The radical self-care practice of consulting your inner compass

Inside yourself you have a simple compass that has just two directions on it— "OK for me" and "not OK for me" This is your inner voice and you need to consult it in order to set your boundaries.

Babies are in touch with their inner compass

When you were a baby you knew when things were OK for you and when they were you smiled and gurgled and connected with your primary caregivers. You also knew when things weren't OK for you and when they weren't you screamed to let your caregiver know that things weren't OK. At that stage your carer would investigate to see how they could restore you back to a state of being OK again. Until the next time, your temperature, the state of your nappy, your hunger or your sense of safety crossed the threshold from OK to not OK. Knowing when that threshold is being crossed is about having a boundary. As a baby, screaming is about communicating that boundary to others.

Other people appreciate knowing where our boundaries are

So you had clear boundaries as a baby and you didn't hesitate to communicate them to everyone around you. In fact your carers appreciated your clarity in doing so, as long as they were able to give you what you needed. They often got a lot of satisfaction from doing this - from protecting you from things that weren't OK and giving you what was OK.

I appreciate it when other people can tell me what is OK and not OK for them and don’t just leave it to me to guess. For example, if I am going out to eat with someone and I want to go to a fish restaurant I would so much prefer to know ahead of time that they are allergic to fish.

Sadly, our ability to let people know what is OK for us is often compromised by the time we grow up.

As we get older we start to look outside ourselves to find out what is OK and not OK

As you got older you may have learned not to trust your inner certainty about what was OK or not OK but to put this aside to please other people and fit in with what was OK for them rather than yourself. You learned to have your attention outside yourself rather than inwards to work out what was OK to do, to say, to ask for and what was OK to offer to other people.

If you didn't like eating vegetables, or you liked running on the pavement, or you enjoyed painting on the walls you learned that it mattered more to know what other people thought about these things. People still enjoyed giving you what you felt was OK but only if it matched with their ideas of what was healthy, safe or otherwise good for you...and for them.

You also learned that it wasn't always a good idea to let other people know what was OK or not OK for you. Maybe you really didn't like your birthday gift from your aunt and learned that you had to pretend to like it and thank her profusely. Maybe it really wasn't OK for you to spend time with those children next door but your parents needed you to spend time with them.

It doesn’t serve us well to lose contact with what is OK to us

Over and over again we learned, as children to override our own preferences, likes and needs for the sake of other people. This is a big part of living alongside other people, which is important for all of us but doesn't serve us well if we lose contact with what matters to us.

So by the time we become adults our inner compass of OK and not OK is consulted less and less. Other people and societal rules tell us what to do with our time, what our values should be and what we want from life. We lose our confidence in even knowing what is OK for us and we often don't know how to communicate this to others or whether it's actually all right to do so.

We discount our inner voices, override our inner voices and eventually we lose contact with our inner voices. Instead of consulting that inner compass we try to make ourselves OK by putting all our energy into making other people OK, by numbing the feelings of distress with substances or mindless activities, by trying harder and harder to 'succeed' or make money. We put ourselves under huge stresses because we mistakenly believe that there is no other option but to carry on. Even if we are aware of an inner voice that is saying "This isn't OK for me." we tell ourselves that we can't do anything about it. But maybe we can.

Sometimes it takes a very significant event to wake us up.

I woke up to the need for boundaries when I lost my son but it wasn't instantaneous. My waking up has taken many years but the clear catalyst was that terrible night when I was told he had taken his own life.

I was in a relationship that wasn't OK for me. I was in a job that wasn't OK for me. I was in a financial situation that wasn't OK for me. I drank more wine than was right for me. I smoked and that wasn't right for me. I spent time with some people who weren't right for me doing things that weren't OK for me. I could go on. Whilst I had been just about managing all these aspects of my life up to that point I now had profound grief and deep trauma to manage too and I couldn't manage all of those things at once. I knew that if I was to learn how to live with this profound loss that I needed to relearn to consult my inner compass.

I worked hard to tune back into my inner compass

So slowly, inexorably, over the years I changed a lot of things. I learned how to tune into my inner compass of OK/not OK and I developed the ability to listen to the 'Yes' and 'No' from inside myself. I don't always succeed in doing this and I always know when I have crossed my own boundaries, perhaps by agreeing to something that goes against my values or compromises my energy levels. I end up feeling overwhelmed and distressed.

Other people haven't always appreciated what I do or don't do, what is right for me and what isn’t, especially when they were used to something different and whilst I have compassion for how they feel I can't allow that to change my direction. For me, being aware of my "OK for me" versus "Not OK for me." inner compass and voice, or, in other words, having boundaries and allowing them to inform what I do is a radical practice of self-care.

The chill in the air means that day is approaching once more

I catch my breath at this time of year when I notice the chill in the air and realise that we are heading for Autumn. The Canadian geese gather on Looe island at this time of year and they fly over a couple of times a day in their familiar vee formation honking their way across the bay. Autumn, especially sunny and crisp Autumn days, used to be my favourite days. I have Scottish blood and the heat of Summer, especially this record breaking Summer, is not really my thing. So what I have always liked is the end of Summer but those precious sunny days in September and October. Until everything changed.

The anniversary of my son’s death looms and I don’t know why it matters so much

The other thing that looms at this time of year is the anniversary of my son’s death. I don’t know why it feels so important, with other family members I can barely recall the dates they died. But with my son, it is as if the whole event starts to approach with gathering speed. It matters to me, and not all in a bad way. It just feels so significant to recall the days leading up to when he died. First we have his birthday at the end of August – we recognise that gently amongst family and friends, tracking the passing years. And then, nearly six weeks later  - the anniversary of his death.

There is no convenient term for that day – I generally call it his ‘anniversary’ which can be confusing for people who don’t know, but then I don’t usually discuss it with anyone who doesn’t know him or know what that means I guess.

I don’t really know what to do on that day

I usually take the week off work to give myself some space. I sometimes walk on the coast path- about five or six miles is enough for me. Every year, I regret not having organised something more meaningful to do. It’s all a but of a damp squib in many ways. I know there are many bereaved parents who prefer just to allow it to go by unmentioned and unmarked and I do get that but that’s not right for me.

I feel as if it should be momentous – as if the world should stop and recognise what is happening and it’s just a date that looms and passes every year. Perhaps I yearn for a funeral every year. It is hard to describe the wish for the aliveness of love and loss that I remember being with that day. It was terrible and beautiful at the same time.

“This is what I have learned: Within the sorrow, there is grace. When we come close to those things that break us down, we touch those things that also break us open.”

— Wayne Muller

I don’t know how to achieve a taste of that terrible, beautiful experience that I wish for but I want to plan for it. I wish I could say tht I have this taped but I don’t. I am going to think further about this in the coming weeks and maybe do it differently this time.

What do you do on the anniversary day?

I would love to hear from you how you ‘do’ the anniversary day. What helps and supports you? What works against you?

Time does not heal but there can still be healing

My son died almost as many years ago as he had lived up to that point. He was nineteen when he took his life. As you will be aware this is both a traumatic experience and a profound loss. “Does it get any better?” is a good question. The answer, for me, is that, yes, the trauma gets better and with the right approaches can be resolved but when it comes to the loss and grief, my answer is a complicated, “No, but yes, to some extent.”

The trauma can be healed

My experience is that the trauma in my body, that reacted violently to all kinds of triggers and situations especially in the early years, could be healed. Through the practice of self-soothing and calming and the support of a trauma informed therapist as well as cranio-sacral body therapy this aspect was eventually able to heal. This means that now I rarely feel unsafe without a rational reason and that, whilst I always notice those (many) triggers, they don’t any longer set off a racing heart, shaking and panic. However, whilst trauma held in the body can be calmed grieving for a child is long term process that remains challenging.

Grieving for a child is a lifelong process

The grieving process is intense in the beginning and its waves overwhelming and that is not the case now, at least not often. There are still waves and they can occasionally be all consuming but now it is as if I can decide whether to allow them to move through me or not at any particular time. I notice when I am approaching a wave and am able to put what I need, in terms of a safe space or someone to talk with in place. I can’t deny the waves the space they demand completely though. The grieving process, it seems, will continue for the rest of my life.

The pain of the loss remains but has much more space within me now

The pain of losing my son is still the same size as it ever was. If you and I were to sit down and I were to tell you about what happened I know that my heart will break again in the telling. However, I have grown sufficient internal space to hold that deep pain alongside its bittersweet and beautiful companion of the love between me and my boy and this makes the difference. It is as if I have grown to carry the pain rather than the pain reducing in its magnitude.

I now have more choice

It means that I have choice now as to whether I ‘go there’ or stay outside the pain. In the early years that choice was not there and my legs might buckle through the overwhelm and the dam of tears might burst at any time no matter where I was and what I was trying to do.

Then the question is: “How have you done that?”. I didn’t have a plan at the outset but when I look back I see that I have created this space through the changes I have made in how I live and how I am in the world. So I am going to try to tell you how this has worked for me.

I made a lot of changes

Perhaps the first thing is that I didn’t want to feel better. I actually wanted to feel the pain because it made sense and in a way kept me closer to the time before he died. When I started to have days when it was more in the background I felt distant from my son and as if I was betraying the gravity of the situation. There were times when I just felt disconnected and they were the worst for me as I inhabited a sterile desert that might have lacked sadness and anger but also lacked joy and connection.

Creating and providing space for the loss and grief

So I created spaces for myself—partly on my own and partly by seeing a therapist—where I could be safe enough to allow the sadness, the fear, the anger or whatever was surging through my body to be expressed and heard.

I started to write and filled many pages with my story and my feelings. I joined a writing group and we shared each others’ stories using prompts from the group leader. Whatever the prompt, for example, the colour green or my mother’s kitchen, my words came from the same place, in different formations but all about the grief and the anger and the loss.

I considered my priorities and values and made changes in my living circumstances accordingly. I changed what I did for a living and also where I lived by downsizing. This give me space in the form of time and a much greater ability to do what worked for me at any moment.

The continuing relationship with my son remains a challenge

My relationship with my son has shifted and changed over the years. In the early days it was as if I was cracked open spiritually and I felt very much as if I was connected to whatever or wherever he is beyond this physical world. I tried to hold onto that feeling but it slipped from my grasp at times and has changed shape over the years. It is difficult to communicate how that is for me now. I had some very difficult years when it seemed to me to have been an illusion or a false belief birthed from my wishing for it. In recent years I feel more at ease with my sense of how we are not just limited to these human bodies and thinking minds and I feel more open to the deep connection between us. This matters a lot, but I can’t easily put it into words. This is a work in progress.

Working out what’s OK for me and what isn’t—the importance of compassionate boundaries

The final area of necessary changes I can identify is about boundaries around other people. I am talking here about the time I spend with family and friends, connecting and doing stuff together. I view it as an act of self-compassion to take care about how I agree to meet with my friends and family—what we do—what we don’t. This is not about rejecting other people but about an active process for me of considering carefully what works for me then stepping away from what doesn’t and embracing what does.

So I would say that time has not healed anything on its own but there has been healing over the last eighteen years. With the right attention my trauma has healed. When it comes to grief, loss and my connection with my son careful attention has been and remains necessary in order that these have sufficient space to be carried within me and that has become progressively more possible to do.

Nothing compares...

A long pause and a long life

You may have noticed the very long pause since I last wrote a blog post. When I went to write this one I found that I had saved a photograph of a peeled orange with some intention to write about my dad at the time. He used to challenge himself to peel his clementine in one piece and I photographed the results a few times to share with my daughter. He got such satisfaction on the days when he succeeded!

I was caring for my dad, who was as astute as ever but living in a failing body at ninety-five. Then he died the day before his ninety-sixth birthday. How extraordinary that he lived exactly five times as long as his oldest grandson. I wrote in a previous blog post about my feelings around him and my son and suffice to say, as an addendum to that post, I never did ask him that question but now it seems unnecessary. He loved me and as much as he was able, he loved my children.

The winds of change

So I have now lost both my parents and I am officially an orphan. My mum died just five years after my son and I was affected but remember really noticing how gentle the breeze of grief was that I experienced following her death in comparison with the tsunami following my son’s death. Thirteen years later my dad died then and I was more affected this time. Perhaps a brisk south-westerly this time. But nothing in comparison.

I found myself feeling deep pangs of regret over missed opportunities and omissions on my part and it was hard for a number of months to think some of the thoughts that occurred to me. As I went through all the things in their house I found myself upset over a plastic and wire device in the kitchen drawer, that mum used to slice hard boiled eggs. I found it hard to throw it away. I realised that this was a much milder version of the deep pain that I can still experience when I come across something of my son’s.

The imbroglio of feelings and pain

It wasn’t easy losing my parents but it was totally manageable. Perhaps the hardest thing was the way that the pain of losing my boy came relentlessly and painfully to sit on the surface again in a way that it hadn’t done for a long time. All my feelings about so many things all swirling around together. I was one step away from undertakers and coffins when my mum died as my dad organised her funeral. But with my dad I wanted to do those things for him and it knocked me sideways rather and took me suddenly close to that devastating territory from all those years ago. Choosing a coffin and deciding what he should wear in it for my son was surreal and I am not sure I so much chose as fell into a decision but this was just one in a series of searingly painful things I had to deal with.

A legend in his own lifetime

I knew exactly what I wanted for my dad - British racing green. He was fanatical about cars and used to race them as a younger man. We played the theme from the grand prix, The Chain, at his funeral (loudly) and it felt as if he was going off for his final drive in his coffin.

The last brand new car he bought had a V6 engine. He was in his early 80s when he went out for a drive and opened up the throttle for a bit on the motorway. He was pulled over by the police for driving at over 100mph. He had to go to court and there was an obligatory ban because of the speed.

He sat in the court and was asked if he had anything to say for himself. He spoke clearly and steadily, his tone of voice belying his years “The conditions were good, the road was clear….and I was tempted.”

He was banned for just one week. The minimum the magistrate could allow.

I remember Sam telling his grandad that he was a legend in his own lifetime. He was. I really miss him and I really miss my mum—it’s almost as if I have a totally different relationship with them both now and its great—I appreciate so many things about both of them. And they both loved Sam—of course they did—they just had no idea at all how to connect with me about him for all those years after he died.

So I miss them very much but nothing, nothing at all, compares with the way I miss my beautiful boy.