Throughout my life, my dad used to tell the story of a gentleman who worked in the telephone exchange where he was a telecommunications engineer. The man, who, I can only assume was experiencing dementia, or mental breakdown, my dad simply described as a poor old guy, and he would tell us how the gent pushed a trolley with a huge tangle of wires around the work place repeatedly saying, “Trundle, trundle, trundle, wiry, wiry bundle.” As a young child the little rhyme made me giggle. Although my dad told me the story was sad, I didn’t comprehend why. I obviously understand the tragedy of the situation now, and I sometimes ponder on how the man still came to be at work when he was identified as ‘doolally’ or ‘round the bend’ by his colleagues. I’m thankful the fear and misunderstanding around mental illness has improved. Mostly.

When my first husband died, my late father in law understandably got himself some grief counselling. His counsellor likened grief to a mass of tangled strands of wool. Threads all twisted, entwined and knotted together. She reassured him that as they took each strand and discussed it, not only would it make sense, but the remaining tangle would gradually become smaller and more manageable. The analogy reminded me of the poor old guy and his wiry, wiry bundle.

My father in law was dealing with some complex grief issues and he became rather fixated on his ‘ball of wool’. He would tell anyone who’d listen about how grief is like a tangled ball of wool and you could only unravel it one strand at a time. I wasn’t accessing counselling at that time, which father in law openly expressed his disapproval of. He demanded to know how I would unravel my ball of wool if I didn’t have a counsellor. I said I had to do things my way. I didn’t say I didn’t relate to the wool analogy. But I didn’t particularly then. Currently that’s very much how my head feels. Not so much grief related, but just as if my brain has been replaced by an oversized, wiry, wiry bundle.

My thoughts and feelings are inextricably twisted and tangled. Emotions well up and leak from my eyes, but my wiry bundle is so tightly impacted I’m unable to discern the thread that initiated them. I, at some moments feel on the verge of utter breakdown. I feel wretched, vulnerable, overwhelmed. I am mentally, physically and socially exhausted. I feel like I’ve been running on fumes since before Christmas and I’m afraid I have no more mileage left in me. I’m so utterly spent from trying to stay strong and cope in constantly changing circumstances and situations, that my poor wiry brain has malfunctioned and initiated partial shutdown.

Maybe the time is right to consider more counselling. Because as father in law would have pointed out, I need someone to help me unravel my ball of wool. And frankly, something’s got to give, and I’d rather it wasn’t my sanity. Again.