Topic: Healing a Broken Heart

Neville Ashton

Date: 2016-01-02 10:15 EST
The waiting room was quiet, restful. There was no irritation in the form of badly chosen recordings playing, or the distraction of a television. Even the reception desk was in a separate room, allowing those who waited to do so in peace. The whole place was set up to encourage calm reflection from the moment a person entered.

The man awaiting his appointment was not one for whom calm reflection was a problem. He'd reflected upon his own personal tragedy until he though his head might explode. Thinking wasn't the problem - it was making sense of things and sorting out where to go from here. He had resisted therapy of any sort - whether private or in a group - despite the gentle suggestion and encouragement from those around him who cared, and yet, here he was. It had taken the smashing an expensive violin for him to finally accept the fact that he needed help, if only to have someone to talk to, to confide in, to share the burden of grief and pain. It galled him a little that he had to pay someone to do it, but his friends had lives and problems of their own, after all. And so, he found himself here - in a quiet office waiting for an appointment he didn't really want to keep, twisting his hands in his lap and wishing it wasn't so damned quiet.

A soft knock on the door preceded the entrance of the receptionist, a doe-eyed little woman who radiated a gentle kind of understanding. "Mr. Ashworth' Dr. Forster is ready for you now. If you'd like to come with me?"

"Ashton," he corrected with a heavy sigh. He didn't hold out much hope for an establishment that couldn't even get his last name right, but then it was only his first time here. He moved to his feet to follow her, despite his desire to run screaming mad into the street - no, not mad. He wasn't here for that. He didn't have any mental health problems that he knew of, though he was no expert on the subject.

"Mr. Ashton, I apologise." She offered him an apologetic smile, moving to escort him to Dr. Forster's office, where she knocked again before opening the door to allow him inside. It was an airy room, lit with wide windows and soft lamps, furnished with desk and chair, with two couches, three armchairs, space in which to move.

And, of course, it contained Dr. Forster, who proved to be a woman of around his age, curvaceous, confident, and warm in her greeting. "Mr. Ashton, come in. Make yourself comfortable."

He merely shrugged. After all, his was an ordinary face that didn't really stand out in a crowd and was mostly forgettable, or so he believed. He was used to it. His parents hadn't bestowed on him the most lyrical of names, though for some reason, it seemed to fit him. Good lord, he thought to himself as he spied the face behind the desk. A woman. Well, no one said he had to come back. One visit was all he'd agreed to, to see if the good doctor could do anything for him. "Dr. Forster, I presume," he returned the greeting, trying to make a small joke, which more than likely fell flat, as if comparing her to Dr. Livingstone. He dragged a brief glance around the room, choosing a chair, rather than a couch. He wasn't sure he'd ever be ready for a couch.

She smiled at the joke, recognising the sense of nervous tension, the reluctance to actually be here at all. As the door closed behind the receptionist, Dr. Forster came out from behind her desk, moving to take a seat in one of the chairs with him. "Demeter, if you prefer," she told him her name in a gentle tone. "My aim is help you to feel comfortable in this space, with my guidance. If you would prefer to use first names, that is perfectly acceptable."

"Demeter," he echoed, letting the name roll around on his tongue. "Like the goddess" How very Rhy'Din." It wasn't a judgement of her name exactly, but just that it gave away the fact that she was more than likely a Rhy'Din native. His own name left a lot to be desired, too. Now that she'd come around from behind the desk, he had a chance to get a better look at her, unable to miss the fact that she was a knock-out. Like that didn't make him uncomfortable at all, he thought, not quite realizing he was frowning. "You're the doctor. You make the rules," he told her, letting her decide, unsure how comfortable he felt calling her by her first name.

"Very Rhy'Din, yes," she chuckled as she settled into her seat, shaking her head at his assumption that just because she was the professional, she was in charge. "That isn't how therapy - counselling - works, Mr. Ashton. In order for us to gain ground, you need to comfortable. I may steer you in certain directions, offer guidance, but you are in charge of these sessions. I can't force you to confront the reasons you're here, nor would I try. But you are clearly here because you are exploring whether or not this is an appropriate course for you to take. For many people, it's a brave step forward."

He took that all in, the frown still in place on his face. This was serious stuff, and he wasn't here because he wanted to be, but because he needed to be. "Just so we understand each other, I'm not sure this is a good idea, and I'm not sure you can help me, but I've been told I need someone to talk to, so I guess you're it," he admitted, still feeling a little resentful that none of his supposed friends had stepped up to the plate, but then, he wasn't exactly an open book either.

She absorbed that without reacting to the implications, nodding gently. "Nothing you say in this room will go any further," she assured him. "I'm a doctor, and you are my patient. The same rules apply to me as they would to a medical doctor - everything you choose to share with me is in the strictest confidence." She paused, clasping her hands together as she rested one elbow on the arm of the chair in which she sat, somehow managing to convey complete comfort as well as professionalism. "Many people are suspicious of therapy, especially talking therapies. And no, it doesn't work for everyone. But the only way to know if it could work for you is to try it. No commitment to a long term course of sessions, no expectation on my part. I would like to help, if I can." She considered him for a long moment. "Why are you here, Mr. Ashton?"

He took all that in, too, slowly absorbing every word. He knew none of what she told him wasn't practiced. She was a professional, after all - this was what she got paid to do, and he was paying her a pretty penny to do it. He wondered though - did she come into this profession because she truly wanted to help people because if so, he should probably take her at her word and try not to be so cynical. Maybe he'd seen a little too much Hannibal. "Doesn't it say in my file?" he asked, gesturing toward her desk, where he knew she had to have some sort of file on him, whether a hard copy or on disk.

"My only notes tell me that you are interested in grief counseling, following a family bereavement," she told him quite honestly. "But that doesn't tell me why you're here. Nor does it open a dialogue between us. The best way for this to begin is for you to tell me why you're here, and if you know what you hope to achieve from our sessions together."

"Okay," he replied, pausing a moment to take a breath. His body language alone spoke of his reluctance to open the can of worms he'd been hanging onto for so long, though if he couldn't do that, there was no point in being here at all. He figured he might as well tell her the truth and let the chips fall where they may. Compared to other patients of hers, he thought his own problems were problem inconsequential, but they were his. "It's my wife. Or was my wife," he corrected, changing his tense. "She was killed in a fire in the Marketplace a few months ago." How many months ago, he didn't say, but it was recent enough that he hadn't had time to deal with his grief yet.

Neville Ashton

Date: 2016-01-02 10:20 EST
She nodded gently, leaving the silence open for him to continue talking. That was the whole point of her profession - to provide a safe place in which to talk and be heard, to offer advice where she could. "I'm sorry for your loss," she told him quietly. "What happened?"

"That's what everyone says, but they're just words," he told her, a little bitterly. He wasn't paying her so that he could hold back or beat around the bush, and she wasn't going to be able to help him if she didn't know how he truly felt. He shrugged at her question. "Rhy'Din happened. She just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, I guess."

"They are just words," she agreed quietly. "And they do seem trite. They don't seem enough when you are experiencing something so terribly personal. But the sentiment expressed is not pity; it is compassion. And often people don't know what to say, or how to offer their support. They fall back on socially acceptable phrases that have come to mean nothing."

"They mean well, is what you're saying," he said, unaware that he was wringing his hands in his lap, as if he didn't know what else to do with them. "I keep hearing how it will get better in time. That time heals all wounds, but what the hell do they know" She was my wife," he said, putting an emphasis on the word, as if that word alone defined everything she had meant to him. Why couldn't people understand that' He shouldn't have to explain. "And please don't tell me I'm still young and I'll find someone else. I don't want anyone else. Just her." There was that hint of anger and resentment in his voice again, though he was trying hard to keep it in check.

"I wouldn't dream of telling you that," she assured him gently. "Platitudes, again, come more easily than truly expressed emotion, but it has been my experience that time does not heal wounds. Some wounds never fully heal. It's not a process that can be forced or sped up, and no one has the right to judge you for the way you cope with your loss, unless you are causing harm to yourself during that process. Mr. Ashton, this loss may never leave you entirely. You may feel that pain for the rest of your life, and that is not a weakness or a flaw in your character. It is perfectly natural. And if it is the case that this wound will not fully heal, then therapy can help you to accept that pain, which is an important step in itself." She made no mention of his anger, allowing him to express himself as he saw fit.

She spoke as if she was someone who knew and understood his grief, but he wasn't sure if she was relating to him in a personal or professional manner. It was more likely that she'd been trained how to respond to him and how to help him through the grieving process, though she was human, too, and probably had her own problems in life to deal with. He wasn't here to explore those though, only to learn how to deal with his own grief. "I don't have much choice but to accept it, do I?" he countered, unable to hide that tinge of bitterness from his voice. "You know, there are ways of changing the past. Ways to ....to change what happened and bring her back, but if I do that, who dies in her place?"

"It is an idiosyncrasy of life on Rhy'Din that such thoughts are not purely speculation," she nodded. "In order to make such a change, however, you are left with other questions. Would your wife truly wish you to condemn another in her place, to put their family through what you are coming to terms with' Could you live with yourself, knowing that was what you had done" They are hypothetical questions until the moment they become a practical concern."

Grief-stricken or not, he had, at least, already come to a decision regarding this particular line of thinking, knowing he couldn't live with himself if he put another family through the personal hell he was living. "There's always a price to be paid, and I'm not willing to pay it. I'm not willing to put anyone else through this hell. I'm not God. It's not my decision to make who lives and who dies. I just ..." And that's where his line of logic failed him. He just ....what? If he couldn't figure out a way to deal with the loss and find some silver lining somewhere, the grief was going to eat him alive.

She let the silence go on, to see if he could find those words for himself. But too much silence, and he would stop talking. "Tell me about her," she suggested. "What was her name?"

"Nellie," he replied without hesitation, quick to correct himself. "Penelope." It was almost as ridiculous a first name as Neville or Demeter. Whatever happened to simple, sensible names like John and Mary' "She was a nurse. Ironic, isn't it' She became a nurse to help people, and look what happened to her. You know why she was in the Marketplace that day' She was working in a clinic giving out free flu shots, and when the fire broke out ..." He shrugged again. His wife was there to help, not knowing she'd become a victim herself.

Demeter shook her head, her expression still gentle. "Tell me about her," she suggested once again. "Not about her death. Tell me about the woman you love, anything that comes to mind."

He turned away from the pretty doctor to focus his gaze on something else - or to not focus his gaze, staring into space at nothing in particular. This, he thought, was probably where the couch would have come in handy; where he could just close his eyes and see her again in his mind. He wondered if the good doctor used hypnosis during her sessions, but that was a dangerous thought. He didn't want to relive his life with Nellie; he wanted to put her to rest. He sighed, closing his eyes a moment, before turning back. "I don't want to talk about that."

"All right." Not one to give up at the first hurdle, she changed tactics a little. "I'd like you to do something. I'd like you to keep a diary - not of your day, not of your feelings. Of your memories of life with Nellie. If a piece of music reminds you of her, write that down. If you recall a moment shared with her, write that down, too. No one will read it but you, unless you choose to share those memories. Will you do that?"

"What for?" he asked, unsure where she was going with that, but not entirely against the idea. "As a memoir" To remember her by' I have all those memories in my head. No one knows them but me. Every moment we ever spent together, every conversation. All the laughter and the tears. How do you think writing them down will help me let her go' That's what I have to do, isn't it' I have to let her go." He looked away again, only briefly, his eyes downcast, his voice small and quiet. "What if I don't want to' What if I can't?"

"A recollection diary is a tool to assist you in accepting a loss," she explained to him. "It helps you to focus your mind, your heart, away from the pain. Writing down those memories can make them more real. It's a form of expression, and it can be tool for helping to grieve as the immediacy of the pain lessens. The mind adjusts memories as time goes on, and often exaggerates the darker, sadder, more painful times. Writing those good memories down now, you will always have something to come back to and smile." His quiet confession was what she had expected. "It is a choice that is coming, whether you are ready to make it or not. If I may, I would like to help you develop the tools you will need to make that choice when it arrives."

"She was such a big part of my life for so long ..." he started, trying hard to maintain his composure. Then again, if there was anyone he didn't have to hold back from or hide his feelings from, it was his therapist. The very thought of that almost made him laugh out loud. I have a therapist. He'd always thought it sounded a little narcisstic when other people mentioned it, as if life was all about them. People died every day, and not everyone had a therapist. What did he need one for, anyway' "You know what pisses me off most?" he asked, turning the tables on her, since it seemed he was free to say anything he wanted in her presence. Hell, he was paying her to listen. "How it all goes unpunished. There's no justice on RhyDin. There never has been. People will just keep blowing other people up, and no one really gives a damn ....until it's someone you love."

Neville Ashton

Date: 2016-01-02 10:20 EST
She nodded, understanding where that pain, that anger, was coming from. "Expressing that anger in a safe environment will help," she told him gently. "All worlds are innately unjust in their way. Here on Rhy'Din, with so many cultures and so many differing opinions, such acts of mindless violence do often seem to go unpunished. But tell me ....if you had the person, or persons, responsible right here in front of you, yours to punish as you see fit - would that truly help you to understand and to grieve?"

"If you're asking me whether it would bring her back, no, of course it wouldn't, but that's not the point, really. You must have read about all the fires and the bombings over the last few months. It's the cycle of things here. It's when things get quiet that you have to worry because that quiet always inevitably ends with some nutcase hurting someone. And what gets done about it' Nothing. There's a lot of talk and rhetoric about how horrible it is, how tragic, but you hardly ever see justice done." He sighed again, as if saying that much took a lot out of him. "I've lived here all my life, but I don't have the answers. I'd just like to see some justice done. I'd like to see people held accountable for their actions. That's all. Why is that so damned much to ask?"

"I don't think anyone has the answers to questions like these," she admitted quietly. "But asking them ....that is part of the process you are feeling your way through." She considered him for a moment. "Are you familiar with the five stages of grief, Mr. Ashton?"

"Anger, denial, acceptance, sadness, and more anger," he replied, facetiously, not really knowing the answer to that question. There were days when he felt so angry it scared him, and other days where he just felt empty inside - like the Tin Man, without a heart.

Her smile was softly understanding. "Close," she told him. "Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Often people are unaware of the bargaining stage, and sometimes unaware of their acceptance. But the other three are very clear, because they are very aggressive feelings. Even depression, which is a de-motivator, can be excruciatingly aggressive when you encounter it."

"So, I'm only in stage two?" he asked, assuming the stages went in order. He seemed to waffle between anger and sadness. He thought he'd already come to terms with denial and bargaining, but he wasn't too sure about acceptance. "I'm not self-destructive, I can assure you of that, but I can't say the same about my possessions." He'd already destroyed one expensive violin and smashed countless plates and glasses. "Please don't tell me to take up bowling. It's not the same."

"They're not a linear progression," she told him, confident in her own understanding of this model. "They are all experiences that form a part of the grieving process. Some people will experience all of them, some people experience none of them. Everyone is different, and even the psychological models I use to create structure are fluid, to enable me to support you. Denial feeds anger and bargaining, anger bleeds into depression; acceptance may come in the midst of it all. Just because you have accepted what has happened, does not mean that you will no longer feel the anger, or the sadness. Acceptance often signifies a calmer, more stable emotional condition, but everyone experiences highs and lows. What you are feeling is not unnatural, and there is no right way to deal with what you have experienced." She smiled gently at his suggestion not to send him bowling. "Did the destruction of your belongings help you, in any way?"

"I don't know. How is it any different than what they did in the Marketplace" Destruction is destruction. It's misplaced anger that leads to violence." Or maybe he was just telling himself that because the alternative was too hard to accept - that Nellie's death had no meaning, that she had just been the hapless victim of senseless violence. That there had been no rhyme or reason to it, that it had been too sudden and too unexpected. How did you prepare for something like that' "I just ....don't know where to go from here. I don't know how to go on. She was part of my life for so long. How am I supposed to go on without her?" he asked, clearly at a total loss as to how to move on, how to start over.

"Find small things that give you peace, or joy," she suggested. "A cafe that makes coffee just the way you like it, perhaps, or an activity you enjoy. Spend time with friends who understand that you won't always be the man they expect you to be. You're a musician, yes?"

"Yes," he replied, already knowing that music was his one saving grace. It was his first love, something he'd cherished long before he'd met Nellie. His music was his life; Nellie had known that and accepted it as she accepted the rising of the sun every morning. It was as much a part of him as the hair on his head and the heart in his chest. There was no point in living without his music. "I've been a musician most of my life."

Her smile this time was warmer, seeing in him the deep love he felt for music. There was her ally. "Do you compose?" she asked him curiously.

That question was so unexpected, it surprised him. He hadn't thought of composing in a very long time; he'd been too busy living, but things were different now. Now, he had the time, even if it had been forced on him by the tragedy he'd suffered. "You're going to suggest I write a song for her, aren't you?" he asked, tentatively. Why hadn't he thought of it himself" A song for his Penelope, to remember her always.

"I'm suggesting you write," she nodded. "Don't go into it with a clear idea of what you want it to say. Just write. Express yourself through the medium that you love so much. It may not be perfect, it may not be a masterpiece, but it will be you."

For the first time since stepping through the door to his office, his eyes filled with tears and he felt at peace. All this time, he'd been beating his head against the wall, raging with anger, and all it took was this one suggestion to do what he did best - write her a song. A song to encompass everything he had loved in her, a song to immortalize her and their love, a song to say good-bye. He nodded his head, brushing some wetness from the corner of an eye. "I can do that. I will do that." He'd make something beautiful out of the tragedy of her death - he owed her that much, at least. After all, he had loved her.

"A recollection diary might help you to do it," Demeter pointed out, glad he had taken her suggestion as she had intended it. "If you think of a memory you would like to incorporate, write it down. Come back to it later. Find inspiration in those memories that make you smile through the tears."

He found himself sniffling as he nodded his head again. "Yes, all right. I'll try. All I can do is try, right?" he asked. He knew it was going to take more than one brief conversation to heal a broken heart, but at least, now he knew where to begin. "She'd like that, I think. She always liked to hear me play."

Neville Ashton

Date: 2016-01-02 10:21 EST
"Then she'd be glad to know that you are still playing, I'm sure," she smiled. Her eyes flickered toward the clock, surprised to find that their hour was almost up. "Is there anything you want to ask me?"

"No," he replied, without hesitation before changing his mind. He didn't need to know her credentials or how long she'd been doing what she was doing, and he wasn't ready to get very personal. There was only one question he needed to know. "Do you want to see me again?" he asked, wondering if she thought he needed additional sessions, rather than assume that he did.

"It is entirely up to you, Mr. Ashton," she assured him, once again putting the power in his hands. Grieving was an intensely personal experience; he had to feel he had control over this aspect of coming to terms with this loss. "One session is rarely enough to form concrete results, however. I would like to see you again, in one week or two, your choice. To see how you are doing, and how I can help. And if, at any point during that time, you feel you need to talk to me, you can call the number you were given, and I will make the time for you."

"Okay, two weeks, I think. I'll call if I need to come in sooner." It wasn't so much a matter of time or whether the necessity for additional sessions was there, but a matter of his pocketbook. He wasn't complaining about his paycheck, but he wasn't rich either and therapy was expensive. "Thank you, Doctor," he told her, moving to his feet and offering her a hand. He had done almost an entire 180 from the way he'd felt when he'd first walked in the door. So maybe she could help him after all.

"Take care of yourself, Mr. Ashton," she smiled, rising herself to shake his hand in a gentle grip. He couldn't possibly know that she was jumping around inside herself, truly delighted that her first ever consult had resulted in her offering tangible advice to someone who just needed to know where to go now. He definitely didn't need to know he was her first ever patient.

It was hard to say how he would have reacted if he'd known he was her first ever patient. Would he have never scheduled the appointment in the first place, thinking she lacked the experience to help him, or would he have wanted to give her a chance anyway' It was hard to say, and too late now to find out. He furrowed his brows thoughtfully as she gripped his hand, and for the first time since arriving, he took a really good look at her. There was no denying she was attractive - beautiful, even, in an unattainable sort of way - but that wasn't what interested him. He'd met plenty of beautiful women before who had hardly given him the time of day. No, it was something else. "You look vaguely familiar, but I can't quite place it."

Demeter's smile turned a little wry. "I used to be a model," she admitted, almost shy of sharing this but honest to a fault, it seemed. "A lingerie model, actually, which does beg the question of what you've been browsing." As soon as the tease left her lips, she knew she'd crossed the line from doctor, and winced. "I'm sorry, that was very inappropriate."

Instead of laughing, he only arched a brow at her admission, though it was likely some ad in a magazine or other of his wife's that he had spied, rather than the implied assumption that he'd been browsing photos of half-naked women somewhere. "It must have been something of my wife's then," he said, not rising to the bait of her teasing, reminding her without saying so in so many words why he was there in the first place.

"It must have been," she nodded in agreement. "A woman of good taste." Aware that she was balancing on the cusp of becoming incredibly unprofessional, she gently withdrew her hand from his. "Louise, at the reception, will confirm with you your next appointment. I hope these next weeks go well for you, Mr. Ashton."

"Perhaps," he admitted, non-commit tally. He wasn't sure if his late wife had been a woman of good taste or not. Like him, she hadn't been mostly practical - a nurse, by trade - and not overly impressed by luxury or excess, and yet she had been a woman with a woman's taste for all things feminine. "I look forward to our next meeting, Doctor Forster," he replied, cordially enough, though the idea that he'd seen her somewhere before was starting to niggle at him a little.

"Be safe, Mr. Ashton," she told him, escorting him to the door. A part of her mind knew he was probably going to go looking for a picture now, just to ease his sense of having seen her before, and that might make their next session a little awkward.

Whether or not he went looking for a picture of her, he could not deny that she had helped him, if only to help him sort out the thoughts and feelings in his head and decide on a course of action that might help him deal with his grief, at least for starters. "Thank you, Doctor. I'll see you in a few weeks."

And with that said, he turned to take his leave of her, having taken the first step toward healing a broken heart and moving on with his life, just as Nellie would have wanted him to do.