted that again.  With her or anyone else.

Loud?  I'm a passionate person.  What can I say?  To that I plead guilty and throw myself on the mercy of the court ... er ... supervisor, reader, whoever.

If the above story is what out of control looks like, then I most definitely am not.

Anger Is Just An Emotion

Workplace bullying/abuse is complex.  It not only involves the form it takes in the workplace and the various strategies the protagonists (or are they antagonists?) use to achieve their objectives in the workplace, but it involves what takes place inside the target, the target's internalization of what is happening around them  and the target's emotions.

For me, those emotions ran the gamut from hopelessness, to despair, and ultimately to anger.  Okay, let's replace that word  "anger" with the word "rage" and you come closer to my emotional state at the end.

Recovery from workplace abuse is also complex.  I've focused so far on the story and also on parts of the story of recovery.  However, no story of recovery from workplace bullying/abuse is complete without side trips into the emotional side of recovery.

So here we go with one prominent piece of the emotional recovery.

P.S. I promise to space these side trips out a bit, as needed to be relevant to the story.

*****

One thread that ran consistently through both incidences of workplace abuse was about both supervisors' perceptions of self control.  With both that seemed to mean, no show of emotions whatsoever; no tears; no loudness.  Which would definitely include no show of anger. 

So I stuffed that emotion deep inside me, exactly like I've been trained to do since childhood.

Anger is bad.  Therefore, if I show anger, I am bad.

This is what I had internalized not just through my experiences with workplace abuse but, more importantly, throughout my life.

So when I came across a book entitled Putting Off Anger: A Biblical Study of What Anger is and What to Do About It, I bought it and took it home with me.

*****

At the beginning of my journey with the first break down, I went to the Crisis Clinic in the ER at the local hospital where I met with a mental health nurse.  She heard my story and asked questions to ascertain my mental state and whether I was a threat to myself or to anyone else.  One question had to do with anger.  Was I experiencing anger?

Was I experiencing anger?  Ohhhhh yesssss.  Actually more like rage.

She asked me to describe what I was feeling.

I told her that I felt like I could strike the people I "perceived" as my bullies with a bat, piece of wood, whatever, over and over and over again until they were nothing more than a greasy spot on the road. 

Would I act on these feelings, she asked me.

I paused thinking.  The answer:  No.  I just didn't have it in me to strike another human being.

She looked at me and said "I believe you."

She explained that it wasn't the anger or rage that was the concern, but rather whether I could control it and not act on it.

She further told me that she would be more concerned if I didn't have these ideations/feelings as that would indicate that I had flattened emotions.

My therapist and I also dealt with these intense feelings of anger and rage in our sessions.

She tried to tell me that anger was just a feeling.  Neither right nor wrong, good nor bad.  It was what we do with those feelings of anger that is the concern.

Again.  Could I or would I act on those feelings?

Again.  The answer was - and still is - no. 

It's not in me to hurt another human being.

*****

So there I was, still in the crisis or acute phase post workplace bullying, sitting in the airplane on my way to Winston Salem, reading the above mentioned book on anger.  Even though my cognitive skills and ability to focus were severely compromised, I found a way to read it.  A little bit at a time.  Highlighter in hand.  Pen at the ready to make notes in the margin.

Basically, what I internalized from the book was the same thing that both the mental health nurse and my therapist had said.  Anger is neither good nor bad; right nor wrong.  What's wrong is if you act on those feelings.  What's wrong is if you let that anger control your life.  If you let it morph into bitterness.

Yes, I had let my anger about the first workplace abuse situation and things that followed control me.  I had allowed bitterness to take seed in my life.  These feelings had carried into my second workplace.

At that point in my life, I was tired of carrying these burdens of anger and accompanying rage and bitterness around.  I was ready to let go and let God.

It still was a process, but it was a beginning on the road to recovery.

Realizing that anger is just an emotion and that I alone had the power to control whether it took over my life or not, was - and still is - a freeing moment on the journey of recovery.

Endorphins and Right Brain Activities Help in Recovery

Grandfather Mountain

After every adventure, there comes that time one must go back home. However, you don't go back empty handed, so to speak.  You take back with you what you've gained.  You look back and figure what worked and what didn't.  More importantly, you work out WHY it worked.

What happened in those ten days away with my cousin that was so beneficial?  That caused me to stop stuttering and worked on my cognitive abilities so that I was able to go change planes AND terminals in Dulles plus go through customs in Toronto all be self when those skills were lacking just ten days previously?

My therapist when I saw her next, asked me what we'd done in those 10 days.  

We'd taken day trips with my cousin driving, we'd revisited spots that had meaning and memories from my childhood experiences including visiting the area in Winston Salem which held the tobacco processing sheds.  Although they were in the process of being torn down, a little bit still remained including a whiff of the tobacco smell I remembered so clearly from childhood days.

I took pictures - lots and lots of pictures - which provided memories.  Apparently reliving these memories through the pictures allows the release of something called endorphins in the brain.  Apparently endorphins are some kind of chemical release in the brain which provides a feel good feeling - and promotes healing.

We did have new adventures such as Grandfather Mountain and the Mile High Bridge and others,  Again, we took pictures.  Lots and lots of pictures.  Which help us relive those memories, those good times, those good feelings anytime we desire.  Which, if you haven't guessed already, is something I've been doing with these last few posts.  Even looking at the picture at the top taken on the way to Grandfather Mountain, fills me with a peaceful feeling.

We laughed.  We talked.  We shared meals together (she cooked).  In the evening, we watched DVDs from her collection.  We rested.  She made this visit about me.

My cousin affirmed me.  She's one significant person in my life.  She knows me ... and loves me anyway.  Unlike all the criticism and condemnation I had experienced in the workplace, she affirmed that there was good in me.  That I wasn't the person I was led to believe I was in the workplace.

My therapist affirmed that all these things were the right things to be done.  They allowed to right brain, the creative part,  to take over and the left to rest, the one which constantly keep trying to find logic in the illogical experience in the workplace.

I had brought some crocheting stuff with me and was even able to dress this five in doll.  (Remember I had said that I couldn't read books, recipes or patterns with my disheveled cognitive state when I left to visit my cousin?  Those functions were starting to be restored.  And here's the proof.  We eventually named her Penny and she now resides with my cousin as a souvenir of our time together.

*****

This isn't to say that healing was a one-stop affair, completed in one brief span of 10 days.  No!  It was the beginning of the process.

Recovery from workplace abuse seems to be a never-ending affair ... at least for me.  It's comprised of experiences like the one recounted in the last few blogs.  It also has it's darker moments when re-injury occurs.

For me it's a process of taking things slowly, analyzing what worked and what didn't, listening to my body, forming coping strategies and, most importantly, when I fall down, to pick myself up and try again.

Making Memories

The switchback to The Mile High Bridge on Grandfather Mountain

Grandfather Mountain

Ahhhh the sweet savour of victory.  During what I now call phase A of recovery, I started working on deep-seated fears which had controlled my life since childhood.  One of which was the fear of heights.

As I've said I've had a close relationship with my cousin in North Carolina which revolves around close communication.  At some point, I had looked up this bridge, the Mile High Bridge at Grandfather Mountain, and decided that I wanted to conquer it.

It's not really what it sounds like.  The ground is not a mile below the bridge.  At it's mid-point, the bridge is a mile above sea level.  But it is definitely a challenge, as it is high - and it sways.

The first thing on my agenda when I reached the safety of my cousin's arms in North Carolina was to tackle this bridge.

We made our plans and away we went with water, snacks, sun hats, walking sticks, sensible shoes ... and cameras to record this momentous occasion. Which was made more momentous for both my cousin and myself due to a chance encounter with a young woman and her husband.  As we walked toward the bridge, we noticed this young woman (standing behind us on the bridge with her husband) obviously having a hard time.  We spoke to her saying that we were both scared too but we were working on conquering our fears and we figured that if we could do it, she could.  We didn't realize at that point that she was with her husband so we invited her to walk across the bridge with us.

She did walk across the bridge.  With her husband.

Adventurous souls
who climbed the pinacle of the mountain

We did not make the trek up to the pinacle where these "wee" people were which I would have liked to.  Even with sturdy shoes and hiking sticks, since the path was narrow, rocky and had nothing to hold unto, neither of us felt that it was in our bests interests.

Next Stop:  Linville Falls

We made quite a day of it.  After Grandfather Mountain, we journeyed on to Linville Falls, a place my cousin had been to and wanted to share with me.  You see, she was on her own journey at the time.  A journey to lose weight.  She had chosen walking as her exercise of choice.  At the time of our memorable visit, she had lost approximately 100 pounds.  She told me that when she started walking, she could only do five minutes or so and had gradually built up over time to an hour? or was it more.

It was a hot day in June in North Carolina.  As we roamed around the paths, we received comments ranging from others either on our sunhats or our walking sticks from people wishing they'd thought to have one or the other or both with them on this hot, sunny North Carolina day

This last picture is one of my favourite stories, one which makes us both laugh at the retelling.  At a whopping 5 ft zilch, I tower over my shorter cousin who is 4 ft 10 in.  She had walked on this short wall to avoid a puddle and then realized she couldn't get down so she called me over.  Me being me thought she was presenting a photo op for me to take advantage of.  Thus the photo.  Eventually, she was able to communicate that she needed a hand down, not a photo.  Oops!

Heading Home Via the Blue Ridge Parkway:

We, or rather my cousin who was the "designated" driver, decided to return to Winston Salem via a different route:  the scenic Blue Ridge Parkway.  I had heard about the Blue Ridge Parkway but had never been on it.  I had no idea of what I was missing.  (For more information about the Blue Ridge Parkway click on the link.)

I had no idea what I was missing until we were driving along with vistas of the Blue Ridge Mountains spread out before me.  There are many places to pull over, rest and take pictures.

As you can see, my cousin and I did just that, that day.

As I said, it was a long day, crammed to the brim with adventures - especially since we got lost on the way home.

Yet it was a fulfilling day.  A day in which memories, lasting memories, were made which even now help in the recovery process.

A First Step on the Road to Recovery

My cousin and I on one of our excursions
Walking sticks, sensible shoes and sun hats at the ready

After all was said done, signed, sealed and delivered, I was a mess.

I stuttered badly. Getting thoughts and sentences out was difficult to impossible.  Sometimes the words came out all garbled or the wrong words came up.  Once I found myself saying to hubby:  "I just dirtied a banana."  What?????  Translation, the dishes were all clean and I was using a clean knife to cut a banana. For a person who was once an excellent communicator both verbally and written, this was disturbing.

My cognitive skills were drain the drain as well.  My mind was so badly injured that I couldn't follow a recipe ... or read music.   I loved to read but focussing was now a challenge.  I could only read a paragraph or so at a time.

I no longer presented as the once intelligent person I had been known as.

My guess is that my GAF was well before the marker 70 which appears to separate the well from the unwell emotionally.  It was probably somewhere in the 50s.

*****

I've always marched to a "different" drummer.  Some of my methods may not be conventional, but they usually work. They usually work because I know myself very well.  Better than most people know themselves.

 ... I decided to do something that most would consider unorthodox at best; bizarre at worst.

I booked flights to Winston Salem, the place my father grew up and where my mother's family migrated to during the Great Depression.

Why in the world would I do something like that?

Because home is where the heart is?

Because I have many memories from visiting both sets of grandparents there growing up?

Because my best friend who is also my cousin lives there?  Someone who knows me very well - and loves me anyway.

Because I felt safe there?

Somehow I felt that if I made it down there, my mind would start to heal.

The problem was getting down there.

Which with my mind so scrambled was a challenge.  Also, as I was going alone.

The flights were booked; transit to the airport booked.  The day arrived.

I came totally unglued entering the airport and trying to figure out where I was supposed to do which is when I discovered that the airline offers wheelchair assistance.  It was thanks to this wheelchair assistance that I made it through customs and security, to the gate and into the first airplane.  The scenario reversed itself when we landed in Dulles, a massive airport outside Washington D.C., where I was to switch planes.  I was led to someone with a wheelchair who navigated me through the labyrinth of transiting from one terminal to the next.

Whatever works, right?

*****

I made it!  Victory one.

My cousin met me at the airport.  Victory two.

As our visit progressed and she took control of daily things like cooking, driving, etc.,  andI felt more and more relaxed.  The safer I felt, the more relaxed I became and the stuttering ceased.

We used the time to visit places one or both of us knew from our childhoods.  She took me around to the apartment complex our mutual grandparents lived in and the park across the street where we walked around.  Funny, the park seemed small than I remembered as an 11 year old.

Together we went to Reynolda, the old Reynolds estate which is now a museum, where my grandparents migrated to in the 1930''s.  The estate was in the process of being renovated and my grandfather, an architectural draftsman, was hired for part of the restoration.  While there, we saw the house on the (now former) estate where my mother and an uncle lived with their parents that year.  It was built for the Reynolds children to 3/4 scale and was called the Dollhouse or Playhouse - depending on who you talk to.  We were even able to contact the correct people and were allowed to see the inside of the house.

Together, we went outside the city and visited My father's old family estate called Panther Creek visiting with my last surviving uncle and his son, another cousin.  We paid our respects at the old family graveyard.

And we went places.  Many places: the Mile High Bridge at Grandfather Mountain, Mount Airey where Andy Griffith grew up, and the zoo in Asheboro, NC.  Always together.  Some trips were confined to the Winston Salem area.  Others such as Grandfather Mountain, the zoo and Mount Airey were further afield.  But wherever I went I had my cousin with me.

My safe person in, what was to me a safe place.

The house my father grew up in

The family cemetery where I played as a child

The house on the Reynolda Estate where my grandparents, mother and an uncle lived in the 1930's.  It was built to 3/4 scale for the Reynolds children  and called the Dollhouse or Playhouse.

It worked.  Ten days later, I boarded my plane in Greensboro to head back up north.  Stuttering largely gone.  Mind functioning better.  I didn't need wheelchair assistance.  I was able to function on my own.  I managed the terminal change in Dulles airport by myself.  I have to confess that I kind of cheated - or God made it really easy for me.  On the train to the other terminal, I heard a man loudly talking into his cell phone about being in the process of changing planes and was heading to his plane to go to Toronto.  Toronto?  That was my next destination as well.  This man was not only loud, but he was very tall, a head above everyone else.  All I had to do was follow his head and voice to the right gate.

Thank God for loudmouths, eh?

Pilot Mountain, a familiar landmark which we children all eagerly looked for as we headed to our grandparents in Winston Salem.  We knew we were close to our destination when we saw the familiar knob.