Tuesday is the day I see my counsellor. I have to say, in the 15 sessions so far that he has worked with me, I have built up a lot of respect for him. I do have a slight niggle in my mind that this particular therapy with RASAC is time limited to 26 weeks, so I am already just over half way. And each week we seem to unearth more and more of my curious little hang-ups and insecurities. We cover so much ground; not just the assault last summer which is my primary reason for being back in counselling, nor my history of  various abuse in all its many forms. We regularly dip into my dubious childhood, my attachment issues as a result of both then and having experienced bereavement of a partner, and also my subsequent attempts at failed relationships. To hopefully glean some insight into how best to take back some control over my current life and giving myself the very best chance with the new man. Whilst additionally juggling unstable Bipolar obviously. I really would be bored if my life was straightforward! I’m just not entirely certain if we’re resolving a lot. I guess that’s kind of hard to judge from within the situation. 

So back to today. This Tuesday therapy session in particular. I came at this appointment (in addition to all the above) bearing a whole new wave of grief and a dose of irrational depressive thinking. I’ve not been well physically, was mostly confined to bed over we weekend, so that had a knock-on effect on my mental health. Feeling rubbish and unwell, mood gradually slumped, crazy ideas filled my otherwise stagnant brain and so the vicious cycle spiralled. I received the news that my friend’s husband had died Sunday. She’s younger than me, and my heart absolutely broke for her, because I have an idea of what lies ahead for her. 

Sometimes I reflect on the fact that I have been through some truly horrible stuff in my life; abuse, mental illness, being sectioned, assault, having to put my boy into care; but by far the worst experience was being widowed at a young age. As I contemplated my friend’s situation, my tears refused to cease. I read her beautiful tribute to her husband on social media, and I noted the cotton-wool cocoon of shock that still envelopes her. 

Today was my father-in-law’s funeral. Yesterday my son was here for a while before he traveled with his cousin across country for the service this afternoon. He asked if he could borrow his dad’s tie. I don’t have much left now of Andrew’s clothes; it’s nearly nine years after all, but digging out that tie from among the few most special pieces of clothing, those that were iconically him, well, it nearly broke me. Ordering some flowers for my mother-in-law and changing the online address book from ‘Mr and Mrs’ to just ‘Mrs’ took me over the edge. My heart was crushed. Again. 

Just because I was not currently well enough to get myself to the funeral, doesn’t mean I didn’t feel anything. I have been too unwell to bring myself to ask mother-in-law if I would have been welcome there (things have been so strained between us all over the years) but if I’d been well, and they’d wanted me there I would have gone, of course I would. 

My counsellor took me back to some very dark and difficult places today. Despite having endlessly been in tears for days, I sat there repressed and locked-in. Maybe I will be able to unlock in future sessions, maybe not. He addressed my fear that I will spend the rest of my life in and out of therapy. Sadly he offered me no hope that this may not be the case. I try to keep optimistic but the Black Dog is constantly nipping at my heels right now, and it’s hard. That terrified Little Angel, the stunted five year old Angel who resides within me is very needy and demanding at the moment, and I’m really not sure I’m able to handle her. God give me strength. 

👼🏻