In a couple of weeks, it will be six years since I've been seeing Dr. Z. I've picked up on his mannerisms probably as much as he's picked up on mine, or so I'd like to think. For instance, he always greets you with a warm smile, making eye contact and waiting patiently to see if you are willing or able to return it. He sits down and lays his papers in front of him- one your return appointment half-slip and the other presumably for notes taking during the appointment. In my experience, if he writes nothing down, you are doing well, most of that time taken up with small talk and story telling. If he makes a couple of notations, it means you have some symptoms cropping up more than the usual and he after he puts his pen down, he will remind you to go for walks, get moving, leave the house. If he scribbles furiously, asking you to slow down or repeat what you've said, flips the paper over, and runs out of room, scrambling for a second piece?
Well, that's where we are right now. He greeted me the other day, I found my seat, and he asked me in his calm, voice (so like my father's), how are we doing? "Not very good." I answered him.
"Tell me about this." he invited.
And, buddy, I dove right in. Within 45 seconds, I had lost all control of my emotions, snotting all over myself, sending Dr. Z fumbling for a kleenex box, his own eyes looking a little wet.
"Normal. All of these feelings you are having are part and parcel for grief- the anger, the guilt. And if you have to be angry, I'd rather others take a little of the brunt of that than you save it all up for yourself."
He told me that the anniversary dates are no more and no less than re-experiencing the loss all over again. Well then, yes. I can't eat. I can't sleep unless I take meds to make me sleep. I can't concentrate. I'm on the verge of tears almost all the time. The guilt eats steadily away, negating every good decision that I know I made for that girl.
The surprise is back. At least three times this week, I looked at a picture of her and broke down, completely unable to accept the fact that I will never see her again. How has this happened? How can this be?
I feel anxious all the time, worst case scenario of every situation being my go to...and why wouldn't it be? That's what trauma does to you.
I was able to find out that they did uncover her and photograph her body, which I hope will help me to be less bitter towards the police who made me leave the scene. At the same time, I found out that some of timeline and events at the scene did not go the way I had understood them to. It's not like I ever liked the story, but because of my skewed perceptions, it has been important to me to try to create a narrative of what happened from beginning to end. To find out it was incorrect just pulled that rug right out from underneath me. I felt, once again, confused, out of control, and guilty, guilty, guilty.
I talked to Dr. Z a little about the comment Bob had made to me about her death being my fault because of the meds she was on and that she had ECT which made her into a "drooling idiot who couldn't figure out how to cross the road".
Dr. Z sat his pen down, shaking his head. "Well that's just a lack of knowledge. ECT has never compromised one's ability to cross a road."
He went further, ever the diplomat, ever logical, ever kind, "Her father, in his own way, is trying to make sense of this as well, looking for a reason, looking for someone to blame. You are blaming yourself, sometimes the driver. He blames the meds, the treatments, you. It is looking for a reason when in fact sometimes there isn't one."
We talked a little more about how terrible I feel that the police made me leave her there on the scene and that she was alone. He could only bow his head. "Many people who are around death often start to make this automatic distinction between the dead, who are no longer need help and the living who do. But to you, in your denial, you could not see her as dead."
I sobbed and took my glasses off.
"Should I not have asked about the pictures? Did I sabotage myself? I was only trying to feel less angry and now I feel even worse."
He held both hands up to me, "No, no. You are doing exactly what you should be, what you must. Listen, it is not the questions that are bothering you. It's that the answer never changes...she is still dead."
Donkey-braying sobs ensued here. I knew he was right on that. I'd written in my journal the night before.
I don't. I don't want her to be dead.
Sunday, June 24, 2018
Saturday, June 2, 2018
Rinse and Repeat
Someone once said, "What is healing, but a shift in perspective?"
Sometimes I avoid writing new posts because so much of what I say seems repetitive. I am heartbroken. I will never be the same. It's not fair. I am angry. I hate everything. I take turns, but manage to hit every possible target with my scathing words: the driver, the first responders, parents of children who still live, God (should such a being actually exist), Cory's biological father, my husband, and me. It is a rinse and repeat sort of thing. Some days, I am so furious in my accusations, I expect to see smoke coming off my keyboard.
This writing thing, though, has really helped me to explore things from different angles. Maybe the anger will never completely dissipate. I can't imagine ever being at peace that Cory died in such a horrific way at such a young age after all of her struggles. I think about it for about two seconds before just completing hulking out. The really dangerous thing about it is that most of the time I turn that anger inward.
The anger, in my opinion, has stemmed so much from the trauma of being at the scene, seeing it unfold in such a frightening, horrifying way and being unable to control any part of it. Any time my anger is at its peak, I am likely crying at the same time- those hot tears that burn on their way down my face. If you want to feel like a failure, watch your child be pronounced dead in front of you.
I have harbored so much anger from the way the police made me leave the scene. Every time I speak about it, I am overcome with seething rage. I could never understand their logic. In my mind, I had already seen it all- what more damage could possibly be done? But to have to leave her body there to be picked up...to leave her on the side of the road like something discarded? I already knew she had died alone. I already knew I hadn't protected her the one time it really counted. I already knew it my poor decision and no one else's to let her walk to the store in the first place. Being forced to leave her on the side of the road only compounded these feelings.
I've been over and over this a million times in my mind. How I've wished I could go back in time and refuse to leave the scene. I wish I would've tried, at least, to stay there for her, and let them carry me away if they would. Reconstructing the scene to me meant they would bagging up her shoes (already seen), they would be setting up cones (big fucking deal), they would be examining the damage to the vehicle (burned into my brain forever). What exactly was going to traumatize me further?
So a few nights ago, I was watching one of those crime shows on tv. There had been a homicide. I watched as the scene was secured and investigators moved in, cameras in hand, to photograph all evidence...including the body.
My scalp seemed to shrink on my head as I made the connection. Did they photograph Cory's body? Is that why they made me leave? Did they uncover her? Did that pull that sheet up and turn her this way and that? Would I have seen her twisted, crumpled, dirty, blue, and broken body all over again? Would I have noticed new horrors my mind had blocked out the first go around?
I remember how much it disturbed me to see Cory handled at the funeral home. The extremely kind and respectful staff there assisted with removing some of her jewelry and putting other pieces on her neck and arm before we buried her. I remember so specifically the moment two of them worked together to manipulate her arm. She could've been a mannequin or a piece of driftwood. Seeing my child reduced to that nearly broke my sanity. I had to put my head between my knees. The world did not seem real. I could not comprehend what my eyes were seeing. Could not. I floated somewhere above my body, thinking to myself, that poor, poor woman.
Was that what they were trying to avoid? If so, I cannot express how much I would've appreciated that information any time in the last six years, and the sooner the better. Maybe they could have said, "Ma'am, we are about to reconstruct the scene. We will be uncovering your daughter. We will be photographing her injuries. It will likely be upsetting to you. That's why we are required to have you leave. I'm very sorry."
Even though I wouldn't have agreed with the protocol, at least I could've tried to understand where they were coming from. It's taken nearly six years for this to click, for me to be able to apply any sort of logic to their actions. It's been nearly six years before I could even consider that the cops on the scene were anything but cold, insensitive jerks. "Would you leave your child lying in the street like a...like a chipmunk?!" At least he'd had the decency to flush, before resuming his stolid request for me to leave. But with that single interaction, how much of my opinion of police officers, all police officers, had been colored?
Would I still have wanted to be there, see her uncovered, see the photographs taken, even if meant dealing with more flashbacks for the rest of my life? I really had to ponder that one. I had to weigh it out. What did I come up with?
I would've wanted to be there, even if at a distance. The good of being able to stay with her would've outweighed the bad of having to see her photographed or handled on the scene. And if there could've been a choice? "Ma'am, you can stay if you remain behind this line and in your vehicle or you may go home."..a choice?? Some small shred of control in the all of the chaos? It would've made such a difference.
I say all of that to say this. Creating my narrative: first what happened, then my feelings about what happened, then retelling it again and again in order to question whether or not my perceptions were accurate, then revisiting things many times until I can see them from other people's perspectives- it has been incredibly valuable.
So if I repeat myself, I apologize...or maybe I don't. Maybe there's value in putting it out there as many times as you need to until you feel heard or until you want to feel something different or until you can look at things another way. And even if I never change my mind on certain things, there is so much validation in speaking your truth.
Sometimes I avoid writing new posts because so much of what I say seems repetitive. I am heartbroken. I will never be the same. It's not fair. I am angry. I hate everything. I take turns, but manage to hit every possible target with my scathing words: the driver, the first responders, parents of children who still live, God (should such a being actually exist), Cory's biological father, my husband, and me. It is a rinse and repeat sort of thing. Some days, I am so furious in my accusations, I expect to see smoke coming off my keyboard.
This writing thing, though, has really helped me to explore things from different angles. Maybe the anger will never completely dissipate. I can't imagine ever being at peace that Cory died in such a horrific way at such a young age after all of her struggles. I think about it for about two seconds before just completing hulking out. The really dangerous thing about it is that most of the time I turn that anger inward.
The anger, in my opinion, has stemmed so much from the trauma of being at the scene, seeing it unfold in such a frightening, horrifying way and being unable to control any part of it. Any time my anger is at its peak, I am likely crying at the same time- those hot tears that burn on their way down my face. If you want to feel like a failure, watch your child be pronounced dead in front of you.
I have harbored so much anger from the way the police made me leave the scene. Every time I speak about it, I am overcome with seething rage. I could never understand their logic. In my mind, I had already seen it all- what more damage could possibly be done? But to have to leave her body there to be picked up...to leave her on the side of the road like something discarded? I already knew she had died alone. I already knew I hadn't protected her the one time it really counted. I already knew it my poor decision and no one else's to let her walk to the store in the first place. Being forced to leave her on the side of the road only compounded these feelings.
I've been over and over this a million times in my mind. How I've wished I could go back in time and refuse to leave the scene. I wish I would've tried, at least, to stay there for her, and let them carry me away if they would. Reconstructing the scene to me meant they would bagging up her shoes (already seen), they would be setting up cones (big fucking deal), they would be examining the damage to the vehicle (burned into my brain forever). What exactly was going to traumatize me further?
So a few nights ago, I was watching one of those crime shows on tv. There had been a homicide. I watched as the scene was secured and investigators moved in, cameras in hand, to photograph all evidence...including the body.
My scalp seemed to shrink on my head as I made the connection. Did they photograph Cory's body? Is that why they made me leave? Did they uncover her? Did that pull that sheet up and turn her this way and that? Would I have seen her twisted, crumpled, dirty, blue, and broken body all over again? Would I have noticed new horrors my mind had blocked out the first go around?
I remember how much it disturbed me to see Cory handled at the funeral home. The extremely kind and respectful staff there assisted with removing some of her jewelry and putting other pieces on her neck and arm before we buried her. I remember so specifically the moment two of them worked together to manipulate her arm. She could've been a mannequin or a piece of driftwood. Seeing my child reduced to that nearly broke my sanity. I had to put my head between my knees. The world did not seem real. I could not comprehend what my eyes were seeing. Could not. I floated somewhere above my body, thinking to myself, that poor, poor woman.
Was that what they were trying to avoid? If so, I cannot express how much I would've appreciated that information any time in the last six years, and the sooner the better. Maybe they could have said, "Ma'am, we are about to reconstruct the scene. We will be uncovering your daughter. We will be photographing her injuries. It will likely be upsetting to you. That's why we are required to have you leave. I'm very sorry."
Even though I wouldn't have agreed with the protocol, at least I could've tried to understand where they were coming from. It's taken nearly six years for this to click, for me to be able to apply any sort of logic to their actions. It's been nearly six years before I could even consider that the cops on the scene were anything but cold, insensitive jerks. "Would you leave your child lying in the street like a...like a chipmunk?!" At least he'd had the decency to flush, before resuming his stolid request for me to leave. But with that single interaction, how much of my opinion of police officers, all police officers, had been colored?
Would I still have wanted to be there, see her uncovered, see the photographs taken, even if meant dealing with more flashbacks for the rest of my life? I really had to ponder that one. I had to weigh it out. What did I come up with?
I would've wanted to be there, even if at a distance. The good of being able to stay with her would've outweighed the bad of having to see her photographed or handled on the scene. And if there could've been a choice? "Ma'am, you can stay if you remain behind this line and in your vehicle or you may go home."..a choice?? Some small shred of control in the all of the chaos? It would've made such a difference.
I say all of that to say this. Creating my narrative: first what happened, then my feelings about what happened, then retelling it again and again in order to question whether or not my perceptions were accurate, then revisiting things many times until I can see them from other people's perspectives- it has been incredibly valuable.
So if I repeat myself, I apologize...or maybe I don't. Maybe there's value in putting it out there as many times as you need to until you feel heard or until you want to feel something different or until you can look at things another way. And even if I never change my mind on certain things, there is so much validation in speaking your truth.
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