July 5th Incoming

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.