Post Workplace Affirmations: The Value of Affirmations in Recovery

I am going through a period of intense exhaustion these days.  Whether it's from doing too much, pressing the envelope too far, or other factors, I don't know.  I just know that it's all I can do to get up in the morning, get dressed and then attempt to be consistent in this blog.  So far, being consistent is winning; getting dressed is losing.

Yet, I feel that it is good to be consistent.  To write daily as I've started this blog as a daily blog five days a week.  I feel that there are people who like to read the daily updates on this blog.

I'm still not 100% sure where I'm going.  There is a wealth of information about trauma, PTSD, workplace abuse that I can write about.  To do so would take a very long time.  Just building the underground, the foundation for people to understand as they either walk through these things or attempt to walk alongside someone who is going through these things.

Then there's the dailyness.  The things that happen in any given day which either help - or hinder - me on my road to recovery.

I hadn't quite decided how to approach all these things in one blog, how to include the dailyness while not getting distracted and following rabbit trails along the road to recovery from workplace abuse - specifically my road to recovery post workplace abuse.

Today we go back in time to that period when the staff member from my church came into my house with what I believe are false assumptions and perceptions.  A time when others who didn't even know or have contact with each other, affirmed the very qualities the staff member dismissed.

By the end of 2012, I was sunk in depression.  Along with the ever constant pain both physical from the broken wrist and emotional from the grief of my mom's death and trauma from workplace abuse.  I felt like I was in a deep hole from which I would never emerge.  It was too deep for me to climb out of on my own.

I have what I call a "patchwork" support system.  One person here, another there:  a friend I've known almost three decades, hubby, daughter, daughter's mom-in-love.  Various assorted others who pop up here and there.  Small.  Very small.  It works because we make it work.

But sometimes more is needed, and this period of time in my life and in my recovery was one of those times when I needed the proverbial village to get through.

It came at the tail end of that dismal period in 2012.

It came in the form of unexpected notes and phone calls.

I don't know if I can remember everything but I will try.

The first one came when I received a note from a young mother who I've befriended in the past.  When her daughter was born, I made her a special afghan and brought over a homemade meal (I was still able to cook at that time.)  I received a thank-you note from her.  Imagine my surprise and gratitude at receiving this note of appreciation at that particular time in my life as the "baby" was by then 14 months old!

Let me go back a bit to more than a year prior to the Fall of 2011 when I was still reeling from the impact of the abusive workplace situation.  I was taking a walk with one person who has walked with me through most of the saga from the first episode of workplace abuse onwards.  She probably knows more about me than I know about myself.  We were talking about my confusion about who I was directly after the second episode of workplace abuse as the adversaries in the workplace had successfully launched a petition accusing me of many things including being a major stressor in the office.  Being Christians, we often use portions of the Bible to express things.  This friend quoted a verse about knowing the truth and having the truth set you free.  I think she meant it from the point of view of God showing me the truth about who I am in Him.  I received something a little different.  A different perspective.

I had a really strange dream that night.  The first part of which is irrelevant to this post.  Also too wordy and complicated to recount.  However, towards the end of this dream, young mothers, children and some fathers started appearing.  All with hand made blankets.  Made by me.  One young mother said that she had been pregnant and a stranger in town and I had given her this blanket and it meant so much.  Others had similar affirmations.

I began to realize that the truth was that I had a lot of value.  That I was a very giving person and that people appreciated it.

Then, I received a phone call from my daughter telling me she'd run into a woman neither of us had seen in a few years.  A single mother of four whom I had supported during a time of extreme neediness and turmoil in her life by providing food.  Almost single-handedly I provided groceries for that woman and her growing children for the better part of a year.  She still remembered with thankfulness.

The weekend after the disastrous meeting with the staff member from my church when I was still reeling from the impact of the words said, I received a phone call from my niece.  Because of an autoimmune disease, she was told it was not in her best interests to have children, so she and her husband started the adoption process years before eventually being successful in the adoption process.  While they were still in the process, when no baby was on their horizon, I took out my trusty, dusty crochet hook and started to make one of my favorite patterns.  One reserved for special people as it's very time consuming to make.  It has a border of puffed hearts around it.  As I crocheted it, I prayed for the child who would eventually be enfolded in it.  I got a sense that the child I was praying for had not yet been conceived and that the birth mom would be a teenager.  I also felt the baby would be a boy.  On that last I was wrong.  

I gave that blanket to my niece for Christmas that year even though it was kind of strange as no baby was yet on the horizon.  But she understood.  Her phone call was to tell me that her daughter who was by then six years old had found the blanket and asked her mom about it.  My niece replied that Aunty Cassie had made it before she was ever born and prayed for her when she was making it.  To that, my little great-niece matter-of-factly replied:  "Oh, so that's why I'm here."

Out of the mouths of babies, eh?

I kept in communication with a man I've known for years who had just found out that his mom had terminal cancer and was having trouble dealing with his new reality.  I sent him the prayer afghan I had started to make when my own mom was dying and which was originally intended for her.  He let me know in these calls how much that simple act of caring meant to him.  How he found comfort in it.

It was these affirmations that gave me a handle to hold on to at a very dark time in my recovery period.

Ironically, it was these affirmations that came flooding in at the same time the staff member from church came to tell me how worthless - or worth less - I was and that the things I did for people under the radar - the caring, the concern, the hand made gifts some of which took quite a while and cost quite a lot to make, the on-going prayer - were worthless.  They didn't count; therefore, I didn't count.

In her mindset given the perceptions and assumptions she came into my house with, I didn't qualify for help, for outreach from the church.

In retrospect though, I have to ask the question which perspective, which set of perceptions and assumptions, was correct?

I know what my answer to that is.  What is yours?

My mom on her last birthday wearing the shawl I had made for her during that sweltering heat wave.  The niece I had made the diamond bordered special afghan for before she was ever conceived.

Surviving Workplace Abuse: Lessons learned going through the physical side of the journey.

A baby bank swallow situated directly in the middle of our walking path.  Not moving.  Allowing us to get close to it.  Waiting for its mom.  

Yesterday's blog ended with a picture of a large bird flying high, soaring majestically above.  Proud. 

 My goal in this journey - and hopefully yours too - is to find a way within our journeys, our circumstances to fly high above our circumstances, our illnesses, traumas, etc.

Yet, most often I resemble the little guy above waiting in the middle of the path, the middle of danger, for its mom to come and get him.  To rescue him.

Eventually hubby prodded him with a stick - and he flew off.  He could fly.  He only needed incentive to spread his wings and get out of danger.

Like the baby bird above, I want to be rescued.  I'm afraid to use my wings.  I have to be prodded in order to move on and fly off.

*******

As I write about this particular segment of my journey post workplace abuse, that of early 2013 and my path through physiotherapy, I realize I resemble that little bird in some ways.  I too needed to be prodded in order to physically and emotionally move on.  My prodding turned out to be the need for physiotherapy after I broke my wrist, the cast came off, the pain didn't go away and mobility didn't increase.

When my emotional and physical paths originally collided post workplace abuse, when the acute phase ended and the chronic phase began, my therapist and I talked about which took precedence - the physical or the emotional - as the recommended paths for healing for each are diametrically opposed.  For the emotional i.e. depression et al, the recommendation is to pursue as normal a life as possible.  For the physical i.e. fatigue, the recommendation is to allow the body to rest.  To listen to what your body is telling you and respect it.

My therapist, who had also been through her own trauma, was able to bring her own experience into this portion of our counselling relationship to relate to my experience and to broaden my understanding of what I was going through, what was occurring within my body and that it was normal.  She was the one who advised me that about a year or so - maybe more, maybe less - after the initial trauma, physical repercussions and manifestations come into play.  These are different for each person.  She also knew from her own experience that when the physical and the emotional collide, the physical takes precedence.

I have based my journey of recovery on these bits of knowledge:  after the acute, comes the chronic; after the emotional trauma comes physical affects/repercussions; on the journey of healing, the physical takes precedence.

So today, we continue on, probably for the last time with the segment of my journey through a physical aspect of my journey and how it impacted the overall journey towards recovery from workplace abuse.

*******

 Physically, my journey at that time was through physiotherapy to regain the use of my right wrist/arm.

Emotionally, my journey was to find safe ways to re-enter the world outside my door and to find safe ways to have social encounters with people - people who were outside my immediate family and support circle.

Both purposes, ironically, were served through the same source:  the clinic I went to two-three times a week for physio.

I learned new social skills as I interacted with the staff, therapists and other clients at the clinic.

I learned how to take public transit not just to the clinic but also to other places such as my hairdressers.

I learned to gauge my energy levels so that I would not overdo.

I learned to always have a "plan B" - just in case.

I began to get braver as time progressed and began to expand my outings from simply going to and from physio to taking the six block or so walk into the downtown area of our city and picking up my bus from the transit terminal.  Thus having minimal social contact passing people on the street.

I learned that if I smiled first, I often got a smile in return.

I learned that most people like to be noticed and acknowledged.

I learned that there was a yarn store on the other side of the downtown area - and that the owner was a really nice person.

I learned that there was a bead shop also in the downtown area - and that, ditto, the owner was a very nice person.  (Yes, I've dabbled in beading as well on this journey.)

I learned that I could safely access the outside world - in small quantities at that time - and come home unscathed.

I learned that there was indeed a world outside the doors of my house - and that it wasn't as dangerous as I had feared.

I also learned that even recovery from a relatively minor physical injury isn't as straight forward as it may seem.

*******

Several months into the therapy when it seemed that my wrist was coming along great, I started experiencing excruciating pain in my shoulder/back area.  So bad that at time it had to be taped to give me some relief.

Yes, I know.  I was in therapy for my wrist.  So what was with the shoulder/back acting up?

This was the question we all had.  Even my medical team who followed up with tests which gave no real clinical indication of what was happening.

The best we could come up with is that all the muscles in that area are interrelated so when one is affected, they all are.

Therefore, the focus of therapy and recovery shifted at that point from the wrist to the shoulder with different exercises and a different therapist; shifting from a physical therapist to a chiropractor.

Slowly, slowly it began to improve and localize to one area.

I'd like to say that with therapy and time, it was completely healed.

But it wasn't.  After eleven months of therapy, all concerned decided that I'd hit a plateau and was not likely to go beyond that.  That further therapy was not going to accomplish further healing.

I still don't have complete use of that arm - and probably never will.

I've learned to live with it.  Do what I can and ask for help with what I can't i.e. reaching for things.  I've learned that I can live life - and live it well - without the full use of that arm.

And yes, I have other lingering reminders of that injury, that broken wrist.  My hand is still stiff - and again probably always will be - from arthritis which made itself known while my hand was in the cast.  I have a finger which sticks and has to be manually unstuck - which is somewhat painful and very annoying since it happens frequently when I knit.

I can live - and live well - with these affects.

However, I learned something else from this physical experience which at some point I would like to expand to the larger focus of emotional healing from workplace abuse, trauma and PTSD.

If a physical injury as relatively minor as a straightforward broken wrist, a simple fracture, can cause long-lasting affects, how much more can injuries which are not physical?  I.e. those caused by trauma?  Those which we can't see?  Those which fall among the category of invisible illnesses?

This is where I will leave you today, dear friend, as we walk our different paths towards a common goal, that of recovery.  As we continue searching for the right key to unlock the next segment on our respective roads to recovery.