Death, depression, counselling and me

My first brush with depression occurred at the age of 29, the main issue being a preoccupation with my own mortality, that of others and the fact that, well putting it bluntly, we all going die someday!

I used to wonder why nobody else seemed to be freaking out about the fact of death except me. People were going about their business as usual – I wanted to scream at them “Wake up! Don’t you know you’re going to die?!”

My caring GP was understanding and felt that I’d experienced so many life stressors in quite quick succession, like divorce, job change, being a part-time mature undergraduate,  and also some happy ones, like planning the wedding for my second marriage and desired house move, that I had been living on adrenalin for some time and had come down to earth with one heck of a bump.

I guess the antidepressants helped somewhat as I became less panicky, thankfully, and a little less inward-looking. I began to realise, that helping others might also be healing for me. I volunteered for the Samaritans and Cruse Cymru which led to me embarking on the first step of my counselling journey.

However, this wasn’t a smooth and linear process. Two weeks into my PGC in counselling skills, after three miscarriages, one leading to a hospital stay, my beautiful daughter was born. For the first couple of weeks, I felt on top of the world, as if I could conquer anything! Alas, this was swiftly followed by a crash into depression making me feel helpless, heavy and like I was trapped in treacle.  

I was diagnosed with depression as opposed to post-natal depression, although the student counsellor I saw for one session at university mooted this idea. This first experience of being a counselling client wasn’t a positive one. Perhaps I wasn’t ready to receive help as timing can be important with such interventions. I also believe that rapport was lacking between myself and the trainee. Research asserts that this is vital in any therapeutic relationship, regardless of the approach used. I learned first-hand that not every counsellor is right for every client. So once again I was aided by medication, and I ended up somehow managing to achieve my qualification.

Counselling and I then parted ways until, five years later and facing my second divorce - my mental health and other challenges having strained my marriage - I returned to studying, full time. I achieved my degree in counselling and psychology, while co-parenting and working full time, followed this with a diploma in counselling.

One of my placements was in harm reduction but for the other, I was approached to volunteer at a doctor’s surgery by the GP who had sat with me around 10 years previously while I sobbed in desperation and despair. He seems to have had faith in me and maybe thought my experiences and recovery would prove valuable to his patients seeking help.   From then I never looked back, and I believe I found the vocation which had almost eluded me.

During the integrative counselling diploma compulsory requirement for 20 weekly sessions of personal therapy, I hit the jackpot with my choice of counsellor. 15 years ago, The Yellow Pages, a physical paper tome of a book, was still a popular directory of services, hence I began my search here. If I’m honest, a main concern was the location as this was just one more thing to squeeze into an already busy life. Therefore, I chose a well-qualified and experienced, fairly local lady. We met in person, ‘clicked’ and agreed to work together. Little did either of us know quite how much I was going to need that space.

Later I remember my counsellor telling me that they had assumed our work together would be quite straightforward, a necessary component to my diploma. I had viewed it as an opportunity to experience being in the opposite chair and to try to ensure that no client issues were going to shock me or bite me on the behind as it were – a way of checking for any skeletons in my cupboard. A kind of fitness to practise, I guess.

Within a couple of weeks of beginning therapy, my mother, who I loved but had always had a complicated relationship with, and who had been living with a chronic health condition, was suddenly diagnosed with a very late-stage terminal illness. A week later, she cruelly died aged 66, with me at her bedside. Three weeks later my stormy four-year relationship irretrievably broke down. My old adversary, death (and loss) was back, up close and personal, harder than ever to ignore.  

So week after week I sat. I numbed out, I hurt, I cried, I talked, I raged, I unpacked, I reflected, I learned, I lightened, I joined dots, I clarified, I calmed, I strengthened, I laughed and finally, I flourished. I was able to accept my mother’s death, and the loss of close relationships, recent and past, and had begun to experiment with bearing the reality of my own mortality.

But before I could do any of this, I had to experience that vital sense of rapport with my counsellor and, importantly, the courage to trust in the process. I committed to this unpredictable journey alongside this stranger with kind eyes and a welcoming smile.  

Through my training, I was aware that we may discover some new territory - maybe some unrealised things about myself- or peek into dark places long avoided. However, I had no idea what the outcome might be or how I might feel. I was just banking on it helping somehow and of course on getting the diploma I needed to begin my counselling career.

I’m sure I only stayed on track and attained this due to the quality of the counselling I received. I was gently but securely held in my grief, the gamut of my emotions compassionately contained in a space that felt safe. I, not only, felt listened to but empathically and non-judgementally heard like never before. My counsellor was professional but real. We met on a human level. I’m sure these aspects were the catalyst allowing for the changes I made, and I aim to offer every person who comes to me for help.

When asked how I felt at the last session, I remember saying “like a butterfly”. I felt like I had been guided out of a murky, constricting cocoon that I had now outgrown, emerging bright, weightless and ready to fly. I am proud to say I have been in private practice for 13 years.

So if you’re struggling with existential issues or are sadly bereaved as I was, or have an issue you feel needs addressing like changing an old pattern of behaviour, or you would just like to explore who you are, why not try counselling? You never know, it could help you find the wings you never knew you had.