I have spoken briefly about counselling before. Nine months and seven days on, I still go.
It helps. It really helps me.
I think I’ve been lucky to find her. I know counselling doesn’t work so well for everyone. I go fortnightly now on a Tuesday afternoon. I find it at times an upsetting, sad, painful and a difficult experience, sometimes I laugh, swear and smile …but I always leave better.
A better me leaves the building.
I told her today, her help has been amazing. You’re amazing she says.
Today the session was moved to a different building. Away from the hospital. I had still found that hard going through the revolving doors of A&E, so I’m kind of relieved the venue has changed. She stands there in a jeans and jumper, with a kind smile. The room smells freshly painted and there is a corded navy carpet. She isn’t impressed with the carpet. The room echos a bit and when I said ‘fuck’ during one of my stories about how I’d been annoyed last week, I worried the staff next door might have heard me. I tried not to be swear after that.
We talked about the impact of life. She actually said that my experience had impacted on her and that at times I pop into her head. Professionally she couldn’t go into how, but it made me think how we can still learn every day from people, experiences, good and bad.
When I visit her I usually have one or two things I want to talk about, things I haven’t managed to sort out in my head. It’s new for me to ask for help. To say I don’t know what to do.
This week I told her about my devastatingly low time last week, possibly the worst few hours yet, the worst few for a while. I’d driven near where we had lived fifteen years ago. Where you came home to after your birth on May 7th 1998, weighing 8lb 10.5 ozs. I’ve passed the red brick semi -detached house before but this time I looked around at the country roads, the small stone bridge where we played pooh sticks most weekends. The straight track to your primary school and that vivid image of you on your red tricycle in your white fluffy faux fur coat and red welly boots (trendy!).
It lay heavily on my mind and shot uncontrolling through my heart. It forced out urgent emotions of pure grief. I really miss you grief. The pain was physical and emotional.
A few hours later, I felt a lot better. Grief as they say, it has to come out somewhere, eventually.
Today, I also reminisced about you a little, about those last few days. I get the luxury to do this without thinking I’m being depressing. Nobody ever makes me think this, it’s just me. I told her about the last night you went to the party before you died, how in every picture I was shown, you were smiling. I told her how you’d ordered a birthday card for Morgan and it had arrived the day after you had died. The counsellor had tears in her eyes. I like this about her, that she shows emotion, that she reacts and is human. She was amazed how thoughtful you were and that you would think about your brother so much. I said you were best of mates and we particularly missed you in the car when we went out. She asked if you both used to fight for the front seat in the car and I said no – they were always keen to sit by each other, share headphones, sing and eat biscuits! She commented on your very special relationship. I was proud. I showed her the bag Morgan bought me for Xmas, she was well impressed! I think you may have tried to steal my new satchel!
We finished by talking about surviving. About getting through. I say to her – it isn’t about surviving anymore. It’s about living.
We owe you that.
Miss you my baby girl.