Post Workplace Abuse: Unexpected challenges yet life is still worth living

I started this post months ago in the period after I went to Write Canada.  Going to Write Canada was a significant event in my journey towards recovery post workplace abuse.  It is one of several unfinished posts in which I cached pieces of other posts which just didn't seem to fit in at the moment.

Right now, right at this moment in space and time, dear friends, I feel totally wiped.  Worn out.  My mind doesn't want to function.  My body wants to stay in bed.  Things that used to interest me, don't light my fire right now.

In short, I have a lot of the symptoms of depression according to the linked article from Huffpost.

I also feel disjointed - which is why I think reinventing this old conglomeration of bits and pieces from other posts fits today.  It fits the way I feel.

Yet, at the same time, disjointed and lacking in continuity as it may be, it does have a certain amount of fluidity.

In my journey towards recovery from workplace abuse, depression seems to be part and parcel of the journey.  Sometimes worse than other times.  Sometimes better.  It sort of seems to wax and wane like the moon.

The problem is to realize it for what it is.  If I can realize what it is, what I'm going through for example identify trauma, complex PTSD and depression in my life, then I am able to deal with them, to cope, better.

This post starts with Write Canada, goes on to an earlier part of the journey and then goes back to Write Canada.  It sort of meanders all over the place - like that creek I mentioned in my last post.

Yet ... yet, I think there is some validity in sharing these disjointed parts of my journey.  Because although disjointed, they still form a whole.

*******

Sandra Orchard, Published fiction writer from Ontario, who conducted some of the workshops who just happens to be wearing one of the scarves I made and brought to give away to anyone who blessed me.

Conquer?  Not exactly.  Write Canada does not need to be conquered.  It is not Mount Everest.  It is a group of people, mostly Christian people, who write.  We come from all over Canada, East and West, we come to share this time, to meet new people, to reconnect, to learn and to grow as writers.

Me.  I came with my own agenda.

To continue on the course of recovery from Workplace Abuse.  My own personal Mount Everest.

The journey home from a place which left me lost, alone and lonely.

From picture archives 2011 of ambitious camping trip in what is called the "Near North" of Ontario

I had no way of knowing back in 2011 when everything was happening at the workplace and I had those two back-to-back stress breakdowns what was in store for me.

I knew that what I was experiencing in the workplace was trauma.  I knew that I had complex PTSD from previous situations including and especially the first run in with workplace abuse.  But I really didn't understand how profoundly trauma was going to affect every aspect of my life and how long it was going to last.

It was like starting out on an unplanned, unexpected journey on the spur of the moment with absolutely no idea of where I was going or how I has going to get there.  If I got there at all.

The breakdowns and initial damage occurred in late winter/early spring of 2011.  By the fall of 2011, I was starting to move into what I now know was the chronic phase.  I was tired all the time.  A tiredness that never went away.  We had planned a two-week camping adventure starting out at Tobermory Ontario on the Bruce Peninsula, taking the ferry across to Manitoulin Island and then making our way across to Saulte Sainte Marie, up to Manitouwadge, Ontario and on back.  Little did I know at the time how challenging this trip would be.  How severe the damage was.  And that it was going to last for quite for time.

I simply thought if I got a good night's rest I would be fine.

That didn't happen.

I did notice that I felt safer in smaller spaces.  We have two tents and my husband chose to bring the small, canoe camping tent rather than the larger one.  I was glad he did.  I felt comfortable in that small, enclosed space which held so many good memories of previous trips when it was just hubby, me, the canoe and God.

The old lighthouse, now unused, at Big Tug Harbour, Tobermorey, Ontario

I also noticed that I had quite a startle reaction.  On our first night in Tobermory, a young child ran past me emitting loud noises - as children do.  And I startled badly.  I stopped.  I had a panic reaction.  It was then that we realized that going into a restaurant for our evening meal was not going to work.  Hubby suggested we buy sandwiches, etc. at the local food store and then go to the old lighthouse to eat them.  There were lots of other people there and I started to panic again, but hubby knew what I needed and led me to a secluded spot in the rocks where we could sit virtually unnoticed and simply observe as we ate our supper.

What I've described in today's blog was only the beginning of the affects of the trauma which became apparent in the days, weeks and months to come.  Affects I still wrestle with.

The "long and short" of it.  Myself and Heidi, one of the hardest working and funniest women I have ever met at Write Canada 2014

This is part of the background of the story as to why even being able to go to Write Canada 2013 with my niece as constant companion was such a victory and why going alone this year to Write Canada 2014 felt akin to climbing Mount Everest - or perhaps going up the CN Tower.

Also, why I find life such a challenge even now more than three years past the initial injury, the initial trauma.

*******

Life, my friends, is all about living.  Living to the fullest.  Living to the best of our abilities DESPITE our challenges.

During my journey - and largely because of it, I have had the privilege of meeting many people mostly through the net who are as disenfranchised in their own situations as I am in mine.  Most of these people have autoimmune diseases which have caused drastic changes in their lives.  Pain.  Immobility. 

Yet these people soldier on.

Life, I am finding is not about avoiding all obstacles and challenges but in meeting them head on and finding a way to cope with them.

Today, my challenge - should I choose to accept it - is to find a way to rebalance myself and soldier on.

I accept the challenge.

Until tomorrow ....

Post Workplace Abuse: A slice of life on the road to recovery

On a recent journey to a small lake-side town in Ontario, I came across this wooden staircase leading down to the outlet to the lake.  I'd never seen this staircase before so I HAD to try it.  To see where it led.  To experience the adventure.  Maybe just once.  It fascinated me.  Not just the staircase itself, but also where it would lead me to.  Would it be a place of interest and discovery?  Or not?  Life on the journey of recovery is like that.  A path never taken.  Never the same way twice.  Always on the brink of discovery.

I had written my last post weeks ago intending to get a move on and start writing - and posting - my blog again.

BUT ...

It didn't happen.

I had wanted to write five or six posts in advance to take the pressure off.

BUT ...

It didn't happen.

Why?

A good question:  why?  A question to which there are at the same time many answers and yet no answers.

My life is an on-going journey.  Like quicksand it comes and goes.  Slipping through my fingers like sands on the beach.

Lately, I've been stuck in what I call the "land of lethargy".  A place where interest fades and initiative lies dormant.  Ditto creativity.

A land where nothing holds interest.  A land where sometimes even watching a 45 minute show on DVD proves challenging.

A land where books are unread, where projects lie unfinished, where pictures are not taken, where blog postings and emails are not written, phone calls not made, intentions not followed up on.  A land of blah, blah and more blah.

YET ...

At the same time, it is a land where there are victories.  Maybe small ones in the scheme of things.  Maybe things most people would not consider a victory, never having walked this particular path, but victories on the road to recovery all the same.

For me, a victory is being able to cook a meal for hubby and myself on a daily basis.  To have that energy, that ability to plan even a simple meal is an amazing victory.  For me.  And for those who know me - and love me anyway.

To take interest in the garden.  To be able to plant new plants - even if it takes me nine days from purchase to final planting - is a victory.  Weeding - also a victory.  Finishing knit and crocheted projects - also a victory.  At one time, I had six on the go at the same time.  Why?  For two I have been lacking the cognitive skills to interpret the patterns even though I've done those patterns before.  For the others, I lacked the interest.  Knitting and crocheting became chores.

Ditto writing.

It became a chore as well.  Something I felt I HAD to do rather than a source of creativity.
If I feel I HAVE to do something ... well ... it gets shelved.

Ahhh, procrastination.  How I love you!  And how I have mastered your fine art!

I got side-tracked originally because I was trying to lay the foundation of what bullying is from a research perspective.

Yet, while I do use research to understand, to grow and to heal, my life is largely a series of daily challenges and incidences.  Victories and, yes, failures.

It is these I want to share with you, dear reader, along with the research.  Along with the foundation.  Interwoven in the threads of this blog.

Just as I am in the process of becoming whole and healthy, so is my blog in the process of becoming.

I ask you to bear with me and join me in the journey of walking through towards recovery from trauma, from PTSD, from workplace abuse.

At the bottom of the stairs, the outlet from the river to the lake.  There were also men working, probably dredging to make it deeper and more navigable.  Across the outlet, was the harbour BUT there was no footpath or bridge to get from here to there - easily.  I had to go up and around which turned out to be a long, hot walk.  I never did make it to the "other" side so to speak.  Once I got up to the road which would lead me across via the town bridge, I was exhausted and headed back to our lodgings.  Recovery is like that.  Isolated moments of beauty.  Times of exhaustion.  Times of rest. 

A Friday Story

Journey on the road to recovery

As one posting has led to another this past week, flowing freely from the mind to the fingers, from day to day, so can the seemingly random events of our lives.

Several weeks ago, I wandered into the local independent book store in our area to show my daughter the books I wanted for Christmas.  Entering the store, I saw a poster that intrigued me.  Wild Writers Literary Event.  I loved the way the title of the event described it.  

Wild Writers.  OK, cool.  

Literary.  Hmmm.  Not so cool. That kind of puts me off.  

Literary, I'm not.  

Wild, yes.  

A writer?  I hope so.

Event?  

What is a literary event?  Does this mean the same as a writer's conference?  Only, maybe, on a smaller, more local scale?

I was intrigued.

So I went.  There I connected with a woman who runs writing workshops locally once a month.

One thing led to another, so I signed up for this workshop - and was well enough to go.  Yes!  Victory.

During the workshop, the presenter, a local travel and newspaper writer, read a piece she had written seemingly spontaneously about a slice in time on one of her many travels.  Maybe a ten minute experience she had on one of her travels which probably took longer to write out than it did to experience.

It intrigued me,

My fertile mind thought, "If I can find one story a week and write it up for my blog, it will add human interest."

So I started looking for a story to write about.

What I got, was not what I expected - or wanted.

A part of my road, but definitely not as tranquil, scenic, pleasant or peaceful as the picture above.  Not really the kind of story I wanted to share.  Definitely not uplifting.  But true.  Oh so true.

I wanted something uplifting, off beat, humorous.  Maybe quirky even.

But that is not what I got.

As most of you know, I've been down for the count (mostly) for the last two years.  Staying close to home.  Tired to the point of exhaustion.  Depressed (seriously at times).  Lethargic.  Psychiatric injuries that mimic brain injury to the point where cognitive skills, balance, speech, etc. are seriously effected.  Anxiety.  Panic attacks.

And then I had a breakthrough.  Two months or so ago.  A huge breakthrough.

My pre-workplace abuse personality, that irrepressible, hopeful, enthusiastic side of me came back.

It felt so good to feel good.

I was able to do things I hadn't been able to do for a very long time.

Life was starting to be exciting, to be good again.

But.I.Am.Still.Fragile.  Unfortunately.

I look normal But.I.Am.Still.Fragile.  I know I've repeated this statement twice in two sentence but bear in mind that when something is important to an individual, they tend to repeat it for emphasis.  To get the point across.

I may look normal and act normal for the most part But.I.Am.Still.Fragile emotionally.

I decided to get my feet wet (or shall we say wetter as going to the writer's "literary event" and following up with a writing workshop was also getting my feet wet by foraying into the outside world) by attending a senior's event at my local church.  I had attended it before the workplace abuse and subsequent injury got to the point of no return.  Where going out among people was too difficult to even attempt.

To me this was a huge victory on the road to recovery as I had not been able to attend these events for the better part of a year.

It took some planning as I needed a ride which those who run the event could not provide.  So I found a way to provide my own.

I got up.  I got dressed.  I put on my smiley, happy face because indeed I was so thrilled to be able to go out again.  To be ready to socialize.

I envisioned being able to share the joy, the sheer victory of what was going on in my life and have others, who knew me and knew of my journey even though they hadn't walked closely with me, share in it and be blessed.

My ride arrived.

We got there.

I went in.

Hung up my coat.

Joined the line entering the room.

Picked up my name tag.

Paid my fee for the lunch.

And then I looked around.

At all those tables.  Fifteen in all.  Chairs for eight each.  Each one with one, two or more people sitting around them.

I knew from past experience, that people have already formed groups and that some, if not most, of those seemingly empty chairs already have names attached to them.  Informally of course.  No visual such as a name tag, purse, jacket, etc. to warn me off.

I went to the first table.  One I had been welcomed to put my feet under many a time.

I was met with smiles.  Joy even.

But when I asked if there was a place for me at the inn - er, excuse me, table - I was met with dismay, confusion and much discussion.

It appeared that the seats were saved.  But they were trying to decide if there was one without a name attached.

It was then that another woman came up.  Asked the same question I had.  Without waiting for a reply, however, while I was still standing there waiting for one, she took off her jacket and sat down.

Immediately my mood shifted from one of joy, of victory, to - well - I felt like I'd been punched in the gut.

I felt rejected.

I felt powerless.

I felt worthless.

And I felt worth less than all those empty chairs with invisible people attached to them.

All the ugly emotions, all the lies I internalized from the workplace abuse situations, reared their ugly heads.

I turned away to find another table.

The next table I approached had two people sitting at it.  Six empty seats.

No, all of them were taken - by invisible people yet to arrive.

I went to a third table with again, maybe two or three people sitting there.

They dickered and dibbled and dobbled (if there are such words) before finally saying that there might be one seat available.  It took another bit before they figured out which one.

Gracious the response was not.

By this time, all the positive feelings had evaporated.  I was hurt.  Anger was beginning to rear its ugly head.

I went up to those at the table processing the money, etc. and said I have a major complaint.  I went to the person in charge of the event.

He exploded at me.  He told me I was ludicrous.  There were plenty of empty seats.  (Oh yeah?  You go and try to find one that isn't filled with "invisible" bodies.  Oh yeah, I forget.  You don't have to.  You're the leader of the event.  You have a seat reserved for you.)

By this time, I was so hurt, that I couldn't stay.

I left.

Outside the door was the senior pastor.  I stopped to tell him what had happened.

He immediately made excuses for the man in charge saying he was sure this person hadn't meant anything by it.

He went on to do some serious secondary wounding - in a well-meaning way of course.  Out of ignorance.  The compassion was there; but the knowledge of trauma was not.

He then told me, compassionately of course, that if I found a church that met my needs I was welcome to go there.

I was devastated.  Hurt beyond words.  Tears freely flowing.

Tears that would not stop or be quenched.

A major setback on the road to recovery.  A major blow to my re-emerging pre-workplace abuse personality.

Sometimes I feel like this statue in Ottawa with the bird standing - and defecating - on its head

This post has already gone on longer than I want my posts to go as I want them to be in short bites.  However, this incident, this story, highlights the pitfalls on the road to recovery those of us who have been affected by trauma, PTSD, workplace abuse, etc. follow.

Lack of understanding of what trauma is and how it affects the victim are paramount in our journey, leading to incidents like the above where secondary wounding occurs.

And also, how those who could make a difference, who are in roles of leadership in groups, churches, etc,  by learning about trauma and how it affects its victims, choose to ignore the reality of trauma in the lives of those around them.  

In settings where ignorance of trauma reigns, misunderstandings leading to real injury are inevitable.

There are resources available.  A lot of them.  Both on-line, in book form and in human form - i.e. people who are well versed in trauma and how people victimized by trauma heal - and don't heal.

That is the purpose of this blog.  To help others on the road to recovery learn that they are not alone.  

To help those who walk with them (and you truly are special) to learn more about walking with the traumatized.

And, perhaps, just perhaps to encourage those who know someone who is traumatized to start researching what it is and reach out a hand to one who is struggling.

I invite you to join with me on this road to recovery.

Post Workplace Abuse - Life Can Still Be Good

Life post trauma and workplace abuse is not all sackcloth and ashes I've found.  It is hard work, to be sure, but although the work of recovery is hard kind of like climbing a mountain, once you get to where you're going the view is spectacular.  For me, life after workplace abuse is a lot of hard work punctuated by those spectacular moments that make it all worth while.

  To me, life after the door closes behind your back, after the workplace has done the worst it can do to you,is also complicated.  

It's not all about what was done to you, but how you, the target, the victim and ultimately the survivor, choose to work with what you have.  Or rather, what you have left.  What, although perhaps damaged, you can work with.

Warning:  some creativity may be needed.

Wo what do I have left?  What tools do I have in my toolbox?  What strengths, if any, can I utilize while I walk through this?

Hmmmm.....  Let's see.  (Strokes chin deep in thought.)

I still have my curiosity.  My interests in things.  My, sometimes irreverent and weird, sense of humour. After all, how many people seeing a seagull restting on the head of a statue would immediately burst out looking?  And taking pictures?  Not of the statue.  I don't even know who it's supposed to represent. But of what the bird apparently thought of it.

I love to travel.  To see new places, experience new things.  I love to take pictures.  Looking at them after the fact reminds me of good times, safe people, making me smile long after the trip has ended and I'm back home in my hidey-hole.  I like to write.  Combine the three and you have a huge tool for healing, for recovery, for going forward on this dual path called recovery and life.

I have my long-suffering best friend, husband and life-long companion.  A man who encourages me to get outside my comfort zone, accompanies me on my travels and looks the other way when I pull out the wallet.

  I love flowers.  Seeing things grow and bloom.  My mom died almost a year ago, plunging into a new phase of the recovery:  grief mixed in with everything else.  So I decided to create a garden in my yard in honour of my mom.  I call it "Mom's" garden and is a a glimpse of it in it's first year.

I have my love of bicycling.  One I've had and which has had to lie dormant.  I used to ride 5-10 miles a day.  I had a 10-speed Raleigh Grand Prix - a top of the line bicycle in its day.  I thought I could start to ride again and could ride like I used to.  However, the balance is gone.  So is the energy and endurance.  Also, arthritis has made inroads into the flexibility of my knees.  But I wanted to reclaim that part of my life.  Below is my answer to that challenge.  And right now, I have lowered (just a little) my goals and expectations.  Every km is something to be happy about.

I love to crochet and knit, watching things grow underneath my fingers.  It soothes me mind while at the same time sparking my creativity.  Fanning a flame while flickering and threatening to go out back into life.  I've given up, for the time being, on wanting things to be perfect.   Besides no one is perfect.  So I work with what I have.  I incorporate the mistakes into the fabric of the project.  I look on the wholeness and think of who it may comfort.

I could go on much longer about the good things.  The peaceful things.  The things that give me joy and encouragement in the journey.

But alack and alas!  my time to write it up for today.

So I will leave you with this and ask you the question:  what do you have in your hands that can help you on the journey back after workplace abuse?  What strengths and talents do you have?  What gives you joy?

As I said earlier, because of "altered abilities" (sometimes called disabilities) some creativity may be required.