Yesterday, it came naturally to be warmly present for V during a big event where I stood in for her, even at a distance of 3,000 miles or so. Gotta love technology for that!
Today, I think of D and the anticipatory grief is like a warm finger of current, pulling at me without tearing at my core or dragging my mind away. He’s here now, and everyone who cares about him is working on a graceful last chapter to his intense, vivid, improbably well-groomed life. (Yes, he’s quite a character!)
This recovery is not all perfect: after yesterday’s 8-hour social endurance event (a physical and physiological experience piled on top of a very neurologically demanding week) I woke up this morning with a pure dys-autonomic experience I haven’t had in a very long time.
On the very cusp of waking, as I first became physically aware of the real world, my body’s temperature-regulation mechanism dropped off the rails.
I suddenly got intensely cold, that bone-deep cold that makes the smallest touch of air feel like knives. Imagine full-body Reynaud’s, with added concertina wire. It’s amazing how cold my skin suddenly gets to the touch when this happens, after feeling just right at the moment I started to wake.
So, I did what I learned to do 10 years ago, when the dysautonomia really kicked in with this: I pulled my down duvet completely over me and tucked in every gap, wrapping it right around my head, and constructed a little tunnel just big enough to breathe fresh air through. (Fresh air seems to speed up the recovery period.)
Nothing I can do after that but wait for it to pass, as my regulatory thingies come to terms with being awake instead of asleep (one autonomic function) and being able to be at the right temperature (another autonomic function.) I know that it will pass, while my system creeps toward wakefulness.
Big shrug. The Nasty Cold Snap hasn’t been part of my day in a very long time, which is good!
This just goes to show that the physical/physiological impact of these flows of stress and anguish isn’t negated. Expecting that would be unrealistic.
They are manageable. That’s the point.
Doing those “brain first aid” things makes handling the weighty, current reality bearable. That means I’m still capable of several important tasks:
- I can bring my tips and tricks to bear against the physical effects of this illness.
- I can think my way through ordinary (to me) problems.
- I can remember that things pass: the Nasty Cold Snap will pass, as the mental shock passed, as even terror passes when it’s allowed to.
- I return fairly quickly to my normal frame of mind — which beats trauma-brain all hollow!
There’s still a bit more physical recovery involved, mostly giving my systems a chance to finish returning to their normal function and easing up on the extra weakness, reactivity, and pain.
But, basically, I’m OK. I’m able to show up for myself and my friends. That’s what it’s all about.
My point (and I do have one) is…
The skills I learned in psychotherapy really work when I use them, and I’m so relieved.
I want to make the point that psychotherapy is not “just like talking to a friend”, because our friends don’t need a graduate degree to be our friends. Psychotherapy is a professional-level, highly customized form of care, even if it feels relaxed (creating an environment where you can relax is one of the skills of a good shrink.)
Nor is it a passive process; the skills and concepts only work if you work them. It’s good to be heard; that said, it’s also good to remember that real healing involves relevant changes. The fun (??) part is, in medicine, we may influence the changes but there’s a significant random element involved in them; in psychotherapy, the client steers the whole process. While being an active, involved patient can improve outcomes in medicine, being an active, involved client does improve outcomes in psychotherapy.
So, there’s the core message behind this 2-part series, part of the ongoing “what works” toolkit. Psychotherapy works, when done properly and used diligently. Just like any other kind of care. It’s not magic. It’s skills.