On the road to recovery post workplace abuse: The place of Analysis in the Process

My current therapist says that my ability to analyse is one of my greatest strengths.  My former therapist said that I analyse things to death -which was a scathing criticism.  A close relative criticized my analytical side brutally as well.

Two sides of the same coin.

Which is the right side?  The right way to look at things?

I guess it depends on the bystander who is observing.

For me, I use my analyzation skills to think through a situation, figure out what went wrong and what would work better.

I've used this ability for decades.

Let me give you an example from decades ago - close to the beginning our my marriage adventure.

Many years ago, as a newlywed, hubby and I went on our first camping trip.  It can best be described in two words:  unmitigated disaster.

It would be easier to say what went right than what went wrong:  we set up camp in a leaky pup tent in a rain storm at a provincial camp ground - which is pretty well camping in the rough - or at that time back in the early '80s it was.  Way out in the middle of nowhere.  No services.  Not even any park personnel as they were on strike.  It was on the honour system.  You signed a form for how many nights you were going to stay, left the money in a sealed envelope and chose a site.  Oh, did I mention that I'd never, ever been camping before?  I'd never ever been camping before.  This was my "maiden voyage", my first trip down the bunny hill.  Problem is a provincial park is one step below the black diamond - back country camping.  Arduous camping for the experienced, the motivated.  Those who don't think that roughing it is a high class hotel.

At that time, provincial campgrounds for the most part were cheap and unserviced.  No showers.  No washrooms.  Outhouses, smelly outhouses, for bathrooms.  Things have changed a lot since those days.  Most campgrounds come with well maintained washrooms - including showers.

We were living more on love at the time than money, so we'd done this trip as on the cheap as possible.  A three-man pup tent.  Two cheap vinyl floatation mattresses which we pushed together.  A camping stove someone had picked up at a garage sale and gave to us.  We splurged on a fly - which turned out not to be waterproof.  So much for that "luxury".

Anyway, as we drove to the provincial campground, it became more and more obvious the further along we got that I was getting sick.  By the time we got there, I was in the middle of a rip roaring case of a high fever.  Poor, long sufferin' hubby, the man who stood at the alter with me and promised to love, honour and set up my tent in the rain etc., manfully started putting up the tent.  Once the tent was up, he inflated the two cheap vinyl air mattresses, pushed them together, put sleeping bags on them and carried me to one.  He also set up the stove to make a quick supper - in the doorway of the tent.  Bad idea.  We discovered quickly why the stove had been sold at a garage sale so cheaply.  The flame flared up - and almost set the tent on fire.  Not a good idea to cremate your bride on her first caping trip.  It just does not set a good example for thins to come.

Things went from bad to worse during the night.  It continued raining all night - actually downpour is the better word.  The tent leaked.  The air matresses floated in opposite directions with a pool of water between them.  I was feverish by that time.  Hubby was cold.  He turned over to get to the source of the heat - me - and ended up in - you guessed it! - the puddle of water.  He was not a happy camper.

Daylight couldn't come soon enough.  As soon as possible, he put me in the car, packed up and we headed south towards civilization.  Civilization in this case being a mobile home which a relative had in a KOA campground which is where we finished out our holiday.

This could easily have been the end of the story - and my career as a camper.  But it wasn't.

The campground was very busy.  It also was not out in the middle of nowhere.  It had a small camp store, a pool and other amenities such as washrooms with showers.  And here is where my analytical abilities stepped in.

I would walk around the camp.  I talked to other campers.  I observed how they did things, what gear they had.  Looking to see what worked for other people.   When we got back home, I thought about how we could go camping again without experiencing all the difficulties we'd experienced the first time.

We did keep the pup tent for a few more adventures but as we added kids to the adventure, we purchased a much larger dome tent - which was to me the height of luxury.

The two cheap vinyl air mattresses were replaced with a good quality, double air mattress designed for camping - not swimming pools.  Ditto, a double sleeping bag.  The stove we did keep for a few more years.  Hubby was the sole one who could manage it.  And it was always used on a picnic table.  It was replaced with a propane camp stove (from Sears which we still use 30 years later) when we took our then four year old on her first camping expedition and she ran to the tent crying out to her dad:  "Come quickly!  Mom's trying to light the stove!"

Weather and illness are not controllable.  But we did buy a cheap plastic sheet to cover the tent in the advent of bad weather.  Crude but effective.  It worked.

The most important thing we did though, was to avoid the "black diamond" i.e. provincial parks for a bit and did what I called "civilized" camping.  The campgrounds like the KOAs with pools, camp stores, bathrooms. etc.  We went to provincial campgrounds for only a day or two at first, sandwiching that adventure in between stays at commercial campgrounds until we all became comfortable.

When people hear about the misadventures of our first camping trip, they're always amazed that I ever went a second time.  Totally astonished that I enjoyed camping and that it became a way of life for us as a family.

This is the approach I use in all of life's difficult situations:  what went wrong?  what went right?  what can I do to make it better another time?

It works.  For me, that is.

Until next time.

Surviving Workplace Abuse: Moving past the trauma

Last week began with high hopes to put the resurgent traumas behind me and move forward - even if only a little bit.  One tiny step at a time.  To learn to live with "what is" rather than with "what I want it to be".  To form new coping techniques to fit the situation I am in at present.

By this, I'm referring to what to some might call the "grain of sand in my shoes" - the on-going situation with the mail delivery - or rather lack thereof.

It has hit me - and the other residents on my street - hard because there was no way any of us could have foreseen this.  We were well and truly blindsided when a new postie, who apparently wanted this route, took over and discovered there were some difficulties she hadn't foreseen  i.e. the detour which has caused more traffic on our road.  She was unprepared to work in this situation, even though she had wanted this route, and very quickly, probably within days, of taking over the route played the "safety" card.

With a powerful union such as CUPW (Canadian Union of Postal Workers) behind her, using the safety card guaranteed her of several things.  One:  that she would be granted her wishes of not working the parts of the route she didn't like.  Two:  that there would not be any repercussions for her.  No discipline.  No write-ups.  Nothing negative on her record.  Three:  that she cannot lose her job or her route.

Because she's played the safety card, no one can take over the route.

She is untouchable.

She has all the power and the control.

Even when she jeers at residents and taunts them when they ask when they're going to get their mail delivery back, she is untouchable.

Even though she apparently has trouble delivering the right mail into the right boxes on the parts of the route she is delivering to.

She can severely impact our lives, our routines, even our health because of her "rights".  Not only the rights she has due to government safety legislation, but also more extensive rights under her binding union agreement.

She has the right not to walk on the grass.  Which to me makes no sense as the grassy area adjacent to the road is city-owned and is safe.

She has the right to make a "safety" complaint without fear of reprisal.

She has the right basically, from my perspective, to do what she pleases.

She has the voice.

She has the power.

Any complaints we make such as allegations based on my research that she is a toxic employee or that she is incompetent because of the misdelivery of mail fall in deaf ears.  We are not Canada Post employees; therefore, we have no rights.  Period.

We are left with nothing.

No power.  No control.  No voice.  No representation.  No communication as to what we can expect.

Not even the community mailbox which we were promised would be delivered and installed within the first week.

We are left up in the air to wonder what is going on.  Will we ever get our mail back once the construction on the street below us is completed - which should be soon?  Or will this continue?  Is the stoppage permanent?

I was told two weeks ago that the community boxes were being shipped.  Unfortunately, the postal supervisor did not inform me exactly where those boxes were being shipped to.  Wherever, they're going, it apparently isn't to our area.  We still don't have them.

We are entering our fourth week of the situation and coping as best we can.  One resident is stopping by the distribution centre once a week and picking up the mail for 15-16 residents and delivering it to their doors.

*******

I began last week with high hopes of putting this behind me.  Of working through the trauma.  Of finding creative ways to cope with our altered situation.  Of resuming my life, post workplace abuse, as I know it.  Of writing my blog daily again.

But ....

... life intervened as it has a habit of doing.

I got sick.  The shooting in Ottawa, my nation's capital happened.  A relative in hubby's extended family passed away.  The funeral for this relative.  A birthday celebration for an aged relative, also in the same part of the extended family.  And I can't remember what else.

The mind stopped working.  The body was definitely having its issues and taking its time getting back to normal - whatever normal is.  

The creative juices stopped flowing.  Lethargy became my constant companion.

But today, we start a new week.  A fresh slate.

Today.

I will only have this day once in my entire life.  As I start it, I ask myself:  "What will I make of today."

That is a question only time can answer.

Until tomorrow ....

Post Workplace Abuse: Everyday victories on the road to recovery

Today.  Friday, the 20th of June, 2014.  The day before the summer solstice.  I wake up tired.  Not really wanting to face the day.

Or write another blog.  My fifth consecutive this week.  Another small victory in my journey post trauma, post workplace abuse, post PTSD.

But let's sidestep that for the moment.

As my mind slowly - and rather unwillingly I might add - came to consciousness today, I was thinking of this past week.  Of the small things which most people take for granted.   Which are no big deal for them.

The dailyness.

So today, I decided to write about the everyday victories.  The ones that most people take for granted.

This week, I made a meal every day.  I was able to think, plan and prepare an evening meal every day this week.

What!?! you might think.  I do this every day.  I don't consider it a victory.

But look at it for a moment - or at least for the duration of this blog post - from a completely different perspective.

For those of us working through the devastation, the aftermath of trauma - which workplace abuse is - even being able to do simple everyday activities is a struggle.

Many years ago, during the reign of Ho Chi Ming in China, I read an article by a journalist who was enthusiastically being shown how great the Chinese leader was and how much life had been improved during his leadership by a group of villagers.  They proudly showed this journalist their hospital.  The journalist was appalled as it was very rudimentary and he commented, if this is after what was before?

If this is after in my life, what was before?

If being able to cook dinner every day for five consecutive days is a victory, a success after workplace abuse, after trauma, what was during?

If being able to write a blog for five consecutive days is after.  What was during?

So today I concentrate on and share with you the daily victories that have occurred this week.  The things that make life good on a daily basis.

I made a loaf of bread in my breadmaker this week.  Not a usual occurrence any more because I have to look through my recipe books and choose a recipe which I have the ingredients on hand for. Next,  I have to go to our storage room in the basement and lug up the breadmaker.  I also have to lug up the flour from same storage room.  All of these things take thought.  Cognitive skills.  To be able to read and follow the recipe.  To lay out the ingredients.

Throw in a dash - or more - of lagging energy into the mix and you have a general idea of the uphill battle (literally in the form of the basement stairs) this one small activity involves.

Inhaling the yeasty small of the bread as it rose, made me feel like a David who had just conquered his Goliath.

I went to the Farmers Market yesterday with hubby, even though my energy levels were still very low after the Writers Conference last weekend.  I went with a purpose - to buy vegetables to make salads for us.

I also went with the purpose to continue taking control of my life by doing things I used to do on a regular weekly basis and thought nothing about.  And what better way to do this then to go to the market and mingle with the vendors - and other assorted people who are there.  This is taxing for me as as the season progresses, the crowds multiply.  Especially in the indoors market.  I have to closely monitor my "inside" feelings i.e. anxiety, hypervigilence.  Sometimes, I have to tell myself that it's OK.  These are simply people.  They don't know me.  They're not going to hurt me - at least not intentionally.  I have to do with all sorts of emotions and reactions, that I never had to deal with pre workplace abuse.  It is both taxing and tiring.  But again, after all is said and done, I feel like I have conquered another giant in my life.

My garden.  Or rather what I call "Mom's garden" - the one I'm creating in her memory as she loved flowers and taught me everything I know.  Literally.  In more ways than one.

No, I didn't have the energy to get out the old Japanese Farmer's knife this week  and tackle the weeds, but I did take daily walks to the very back of the yard - over 200 feet and counting - and let the beauty of the newly blooming flowers sink in and create peace in my soul.

I got out my knitting needles - the double pointed ones at that! - and knit - count 'em ... one ... two .... three ... four! - yes four coffee cozies which I hope to be the basis for upcoming craft tables in the fall.

You might wonder what the victory is in that since I knit and/or crochet - or both - routinely as part of my right brain therapy.

What you don't know is that there are not only days - but periods of time - when I'm so sunk in lethargy that I cannot think ahead to choose a project.  Nothing excites me.  The hands, the needles, the yarn.  They all lie idle.  Even recently.  To create, to have a purpose in that creation ... that is another victory.

These and more - things you can't catch in the lens of the camera - all make up the seemingly small, every day victories that made up this week.

And, as I push the button to publish this post, another everyday, seemingly small, victory occurs.  That of another post.

I am content.

Life ... while not perfect ... is good.

Note:  I don't post on the weekends.  Even - and perhaps especially - with all the victories happening in my life, I need rest.  Downtime to stop doing and just be.

See you on Monday with more of the story.

On the Road to Recovery:

This picture, taken on Good Friday at the Elora Gorge, Elora Ontario, caught my fancy.  Spring was definitely coming.  At the top spring flowers bloomed in abundance.  Yet, here in this one spot sat frozen in time, at least for the moment, an ice pillar.  Water frozen as it flowed.  I felt a kindred spirit to this ice pillar as my emotions are at times frozen in the past.  In the place of abuse.  Wanting to thaw in the warmth of the sun, but for some reason unable to.

I have a blog almost finished.  Almost ready to push the publish button.  In.  My.  Mind.

Nothing on paper, or rather computer screen - yet.  And yet, when I push the new post button and stare at the blank, white screen, nothing happens.  The words refuse to come.  I just sit here starring at the screen.  Trying to will myself to remember what my fruitful mind was thinking even just a few moments ago.

And that, my friends, is one of the reasons there was such along time period between blog postings.  The disconnect between the active, fertile mind and the fingers.  The flow that isn't there.

If only ...

If only, I could plug a USB port or flash drive or something into my mind and let my thoughts actively flow onto the screen.

If only ....

But we all know that "if onlys" are not reality.  They are imagination.  They are dreams that don't come true.  They are regrets about life.  How it happened.  How it played out.

If only....

If only, I had realized what I was up against at the work situation sooner and devised a "safe" plan to get out.

But are there any safe plans when mobbing is occurring along with gossip, backbiting, slander, defamation of character?

Where everything appears to be being filtered through the mind - or more - of one very unhappy individual(s) and then passed around behind my back for general office consumption?

If only...

I'd had the courage to walk out.  Yet I realized later that that would have only caused more problems as these people - the clique of five - were watching me like hawks.  I'm sure if I had turned off my computer, left a note on the keyboard and walked out, they would have swooped upon my desk like hawks intent on their prey or like vultures after roadkill as soon as the door closed behind me and called the manager.  Thus controlling the the view.

I thought of giving my two week - or whatever - notice.  But instinctively knew that because of the exclusion, isolation and silence, two weeks would seem like an eternity and leaving would not be accompanied by well wishes or even good byes.  It would be accomplished in silence.  Being ignored.  Walking out like a dog who has been whipped - and whipped soundly.  Thus bringing more damage.

I truly believe now in retrospect that there was no way to get out of that situation unscathed.  The problem was to try to find a way out that would cause the least damage possible.  If there was one.

What has brought this on?  This reflection?

Part of my path to recovery has been to join some on-line groups regarding workplace abuse.  One currently has a thread going, quite an active thread I might add, on how a target of bullying recovers.  Interestingly enough and yet not surprisingly, there are as many opinions as there are contributors.  At first, most of the contributors where what I call "clinical" - posting their theory rather than the reality of what a target goes through.  Yet, there were others like me who had been - or maybe still are - in the trenches of workplace abuse.  Posting from our reality.  Our experience.

Yet, while there are some commonalities among us, there are disagreements as well.  Depending.  On. A. Lot. Of. Things.

This was the post going through my mind.  Almost written.  A post about my thoughts on this thread about recovery.

Tomorrow.  Or the next time I post - since tomorrow is Saturday and I don't usually post on weekends.

Now where is that USB port connection in my brain to plug into the computer?

This picture was taken the same day as the one which begins today's post.  Same river - the Grand River.  Different location.  The river running through the small town of Fergus, Ontario.  Both pictures represent facets of my emotional state during the process of recovery.  Sometimes I feel frozen in time like the ice pillar.  Other times, my mind is racing with thoughts like this picture of the swollen spring river racing through the town of Fergus.  I feel like I'm coming out of a frozen state and into something different.  Bear with me and travel with me on the road to recovery.

Time Out - Permission to Rest on the Road to Recovery

When a child is bad, he (or she) is often put in time out.  A time out of the normal busyness and activities of the day, the house, the school, the setting.  A time to quiet down.  To reflect.  A time perhaps, to separate the past i.e. the misbehaviour, from the present i.e. the time out and be better prepared for the future i.e. after the time out.

What happens, though, when a traumatized person settles into a routine, even a minimal one, and plods along daily, weekly, monthly seeing little or no results?  Plodding. Ever plodding.

Sure, there are some good times.  Some bursts of sunlight.  Moments of joy.  Splashes of joy in the cesspools of life (to borrow a title from one of Barbara Johnson's books).

Yet, overall it's the cesspool that's constant.  The splashes of joy are what makes the journey endurable.

And so it is, at least during this time in my journey through trauma.

I felt worn out and run down.

The little engine that said it could, gave up.  The hill became too steep.  The steam in the engine ran out.

At least for the time being.

I needed a time out badly.  I needed to give myself permission to retreat into that corner of rest before I could go back into the activities of basic living.

But I didn't realize that. All I knew was that I was tired - and getting increasingly more so each day.

Here is where having a competent therapist, one who provides a safe place to express thoughts, explore feelings and above all to be honest, is invaluable.

I felt so run down and worn out that not only was getting up in the morning becoming harder and harder but so were getting dressed and making my appointments:  chiro, massage, now we've added physio to the mix.  And then there's those bi-weekly counselling appointments in a town 45 minutes away.

It was becoming too much.  Way too much.  Not just emotionally but physically.  The spirit was willing; the body was not.

And so, one memorable session, I verbalized as much to my counsellor.  How I didn't really want to be there.  How I felt so down - not so much emotionally, but physically.  How it was getting harder and harder to manage the specifics of actually getting to appointments.

And my counsellor, well worth every penny, well versed in trauma both through her training but also through her personal experiences, gave me permission to rest.

To give myself a time out.  A time out from working so hard on getting better.  A time out to work on physical recovery.

And so I did.

It felt weird.  It still does.  To just give in to the weakness for the time being - and rest.

I feel like this apple tree in my back yard - except that it's currently full of fruit while I don't feel that I have much of anything to offer.  It went through the bad storm we had more than a month back.  It become not exactly broken - but definitely bowed.  The emerging fruit on it's limbs didn't help it, either.  Instead of being fully able to heal from inside, it's strength was divided by having to continue on bearing fruit.

As a traumatized person, desperately trying to recover, I resemble this tree.  Divided between the need to focus all my resources, all my strength on recovering while at the same time dividing my energy, my resources, on the external parts of recovery.

So I am giving myself permission to rest and regroup.  

More tomorrow ... unless I'm resting.

The Many Roads or Facets of Recovery Post Workplace Abuse

My blog postings have been seesawing all over the place.  Sometimes here; sometimes there.  Then back again to here.  Swinging all over the place.  Seemingly with a mind of their own.  No plan.  No reason.  Just from here to there and back again - or often someplace else entirely.

I'm supposed to be blogging about those 18 months of desolation after abusive workplace situation #1 and the beginning phases of recovery from a lifetime of situations.

Yet, here I am malingering over photos and tales of baptisms and other assorted wanderings.

I'll be getting into a very serious topic like the first abusive workplace situation, how it played out, the dynamics involved, etc. and then at a crucial moment I'll pull back.  Unable - or unwilling - to move forward on that topic for a time.  At least for a time.  Often I have to literally force myself to go back to that time, that place and relive that experience in order to complete the series.

Worthwhile in the end.  Very worthwhile.  But difficult in the telling, the living.

When this abusive situation happened, I had no choice in the matter.  Or rather I felt I had no choice in the matter.  What were my choices really?

To leave or to stay.

To leave would have meant not fulfilling my contract which was important to me.

To leave would have meant validating their perceptions about my character.

To leave would have meant failure.  To me.

It was not something I even thought about.  Much.

Now I do have a choice - or rather choices in the matter.

I choose to grow, to recover, to do what I have to do in order to get past all of the crud.  The stink,  The defamation of character.  The abuse.

And sometimes, or rather often times, I choose to pull back in order to let the mind rest a bit.

This seesawing also has a lot to do with the road I travel these road.  A road that changes constantly.  Scenery that changes.  Emotions.  Processing.  Always processing.

Why?  Because one of my main strengths, according to my counsellor, is my ability to problem-solve, to analyze.

It seems that my mind is always working on a piece of the puzzle.

Journeying through complex PTSD post workplace abuse is, to me, like trying to put a complicated jigsaw puzzle together - with pieces missing.

There are so many facets to this puzzle called "recovery".

Survival definitely is not only one of the first but is also on-going.

Finding ways to rebuild or reclaim my life in my current circumstances.

Dealing with the myriad assortment of disabilities or altered abilities incurred as a result of the stress of the workplace abuse.

Throw in recurring nightmares or vivid dreams which leave me feeling more unsettled and restless than when I went to bed the night before.

And there is more.  Much more.  I just can't think of them at this time.

And so, in this blog - as well as in my - life, I need times to regroup.

To enjoy and experience the "insignificant" things.

Sometimes I need to stop entirely and just let the mind rest for a few days.

That's what I have to do in order to survive.  To ultimately recover.

So please, dear reader, bear with me as I stumble and blunder through this path which is sometimes blocked by obstacles I need to find a way around - or over - or through.

Bear with me on those occasions when the thoughts won't come.  The fingers won't type.  The blog is silent.

Bear with me as I take detours into lighter topics.

Because after all, it's all part and parcel of recovery.

Enjoying the Civic Holiday Weekend while Coping with Severe Stress Affects

What's in a name?  The first Monday in August in Canada is commonly called Civic Holiday, a chance to enjoy another three-day weekend in Canada.  It goes by several names according to what city or province you live in.  But the idea is the same:  celebrate; enjoy; live.

Three day weekends become problematic when you're coping on a daily basis with "altered abilities" caused by unrelenting, escalating, brutal stress over a period of years. When the energy tank in your body gets so deleted that there are no reserves left.  When at the best of times, you're running on fumes.

That is me.  My life.  What I deal with daily.

You've heard the saying that "the eyes are bigger than the stomach?"  Or the Biblical quote:  "the flesh is willing but the spirit is weak?"  In my case, it's the opposite:  my spirit is willing BUT my flesh is weak.  What I want to do, what my mind tells me I can do, I find I can't.

Learning to live with this - and live like this - has been a difficult change for me.  I once did.  I now be.

So we came to yet another long weekend, thinking of options.  What can I realistically do?  The key word being "realistically".

My mind fumbled through several options finally deciding on a visit to the Toronto Zoo - about an hour or so away from us.  A day trip.  Bringing, of course, two indispensable items:  hubby and my camera.

Before even leaving the house that morning knowing that (a) energy is severely limited and (b) unpredictable as in I can go from feeling physically and emotionally on top of the world one minute to having trouble breathing the next, we formed a "plan".

The panda exhibit is on.  Two pandas on loan from China.  Therefore, the plan was to see that exhibit first and then go from there, monitoring the energy levels constantly (almost sounds like I'm a car with an oil leak, doesn't it?)

It was a good plan.  Especially considering the wait for the interactive exhibit.  We became part of a long line snaking around lines formed by ropes before finally entering the building.  Following hoards of like-minded people, we snaked through the exhibit before finally funnelling through the bamboo tunnel.  Each step getting us closer to our intended goal:  the pandas.

Success at last!  The two pandas, one male and one female, are kept separated.  Above is the female who was enjoying the Toronto sun; while the male was kept inside with a separate (crowded) viewing area.

Leaving the panda exhibit, emotionally I felt good.  Physically was starting to get challenging.  We decided to "bite the bullet" and find the zoomobile and ride it around rather than walking.  A good choice EXCEPT that it took a lot of walking to get to the next zoomobile location.

By that time, I was thoroughly tired and ready for a rest.  Breathing coming in spurts.  I was starting to look longingly at those who were using mobility devices.  But I persevered - and had a riot taking pictures.  (So, what else is new?)

By the time we got to the zoomobile stop, I was barely able to function.  I broke out in a sweat all over trying to access the machine for tickets.  A feat only accomplished with the assistance of my long sufferin' spouse (and part-time sherpa).

The zoo has renovated its Eurasia exhibit and the only way to see it is on the zoomobile - so besides the practical consideration of not physically being able to walk any further, the zoomobile allowed us to see a part of the zoo we would not have otherwise been privy to.

The train actually goes through gates into the enclosure.  Taking pictures on a moving vehicle proved to be a challenge - but a fun one.

As we wove around the zoo on the train, it became more and more evident that walking around was not going to happen.

So we rode around - a couple of times.

It was actually more fun the second time around as we knew what we were going to see and could try to get the camera ready in advance.  It was also fun knowing that I was coping with the limitations imposed by my altered abilities - and coping well.

Pictures like this one.  Experiences like this are what keep me going.  Even when the body wants to lie down and say:  "I quit."  These good times spent with my best friend (who also happens to be my husband) are what give me hope for a better - which in my case translates to less challenging - tomorrow.

Accepting that I now have limitations which are not easily understood because they are not linked to an organic cause has not been easy.  Yet, it's a necessary part of the recovery process.

What will my world look like?  What will my "new normal" level out to be?  I'm not going to know unless I keep on keeping on.  Muddling through.  One day, one experience, at a time.

This day, it was the zoo.  Tomorrow, it might well be something else.

Going home through Toronto we came to a slow down - rather a bottleneck.  Bumper to bumper traffic creeping along.  We saw a cloud of smoke.  Not one but two fire trucks raced past us.  At one point, we saw flames.  By the time, we crept past, this was all that was left of the commotion.

Needless to say, someone was having a rougher go of it at that moment than I was.

For that I am thankful.

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.