If You Care, You Can Say What You Want

We've all seen things like this, haven't we? This one is about people who have been abused                                                                    

Here's another one:

These are both symptomatic of a trend that I am starting to really dislike, and here's why. I had 'liked' a Facebook page called 'The Grief Toolbox' because it was really helpful and a comfort when my Dad died, and had remained so for a long time. I finally was prompted to 'unlike' it recently, after yet another piece written about 'what not to say/do/think when in the presence of the bereaved' came along, and with it yet more comments from people bemoaning how cruel and unfeeling other people are/how dare they say that/no-one understands unless they've been through it and even then they are still arses etc etc.

Well bollocks to that. 

I am grateful for every last thing anyone took the time to say to me when my Dad died. Even the things that were a bit 'off', the things that I didn't particularly agree with, the things that really didn't make any sense to me. Cos you know what? Those people tried. They saw I was in pain and they tried to make it better. I'm also grateful for the people who said nothing because they didn't know what to say. We've all been there and I know they don't love me any the less just because they had no clue what words to string together. Who can blame them really, when the Grief Fascists are out telling people they are the lowest of the low if they tell you they 'know how you feel'?

Same with depression. When I was depressed, it didn't matter what anyone said to me, I wasn't going to feel any better. And in the same way, I wasn't going to feel that much worse either. Again, you know the people who love you, even if they don't say the right things. And you also know the people who don't give a shit, whether or not they remember not to look at their watches.

And as for being abused - well, I am just grateful for anyone who put up with me and my enduring capacity to completely ignore all the good advice I was given whilst in an abusive relationship. I don't give a teensy little rat's ass what words came out of their mouths - and in fact, the views that least chimed with my own were probably the most useful in the end. 

To me it seems like it is all part of a victim mentality that is ultimately dis-empowering. It's as though being a victim of something means you should have special privilege to be a delicate flower that the world and his dog have to tip-toe around just in case they upset your little cotton socks. Well thing is, shit happens. And shit happens to everyone - the people being slagged off for being insensitive about grief may well be depressed people themselves. So slagging them off makes the slagger themselves a bit of an arse, doesn't it? We are all human, and we all have our own crosses to bear. A lot of times when people screw up what they are saying about your situation, it is because they are extremely uncomfortable, they think you are too, and they are trying to make you and them both feel better. What on earth is so wrong with that?

Wouldn't it be better for groups and meme-makers to encourage people to be a bit less touchy and a bit more tolerant of eachother's failings? Not everyone has been bereaved. Not everyone has been abused, or depressed, or raped or mugged or whatever. But we have all been in situations where we haven't known what to say for the best. Why make it harder for eachother? Why not take whatever comes out of a person's mouth (or whatever doesn't) for what it is? Because usually what it is, is an act of love.

More Than A Job Part Four - You Don't Have To Be Crazy To Work Here....

I left the Accident Hospital to go to work in Mental Health. Now at the time, physiotherapy in mental health was a backwater; a nothing speciality - the domain of the unambitious, and a place where old and/or tired physiotherapists went to die.

Except at Highcroft Hospital.

Nick Rosen is the most innovative, inspirational, motivational physiotherapist I have ever worked with. His nickname was Mr Brittas, after the character from the Brittas empire, because in the same way that Brittas had a single-minded drive to bring exercise to the masses, Nick was evangelical about exercise for mental health. We had technical instructors instead of physio assistants, years before any other department. We had a computer that did our stats in the days when you had a blinking green cursor to greet you when you switched it on, and when NHS computers were generally glorified word processors that you fed information into and never EVER got anything useful back out of. They are still that now, come to think of it - but back to the story....

Highcroft was where I learned what mental health physiotherapy should be about, and what a physiotherapy manager should be about.

It was where I had my last mental breakdown.

It was also where I began learning Cognitive Behavioural Therapy, and really got cracking on the process of changing my life and my self.

Those two things are not unrelated.

Highcroft was another massive shock, because I went from being a Senior I who knew all there was to know in her field, to being a Senior I who knew bugger all about what she was doing. Oh, the physiotherapy part was fine. And the relaxation classes were fine - well, the relaxation classes weren't fine, they NEVER went to plan, they could be the highlight of the day or the nightmare scenario and you never knew which it would be, but it was the same for everyone, it wasn't just me being crap.

No, the bit that was so difficult was knowing how to deal with people so ill. Again, with the frankly psychotic people, everyone was in the same boat, and there were behaviour management programmes that everyone used, so I could deal with that. It was the anxious and depressed, the suicidal people. I felt at sea, didn't know how to deal with them, hadn't the skills the other seniors had to know what to say and when. But hey, I was more experienced now, I could deal with this, I'd been here before and I was that bit older.

Then just as I was finding my feet, just as all the reading and learning was starting to make a difference, the two other seniors both left within a short while of eachother. I found myself the most senior clinician left, and deputy to the Superintendent, and this was where things REALLY started to go tits up.

I took on anything and everything. I was determined to prove that I could do this and I tried to prove it by never saying no. I would go to work in a state of anxiety and dread. Whilst I was there, things weren't too bad - during the day I would cheer up - I was too busy to dwell on things and I was so good at putting on a smile that I could even convince myself. Then I would go home and be too exhausted to enjoy anything any more. My thoughts were focussed on my work even when I wasn't there. Nothing else in my life was of any importance compared to living up to my predecessors,  being the best I could be and helping the most people I could. I couldn't sleep, and spent the time dwelling on my own uselessness. Then it was up early again and another panic-ridden commute where I would fantasise about running away.

I remember Nick reading a book that compared problems to monkeys - about how you should only ever have your own monkeys, not other people's, and how some people will always get rid of their monkeys whilst others are monkey-collectors. He said he could see me wandering around picking up stray monkeys, even grabbing monkeys off other people who were quite happy with them, and all the time I was already staggering under the weight of a sanctuary full of the creatures.

Then one day I threw all the monkeys in the air and ran before they hit the ground.

I came into work and saw someone had booked an extra patient in my diary. I picked up my bag, left my department keys on the table, and walked out.

I bumped into Nick on the way out (I was always the first in - even though Nick was always early). 'Where are you going?'

'I resign, I'm never coming back.'

I could hear him asking me to come and talk about it, to come and have a cup of tea, but I ignored him and kept on walking. I caught the bus into Birmingham. I played the usual game of should I continue to my destination or should I hop on any old bus and run away wherever it took me. I went home.

I lay on my bed and cried. But I knew things were very wrong and I knew I needed help. I booked a GP appointment and felt so relieved to hear that 'it's not your fault, you have depression, you are ill, it's your brain chemistry.'

But that was nothing more than a comforting fiction. The pills she gave me didn't do the job. Facing the half-truths and lies in that GP's statement was how I got well.

To Be Continued...