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.

Post Workplace Abuse: Triggers: What brings up the yucky stuff?

There are many facets of recovery post trauma.

One of them is that forgiveness is not always a completely "done deal".

We feel that we have moved on.  Come to terms with parts of the past.  Yet, these ugly memories have a mind of their own.  They come back at inopportune moments when we least expect them.  They rear their ugly heads.  They don't whisper; they don't shout.  They scream for attention.

Triggers.  They bring up the "yucky stuff" when we least expect them.  They bring back all the feelings of anger, rage, helplessness, voicelessness.

*******

None of us are immune to this phenomenon.  I believe we process things as much as we can at any given time and then we feel that they are laid to rest forever.  But they're not forever dead and buried.
Why?

Partially because they're stored in parts of our brain like my photos are stored on Picassa.  There ready to be retrieved when the time is right or, in the case of trauma victims, ripe.

Partially because there is more processing, more recovery yet to be done on the road home.

A wise friend of mine recently told me that she thinks that some things never completely go away.

Some things never completely go away.  Trauma is one of them.  The memories are stored in our brains waiting to resurface when the right trigger comes along.

*******

For the last few weeks I've been struggling with the resurgence of a lot of "yucky" stuff which has thrown me off-balance more than once.  Making me exceptionally vulnerable to triggers which bring up all the "yucky" stuff.

It began with the blog posting entitled Surviving Workplace Abuse:  My leaving story - part 3:  When bullies take control posted on September 8th.  It was probably the hardest blog I've ever written.  It took me three days and left me reeling in it's wake.  Struggling to breathe through all the toxic fumes it brought up.  All the helplessness I felt.  The voicelessness.  That all my power and control had been forcibly stripped from me and given to others.  Others who probably could have cared less - at least about my well being.  All these things came back in force.

That single blog summed up my experience with workplace bullies, their tactics, the toxic atmosphere in the workplace and how it spreads to others.

That single experience in the donut shop was perhaps the most crushing blow I experienced.

I could not even leave the toxic workplace on my own terms.

And yes, I've suffered from the repercussions, the shock waves of that single incident ever since then.

I think writing that post was both good and bad.  Good because it finally got my experience out in the open.  I've come out of the "closet" of being bullied as an adult in the workplace by other adults.

Yet, at the same time it has left me vulnerable in ways I could not have expected.  Vulnerable to triggers I had not yet identified in my journey towards recovery.

Take a few incidents that happened just last week for example:

I've talked in recent blogs about my need for routine as a coping mechanism.  One of my routines is to watch TV series either on the net or on DVD.

On Tuesday I keyed in a TV web site I've used hundreds of times in the past only to discover that it had been blocked by Bell who happens to be my internet service provider.  The frustration I experienced was overwhelming.  After four days of not being able to get into this site, I finally contacted Bell.  After more than an hour with several different people and departments most of them not very helpful, I came away very frustrated.  The frustration escalated to anger.  There was nothing I could do about the situation.  I would have to get Bell to be my service provider for my TV.  Problem.  I Do. Not. Own. A. TV.  Nor have I for the entire 34 years of our marriage.  I. Cannot. Get. A. Service. Provider. For. TV. Without. Physically. Owning. One.  The Bell representatives could not understand this simple concept and it left me feeling helpless, voiceless, with no control over my life.

Sigh.

I felt like I was in the grips of a huge, uncaring monolith that only wanted what it wanted and was determined to get it at all costs.  Paid TV subscribers.  No more "freebies" as in internet access to this particular TV website which Bell apparently has some connection with.  In other words, I felt helpless in this situation once again.  I felt voiceless.  I felt like shit.

I realize that this is a very little thing in the lives of others who are going through other struggles in the world.  Yet, it loomed so very large in my small, isolated, world.  It prevented me from using my coping techniques.

If that wasn't enough, later in the afternoon of that same day, we found a notice in our mailbox that our carrier had complained about "safety" issues in our neighbourhood arising from our street being used as a detour route during a construction project on another street in our area and that our home delivery was being suspended until further notice pending their "investigation".  I felt then - and continue to feel now - that Canada Post is unlikely to realize certain aspects of the situation such as it being a temporary situation which has been on-going for five months now and has approximately one month to go.  So why a complaint now resulting in a cessation of service when the end is in sight? 

What triggered me in this situation?  The lack of power and control.  The helplessness.  The voicelessness.  The fact that there was nothing I could do to change the situation.

It brought up all the "yucky" stuff from my workplace where one individual who didn't want to do the job she was paid to do went to I don't know how many people and got them all to feel that she was the victim here because I wanted her to do her job.  She seemed to know all the right buzzwords to get everyone in the office to become allied with her.  That was my trigger.  In my mind, I am perceiving a Canada Post employee who may not like her job, knows all the right buzz words to use to everyone on her side to deprive an entire street of mail service.  Just. Because. She/He. Can.

The word "investigation" in itself is a huge trigger to my already vulnerable psyche as I've been through several "investigations" during the bullying scenario at work.  I've seen how investigations can be completely subjective and biased.  How they can be manipulated to get the outcome the investigator wants.  In short, I have no faith in any organization to do a fair and unbiased investigation.

This incident fed into all the wounds which I thought had been closed and healed.  Apparently, they're not completely closed or healed.

Again, I felt helpless, voiceless in the face of this monolith called Canada Post.  It doesn't matter what I say.  They're going to do what they're going to do irregardless of any facts based on one person's complaint.

Brain fog has ensued.  Lethargy.  Itching all over from the inside out.  The scalp.  The eyes.  The skin.  You name it, it's there.

And then, the final kicker?  I've applied for life insurance and was turned down.  The company claims it is because of my history of anxiety which is due to the workplace bullying.  Sigh.  At this point, there is no fight in me left.

I'm tired.  I'm discouraged.  I'm ready to lie down and give up.

******

Yet, there is hope on the horizon.  The last person I talked to at Bell the other day was able to help me figure out a workaround to the block.  In addition, the block appears to have been lifted by Bell the day after.

We're still not receiving home delivery of mail; however, it appears that the Postal Service has heard from many people on our street who have been affected by the delivery stoppage.  None of them happy.  Most of them expressing their displeasure rather forcefully.  Canada Post is indeed looking at a permanent solution for a temporary problem - which I am not happy with.  They are planning to rush through the installing of a Community Box so we will get our mail again.  However, I feel that this one person's complaint has fed into Canada Post's ultimate agenda:  to suspend all home delivery with the implementation of Community Boxes.  

I hate agendas.

And the life insurance?  That is still pending; however, it appears that another provider has been found.

Triggers.

I've worked these last seven years with a fair amount of success to identify my triggers: however, this past week, I got blindsided by a few I had not yet identified.

Once identified, the same triggers will not have the same power over me.

I hope.

Until tomorrow....

Recovery Post Workplace Abuse: July 4th, 2014 a place where grief and recovery from trauma mingled together

July 4th, 2014 would have been my mom's 99th birthday.  Born, lived and died in the U.S., our celebrations were always intertwined with her birthday and the U.S. national holiday.

Every day on the road to recovery is different.

Plans are made.  Plans change.

Life is never stagnant.

It is constantly changing.   Ebbing and flowing.

Recovery starts, then life intervenes.

So it is with this blog.

I've got a series started.  Just in its beginning phases.  Laying the foundation regarding debunking the lies.

Then suddenly I stop and veer off here or there.  Wherever.

Ebbing and flowing.  Plans made.  Plans changed.

This past week was no exception to this rule.

I veered off either into past blogs because it's easier - and also because I like what I've written - or into the here and now re: birthdays and holidays.  Ironically one of each for Canada Day - my grandson - and the 4th of July - my mom.  Each born on their country's respective patriotic holiday almost 90 years apart.

Last year, this week was almost unbearable in its intensity:  the first of the firsts.  Or should I say since my mom passed away in August of 2012, the last of the firsts:  July 4th and her birthday intertwined.  Inseparable.  As we always celebrated the two together.  Only this time, she was no longer there, and we were not going to the U.S. to celebrate her birthday.  No small town patriotic parades for us last year.  No fireworks.  No patriotic holiday on the 4th - as Canada celebrates its special day on the 1st.

I was alone that day last year.  And lonely.  And depressed.

Some time ago, a friend gifted me with the book by H. Norman Wright Surviving the Storms of Life, a trauma  specialist and prolific writer.  As I read pieces of this book, I realized that when my mom died, not only did I lose my mother but there were also secondary losses - the visits, special times of bonding ... and her birthdays.  The aforementioned parade.  The fireworks.  The family gathering.

Always when growing up, her birthday and the 4th of July were intertwined.  After I grew up and moved away to Canada, the tradition continued.  I often took the children to the U.S. to celebrate her birthday with her.

All that is gone now.  A secondary loss to the main loss of losing my mother.

So this year, I wanted my family around me.  I didn't want to be - or feel - alone on what had always been a special day to all of us.

Both of my children - and two grands - leaned into the moment.  Surrounding me with their love and support.

We bought a special take out lunch and went to a nearby park.  I dressed in my mother's traditional "birthday" t-shirt and all the red, white and blue I could find in my wardrobe.  And nobody blinked an eye that I was dressed for the American 4th of July in Canada.  (Canadians are laid back that way.)

The grands sporadically ate and ran off to play on the swings and back again - several times.  Energy in motion.

The adults enjoyed food, talk and bonding time.  Memories of my mother.  Memories of other 4th of July times when we were all together.  Photos were taken to remember the day.

Just the way a birthday should be.

I gained something unexpected from this low-key, laid back celebration of my mom's birthday and her life.

I gained a sense of closure.

I know that I'll never forget this grand ole girl - nor should I.  I will always miss her as she was part of my life for more than 60 years - which is a pretty long time.   I learned most of what I know from her.  I realize now that I learned more from her than I had realized at the time.

Yet, as time goes on and I learn healthier ways to deal with my issues and losses and create new traditions and memories, the separation becomes more bearable.

Until tomorrow ... dear friends ... when hopefully we once again start work on debunking the lies.

Hopefully.

On my journey towards recovery, nothing is ever predictable.

Throw Back Thursday: To Honour My Mother

Yesterday I did a "hump day" piece.  Something lighter than the usual heavy workplace abuse stuff.  After all, our diets don't consist of all meat or potatoes.  We need a variety of foods to tempt the palate.  Like dessert.  Dessert is good.  Very good.

On Facebook, I've seen pictures labelled TBT and couldn't figure out what they were all about.  Eventually, with trembling fingers touching the keyboard, I asked.  TBT stands for Throw Back Thursday.  I like the idea.  So today I'm doing a TBT piece.  My idea is to start using old postings and bring them up to the front on Thursdays; however, this particular post was originally written well over a year ago, while my mother was still alive - and never finished.  Never posted.  This was when I still used the moniker "Mama Bear" and so my mother was called "Matriarch Bear".

 Matriarch Bear passed away on August 24, 2012 so this phase of my life has ended.  Yet, I feel compelled as I begin writing my blog to start where I left off.  To share the preciousness of those moments in the seniors' residence with my own Matriarch bear.

Matriarch Bear's 97th birthday
with one of her great granddaughters and my sibling bear

 Visiting with Matriarch Bear for a week in the seniors' residence reminds me a lot of when, as a child, my family and I would travel to North Carolina to see the grandbears.  Both sets of bears had their dens in the same area.  One in the city. One in the country.  The grandbears in the city had a small apartment.  Mom and Dad got the one and only bed.  My grandbears got the pull-out couch in the den.  Sibling Bear and I suffered on blankets thrown on the hard floor to make a pallet.  I guess they didn't have inflatable mattresses in those days (back in the 1950s).  But the warm, welcoming atmosphere made up for the nighttime physical discomfort.  Bedtime was an anticipated treat as my grandmother would come in and do dramatic recitations of poems from a book called Silver Pennies.  To this day, I can still remember vividly the sound of her knocking on the wall followed by the words:  "Whose knocking on my wee, small door?  I opened.  I looked.  From left to right.  But naught was astirring in the dark, dark night."  As I'm writing this from memory more than half a century after the fact, I realize that I don't have all the words verbatim.  But the memory.  Ahhhh, the memory.  That lives on.

The gardens at Matriarch Bear's residence

This set of grandparents were what would now, in this cookie cutter age, be called eccentric.  Even then, they definitely walked to a different drummer.  Creative.  Smart.  Talented in many areas.  My grandmother in writing (wonder where I get my passion for writing from).  My grandfather an architectural engineer.  An amateur photographer. 

My young world consisted of being loved.  Accepted.  Pet names.  Classical music always playing on the hi fi my grandfather had built.  Cocktail hour for the grownups.  With marachino cherries and orange slices in gingerale for my sibling and myself.

A time filled not with TV, DVDs (which didn't exist in those days), but with good, old-fashioned conversation.  Walking trips to get the daily newspaper.  Going for an ice cream was a real treat.  Driving around with Grandfather Bear pointing out the window showing us homes he had designed and the unique challenges of each one. Listening to the stories. Camaraderie   A linking of the generations together.  Feeling the love.

This scene on the porch of Matriarch Bear's residence is
reminescent to me of the scene at my grandbears home in the country
Always someone sitting on the porch in a wicker chair.  Waiting.  To welcome us home.

Family  There were always members of the extended family there at the old home place.  Aunts.  Uncles. Cousins.  A great uncle lived there for a time.  Cousins visiting.  Always someone else there.  Always an adventure.  Something to look forward to.

Fast forward approximately five decades and now the daughter is going to visit her own mother who life has spanned more than nine decades.  The Matriarch now lives in assisted living in her own little apartment.  She is provided with meals and medications.  Also on-call staff if there is an emergency.  Her life has downsized a lot in the last two decades of her life as frailty brought on by aging,  a heart condition and COPD makes inroads into this once very active, determined woman.  Oh, she's still got a lot of determination.  Just not a lot of activity.  She is fragile physically.  Has trouble breathing even though she's on oxygen 24/7.  Yet, the core of her essence remains.  She can still beat anyone at a daily game of Yahtzee.  On Bingo day, she's at her walker and on her way down stairs (via elevator now when once she would have eschewed the conveyance and trooped on down).

The aunts and uncles of long ago are long gone.  But in their place has come a precious assortment of surrogate aunts and uncles.  Those who live in the residence.  Like those who have gone before, these precious oldsters have claimed a piece of my heart.

I read in a book entitled Surviving Life's Crises (or something like that) that there are secondary losses when a loved one dies.  In my case, some of the secondary losses are the visits to the seniors' residence when Matriarch Bear lived, my daily round through the dining room to greet and chit chat with the residents (my surrogate aunts and uncles).  These people will always hold a place in my heart.