No, I haven't completely lost my mind; in fact, I think my brain may be firing on all cylinders again, after a fairly difficult period. Needless to say, I did require a bit of assistance, which I eventually sought, after much unnecessary procrastination.
My wise oracle and life buoy turned out to be a diminutive psychiatrist named Angie, whom I met in Northam last week. Now, shrinks, I have known a few (apologies to Frank Sinatra) and most of them I have found wanting. Plus, we are now officially paupers and can't afford a private psychiatrist. So when Andre, our GP wrote me a referral to the Wheatbelt Mental Health Unit, I envisaged actually clapping eyes on a quack in about eighteen months. And not having much faith in the outcome.
Imagine my surprise when I was quickly triaged, interviewed over the phone and a face-to-face appointment arranged all in a couple of weeks. Even so, I couldn't muster much enthusiasm before the event due to recurrent disappointment in previous practitioners. I was not looking forward to telling my story for the umpteenth time, watching the shrink/psych putting on their "listening with empathy" faces, whilst I was sure they were planning what to have for dinner.
I ended up arriving a trifle late, as I forgot the entry to the Unit was round the back, not on the main drag. I was not expecting to be greeted by a short, somewhat exotic looking doctor who introduced herself and ushered me into her office where we were to be joined by Huriana (not sure how to spell her name) via video link. Huriana had been the staff member who had previously spoken to me. I was a bit unnerved with two people sitting in, but I decided to just go with the process and see what unfolded.
Angie asked specific questions about my life rather than just let me ramble. We covered a huge amount of ground in less than ninety minutes. We spoke about details from my childhood, marriages, my pregnancy losses and motherhood. We touched on my self harming. We explored together whether there was an underlying reason for my decades old anxiety and depression and how I could help myself smooth out the "mad woman's knitting" of my psyche.
And then she announced her opinion. I had a lifelong terror of abandonment. Suddenly, that light bulb moment made perfect sense. My mother had abandoned all of us throughout our lives. My brothers had, unintentionally, abandoned me. My darling Dad, through unconscious passivity, abandoned us to Mum's chaotic craziness. And my fear of abandonment led me to stay in a bad and unhappy marriage, (for both of us) suffocate my self esteem and only end that relationship when I realised our children were being damaged by us both. I have spent countless times down my well, so afraid Michael would leave me. And most recently, She Who Must Not Be Named has abandoned all her family, leaving me angry, desolate and bewildered. That has been like an open sore that refuses to heal.
Suddenly, my entire life made sense and this was not my fault. Then, Angie started to explain strategies that could make a difference. If I watched my breathing, I couldn't concentrate on unhelpful thoughts at the same time. She's right. I've tried it. She urged me to use mindfulness techniques as a way to circumvent damaging self talk. She has referred me to psychology sessions. This immediately worried me. "What if I don't like the person?" She responded "Then move to the next one on the list". Okay.
She picked up how I try to use humour in my writing. She suggested I record our daily catastrophes like a comedy sketch. I have had years of practice looking on the funny side of life if at all possible. I was almost speechless with gratitude at the simplicity of her solutions to my questions. The only piece of her advice I have chosen not to follow is to take a drug that caused a horrible reaction about twenty five years ago. I made an informed decision for my own health.
Over the last few days, I have considered how I can change my views regarding my abandonment issues. Loving Mum was complicated but I don't miss her one iota. I hope she may have found some peace. I adored Dad, but I needn't place him on a pedestal. My ex-husband now appears to be happily married to a lovely lady and has rediscovered his family. I am becoming better at vocalising my here and now to Michael without excess waffling. And as for She Who Must Not Be Named, she must follow her own path. Maybe I have served my purpose in her life. I have to try not to grieve her absence.
Tomorrow is April 1 (Fool's Day?) and Stella's unofficial birthday. She will be turning four and those years have been maddening, frustrating, surprising and hilarious, often all at the same time. The East End Gallery is once more spick and span after a rogue thunderstorm early on Sunday morning exacerbated the leaky roof and left puddles here, there and everywhere. Our gazebo, having appeared to be only slightly damaged, was later reassessed as terminal and been taken down. After the rampage, we read the instructions that advise taking the structure down before a storm and not leaving it up for extended periods... Will, our trusty camper suffered a broken vent, which fortunately didn't flood either the kitchen or our bed. He is now recuperating with about thirty layers of Gladwrap across the hole.
We have been joyfully consumed by Violet's arrival, an easier birth for Bron, watching the delight on Cal's face now he is the Daddy of two little girls and Immy thoroughly enjoying her role of Big Sister. The NDIA/S continues to confound and annoy me, but I need to remember that a young man named Alex, our Autistic Superstar is the reason to persevere in my quest to create a coherent team to support him.
So much tension has eased this week. I already feel more confident in myself. I know this is not a magic bullet and I will need to keep working, but a great weight of fear has been lifted from my shoulders. Tonight, Michael and I am sitting in Station House, comfortable as both ourselves and as a couple, and very much looking forward to our northern expedition come June.
Us and our tugboat.
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