I was made for Afternoons

I'm very aware that in the West, pharmaceuticals are an integral part of our medical treatment. And I am grateful for that in all the forms it comes in to assist with quality and length of life. Working with my GP, I was not surprised that he considered an SSRI as an adjunct to my work with the Psych. Anti - Anxiety meds work well to help calm the fight and flight reflex so it made sense as part of the over all treatment plan. Nonetheless I still nurse some reservations about this. I'm not sure why  - after all much of my work has a mental health and pastoral care focus and I would recommend to people seeing their GP and having a conversation about this very thing!   So after trying a very common anti-anxiety med for three days . . . .  pretty much nothing to report. I felt a bit nauseous and hot for the first two days and today that feels pretty much gone - but I feel like I've just got over the flu. All pretty normal effects apparently and will pass soon ...

So after actually realising that things were not going so well I spent some good time with a psychologist friend. After a few sessions, over a long lunch, in a light bulb moment, she gently says " I think you might have dorsal fatigue" Dorsal Fatigue  (to my understanding) is when the para sympathetic and sympathetic nervous systems  - the fight/flight reflex which  is an ancient way of protecting us - either goes into overdrive or shuts down. In my case it seems that I have just learnt to cope with levels of stress and anxiety rather than letting them go - and my body (as they do) reacted by saying "enough!".  The affects of not really relaxing or getting into flow are that the subconscious pushes to restrict activities so that I can conserve the energy that is being eaten up elsewhere - energy that in the face of my dads passing I no longer had available to control the anxiety and fight/flight. ...

So I thought I'd finished with this blog but the universe seems to have conspired to line up events in such a way that I couldn't help but to write about it . . . .  October 2016 I'm in Caen, France, after spending 4 glorious days in Paris seeing the sites and eating some great food. Caen is a wonderful small town where I wander with my friends, enjoy the history that I am there to learn and reveal in the experience of travel. Early one morning I awaken to missed calls and texts messages. My Dad is fatally ill. Can you come home? 36 hours later via trains and planes, some sleep, much wine, I am down in Mandurah  sitting with Dad, listening to him breathe gently and then finally, with a slight dramatic flourish, dying. The usual chaos follows - family, funerals, fights, and then suddenly . . . . its back to work.  February 2017 I'm exhausted. In such a way that I have never experienced. The summer slipped by in weariness, books and not much else. A go...