Monday 16 February 2015

33. The great unravel...

I had heard that through work, we had access to a counsellor. I contacted the force welfare department, and asked if it was possible to see him. I left my number and eagerly awaited a call. Soon after, in a rare moment of efficiency, I received a call from the counsellor himself (despite mental imagery of a doctor’s office with a long-suffering secretary) - he was keen to arrange an appointment to see me.

As the day approached, I was filled with feeling of anxiousness. Although I’d initiated the appointment, and was certain that I needed the help, I suddenly felt very uncomfortable about two things: 1. Baring my soul to a total stranger. 2. What on earth was I going to talk about?

I was aware of the use of talking therapies, and having studied psychology at A-level, felt that I had a grasp about how these things worked. What I didn’t know (and why I needed the help in the first place) was how do you unpick the last two years of upheaval, fear, catastrophe, life…where do you start?!! Those who know me will know that I don’t really shut up…and the people who see me often will also know that I have little (no) shame, and don’t mind sharing all the gritty details. So why was this bothering me? All I could fathom was that it was fear of the unknown, but this soon faded when I turned up.

The counsellor had a kind face, a kind manner, and a soft Irish accent which I found instantly relaxing. With very little background information to work from, I was amazed how much information he extracted from me in an incredibly short amount of time. He asked questions around the time leading up to diagnosis, the treatment, the recovery, and an area which I was keen to keep separate from this session: my relationship.

Unfortunately, there was one thing the counsellor wasn’t going to let me get away with…yes - talking about my relationship. The second half of the session was dedicated to exactly that (despite my best efforts to turn the conversation away). Again, I’m not going to go into the specifics from a relationship point of view, but the counsellor clearly believed he had heard enough to start giving me some advice.

He had clearly been paying attention. The counsellor had skilfully picked apart each of my strands of woe: The symptoms pre-diagnosis, the diagnosis, the treatment, my recovery, the emotions attached to all of these, and then the strand that ran all the way through middle, complicating every step by the addition of another person, their feelings and their actions, and the effect of those on me. I was now able to see each strand for exactly what it was individually.

Who on earth had I been trying to kid? I had undergone one of the most traumatic situations conceivable to a normal bloke, leading to an enormous amount of personal upheaval and baggage. It’d contributed to, if not caused the end of my marriage…it had change my goals, my perceptions…the fabric of who I really was. Of course I was going to have moments of uncontrollable emotion. The counsellor explained that in times of physical and emotional difficulty, the brain will prepare the body for action, park the psychological issues somewhere they are less likely to hamper the physical recovery, then bring them out when you least expect them. In my case, on the bridge over the railway line on Hookstone Road, Harrogate. My brain could have at least saved my moment for somewhere nice!

The counsellor offered a number of other services and therapies, but I had a feeling I wouldn’t need to see him again. In short, he was a magician, and he had done for me exactly what I needed…possibly more.

I didn’t need to see him again.