Finding Gratitude

Finding Gratitude

    By Donna G. Hill 08/01/24

Veteran Everett Winstead was sitting in the office of Dr. Sicily Appradaeah, Psychiatrist, grumbling to himself under his breath.  Filled with rage, contempt for all mankind, especially dogooder types, embittered.  Tours in Viet Nam had left him with many detrimental experiences to overcome, but he considered himself a “real man, made out of the good stuff.” 

The only reason he came at all was because his only child, a daughter, Emma, insisted.  His health had been declining over the past decade, not that he cared.  Not just his physical health, but his mental wellbeing was taking a downturn as well, nightmares, flashbacks, of course PTSD.  He would scoff at her clinical opinions, but he trusted her.  His philosophy was, “the sooner to the grave the better, won’t have to contend with nobody else on the face of this disgusting pansy ass planet.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Winstead, are you listening to my questions?” Dr. Sicily asked.

“Yeah, I hear all that mess you are droning on about.  Just don’t care to take my time, my last few breaths to answer such crap!  I've been coming here once a week for almost three weeks now.  If any of this psychology malarkey was going to work, wouldn’t I be feeeeling something by now?”  Winstead sneered in her direction, heaved up a rattly cough, without covering his mouth.

Dr. Sicily considered carefully how to proceed.  He was a difficult case, not beyond the help of proven methodology, careful steering in a positive direction.  She believed in her work, had great compassion for her patients.  There would be rare occasions therapy would be discontinued for reasons beyond her control.  Those she most regretted were patients who had already given up on life, refusing to participate.

Winstead, stared blankly out the plate glass window of the high rise building.  Thinking to himself in the uncomfortable silence, he hated the name Everett, sounded somewhat sissified.  Just biding the time until he was asked to leave, curtly, yet professionally.  Always professional these types, the ones who think they can save those deemed lost.  Not for the patient’s well being of course, but to shine up their egos, make them feel an eighth of an inch taller maybe.  Bragging to their friends, colleagues, and receiving recognition by their peers. 

 “What a bunch of hogwash!” he blurted out.  It came barreling out of his mouth like rapid fire from a machine gun, hanging in the air between the two of them.

Dr. Sicily responded without being disturbed by the unexpected outburst.  “Mr. Winstead I’ve been thinking,...”

Interrupting before she could finish her sentence, Winstead barked, “Oh wow, what a concept, you’ve been thinking.”  I’m sure that is very taxing for you indeed, given you are still wet behind the ears, only about maybe thirty years old?”  

“Sir, I believe that you would benefit from beginning to journal daily.  Many patients find journaling less invasive, keeping thoughts more private, freeing in its own magnificent way.  For you in particular, I believe the best place to start is something called a “Gratitude journal.”  It gives minimal instructions, suggestions, positive affirmations, and breathing exercises.  It is a way outside of formal therapy sessions to heal in your own environment, where you should be most comfortable.”  Dr. Sicily said all that in one breath avoiding another interruption.

Winstead pounded his right hand lightly against the arm of the perfectly chosen patterned chair in which he was sitting, of course matching the drapes.  Not too many vivid colors, must use more serene neutral tones he reckoned.  Sitting there, wanting to bolt for the door, but knowing he had promised “Em.”

“Why would I want to write daily in a journal?  I don’t even like to read.  So, it would stand to reason that I certainly wouldn’t want to write down my thoughts, rehearse them for your enjoyment.  Besides, gratitude is not a word I am personally familiar with.  I sincerely decline.  Now, can I leave this pristine, starkly clinical fishbowl of an office?”  Winston waited for a look of sore displeasure on Dr. Sicily’s face.  She wasn’t giving anything away he could use as kindling to keep stoking the fire of bitterness and angst he felt in being there.  It was time to pull out the big guns.

So, leaning forward on the edge of his seat, staring with deliberate intent to disarm, provoke the enemy, shoot his best shot causing her to fear him, sending her into a frenzied tirade trying to reason with him, before being reduced to tears, begging him to leave and never return.

“Listen little girl with a degree bigger than your life experiences.  I want you to feel the full fury of my disdain that people like you even exist in this world.  Your kind disgusts me, wanting to pick my brain, dragging back up things best left forgotten.  With a single snap of my hand around your throat I could break your neck without working up a sweat!”  Winstead watched her start to squirm a bit in her genuine leather chair.  Definitely fighting back a tear or two.  He was well on his way to ending this intrusion into his life.

“Mr. Winstead,...” regaining her composure.  She was concerned, understanding that if he chose to do so, he had the skill level, and the temperament to follow through on his threats.  

“I am here to try and help you.  I will not tolerate your belligerent comments, your complete and utter disrespect.  I will not be threatened in my own office. I need you to respond that you understand, agreeing to comply with behavior befitting this environment.  There are armed security personnel on staff in the building.  Just nodding your head will suffice.”  Dr. Sicily felt a bit more in control boldly stating her frame of mind at this moment.

“I will nod my head in response of our mutual understanding, but reflect for a moment that I said mutual understanding.”  Winstead felt his point was made.

Not willing to give him the satisfaction of waving a flag of surrender, not even a hint of winning this war waged between the two of them, instead adjusting herself in her seat, proceeded.

“I believe we have a better understanding of where we both stand.  I desire to continue to provide therapy for you as my patient.  It is also a matter of professional courtesy to your daughter, Emma.  I will reiterate my previous suggestion to begin the “Gratitude Journal.”  She smiled wryly across the room, caring not if he made the choice to proceed, or not.  

“Well, sweet cheeks, seems we have reached a stalemate of sorts.  Don’t appreciate you throwing my daughter into the mix.  Seems would have been beneath your professional demeanor.  However, since I admire my daughter, her field of medicine caring for babies and children.  If it will get me out of this office, I will agree to this journaling nonsense.  Couple of problems: no paper, pen, pencil, computer, laptop, notepad, etc., to perform the suggested task.”  Winstead still challenging Dr. Sicily at every opportunity .

She rose and went to her desk.  Opening the lower right hand drawer, retrieving a book of sorts.

“As I explained previously, maybe not thoroughly enough.  My office provides the “Gratitude Journal,” at no cost or extra expense to patients.  Consider it your personal property.  I will not require you to bring it to sessions, or to discuss anything you choose to record inside.”  She walked cautiously towards him, gesturing to hand him the journal.

Looking up at her, snickered a bit, reached out taking the “Gratitude Journal.”  By his way of thinking, if it was his personal property, it was his choice to do with it whatsoever he chose.  He imagined himself cracking open a cold one when he got home, sauntering over to the trash can happily tossing it inside without a single concern.  Or, using it to start a nice fire in the old burn barrel.

Winstead left quietly.  Dr. Sicily was relieved to see him go.  She wondered if he might open it up, or would toss it inside the trash bin closest to her office.  Either way, she had done her best.  She too greatly respected his daughter, knowing how concerned she is for her Father.

On the drive home from the city, he would glance over at the journal.  It seemed to glare at him from the passenger seat where he promptly tossed it into his car.  He was surprised it made it this far.  Maybe the trash bin was too easy.  Either way, the choice was his. 

Arriving home, pulling into the driveway, parking his car by the front porch of the old home place.  Turning off the car, rested his head on the headrest, closed his eyes wishing the world away.  He could feel the journal reaching for him.  It was an uncomfortable presence.  Almost as if it had a life of its own, probing his brain already, waiting for him to concede to its victory, becoming a daily part of his ordinary life.  He grabbed it, snorted out, “This really sucks,...” and headed inside.  Winstead tossed that thing on the couch and forgot about it.

Winstead slept well, at least a couple of hours, the usual.  Insomnia was his best friend for decades now.  Drifting back off, awaking with a start, almost jumping off the bed.  It was still dark outside, he glanced over at the clock by the bed, glaring smoldering red numbers at him, 3:15 a.m.  Looking around the room things felt unfamiliar.  Unsettling.  He and his family had lived here for more years than he could remember, his parent’s home place.  When they passed on, his own family, his wife and daughter had resided here since.

Everything was in place, nothing disturbed, but he was certain he had heard voices.  It was an old farmhouse, not unusual to hear creaks, timbers settling, woods surrounding the house for miles, kind of cut off from the city and other folks intentionally.   His head seemed all funny like, bit off kilter.  Then there it was again, soft and quiet, almost a whisper in the air.

“Everett, Everett,... I know you can hear me.  I know you recognize my voice.”  Whispered words echoed through the room.  The hair on the back of his neck was standing up, in a cold sweat, maybe he was coming down with something.  Maybe had a fever, but no, it wasn’t that simple.

“Listen Everett dear.  I’m so sorry I had to leave you sooner than we expected.  I don’t have long to talk with you.  I know you will hear my heart darling.  Listen to Em’, she loves you.  She wants to hang onto you as long as she can.  You know how much she loves her sweet Daddy.  Please, put all that nonsense and pride away, accept some help.  I love you always.”  Winstead without a doubt recognized the voice.  It was his wife, Evelyn.  

He lost her almost twelve years ago, unexpectedly in a car crash>  A drunk driver hit her head on.  She’d only gone out for groceries, and was just a couple of miles from the house.  In fact, he heard the collision sitting on their front porch.  He and Em’ were devastated.  Evelyn was the anchor that held the world together for them both.

He sat down on the side of the bed, washed in sweat, chilled to the bone.  This couldn’t be happening to him.  He was losing his mind.  Evelyn had not talked to him a single time since she passed.  He did believe in those kinds of things.  Poured his heart out for years, begging her to speak to him just one more time, just to hear her voice, so sweet, just one more time.  He loved the way she called him Everett, no one else could say it the way she could.

Winstead went downstairs, every stair step felt the heavy weight he was carrying.  Going into the kitchen, firing up the old coffee pot, he liked his coffee black and strong.  Sitting at the kitchen table he poured a cup for himself, then hesitantly went into the living room.  

His old cozy chair waited for him by the window near the fireplace.  On his way over he had to pass that awful “Gratitude Journal” tossed so carelessly onto the couch.  Reaching to pick it up he almost felt nauseous.  The “Gratitude Journal” had won, he conceded.

His full weight falls into his favorite chair, worn with age, cozy in all the right spots.  Color plum worn off, but it didn’t matter here if the curtains match the sofa, or the rug accented the room.  It was time, he laid it across his lap, sipped a big swig of coffee, and opened that darn old thing.  Hating the look of it, the feel of it, the tones of the pages, everything about it disturbed him on unknown levels.  He began to read,...

         Gratitude Journal

Welcome to your new beginning on your journey of healing.  There are no mistakes recorded here, nothing to fear, this is your safe place, your words remain your words.

Each day begins with a simple rhythmic pattern of breathing exercises.  Breathe in deeply for a count of eight, hold for a count of eight, slowly exhale for a count of eight.  Simple right?

Each day you may read a positive affirmation, repeated softly to yourself, or only read to be heard within the confines of your own mind.  The choice is yours.

It is our hope by the time you finish your first week of gratitude journaling, you will have experienced the beginning of refreshing feelings of release, working towards a lasting peace in your life.  Let’s begin.

DAY 1 List one thing you are grateful for.  _____________________________________

DAY 2 Give a brief explanation as to why you are grateful for the single thing listed above. __________________________________________________________________________

_____________________________________

DAY 3 Share how you are feeling today in terms of gratitude.  __________________________________________________________________________

_____________________________________

Day after day, blank pages stared back at him, expecting him to write something, if only a single word.  He had nothing to say.

Maybe he was deliberately not journaling.  Hoping, his wife’s voice would just continue to visit him every night.  Reminding him, pleading with him to try and take Em’s advice.

He loved hearing her voice.  There somewhere in the deep recesses of the mind, he thought if he complied, Evelyn wouldn’t visit him ever again.  He didn’t want to stop hearing her voice, so soothing.  Then again, maybe she would become angry with him, stop visiting anyway, just for being so stubborn about it all.

It was day four.  He never picked up the “Gratitude Journal.”  Couldn’t bear the thought of it weighing on him every moment.  He went on up to bed.  Sleeping three or four hours, vivid dreams began, nightmares a better description.  His platoon was parachuting into the heat of battle, a fiery hot LZ.  We knew we were bait, it was a given.  The noise off the helicopter blades was deafening.  No time to be afraid, you just jumped when you were told, sometimes a couple of missions a day.  Always out for over ninety days at a time, no breaks from the chaos, the smell of the dying and dead.

This time was different, a feeling of dread was overwhelming.  The darkness, like liquid death enveloped you all around.  The embers still smoldering from grenades, rockets, rapid gunfire.  Smoke so thick it was suffocating.  Surrounded by the enemy at all times, waiting to be ambushed.  He should be accustomed to all this by now, but every time out was different.  Nights were the worst, feeling the eyes of the enemy watching from all around you.  Taking cover wherever, whenever possible.  No clean drinking water for days on end.  Something was wrong.  The fear was palpable.

Awaking once again, trembling, filled with fear.  Winstead made his way down the old staircase, turned on a single lamp by his chair.  Without hesitation, he picked up the “Gratitude Journal.”  Pen in hand, skipping the breathing exercises, and the affirmations, he began to write,...

DAY 1 List one thing you are grateful for.

I now have several, not just the one.  My life, my beautiful, sweet wife Evelyn.  My precious daughter, Emma.  

DAY 2 Give a brief explanation why you are grateful for the single thing listed above.  

I never realized how precious life is, despite all the hell you go through here on this earth.  I survived a war, came home to my family, many did not, had a life I never fully appreciated until now that is.  I’ve come to realize the greatest gifts in life were right in front of me all the time.  I regret, and I am deeply ashamed that I have acted so selfishly in this life.



DAY 3  Share how you are feeling today in terms of gratitude.  

I’m past due, lost track of how many days I’ve avoided this “Gratitude Journal.” Anyways, I’m writing now to say, for the first time in my life I completely understand what gratitude is.  My Emma is the one thing I am most proud of in all my life.  She is the best of the both of us.

Winstead, felt such peace wash over him.   Closing the “Gratitude Journal,” rested his head, closed his eyes, breathing in a deep calming breath.

The phone rang early that morning.  Emma was checking on her Daddy.  There was no answer.  Somehow she just knew.  

Arriving at the old home place, Emma entered the front door, never fearing what she might find inside.  Winstead was sitting there still in his favorite old chair, holding his “Gratitude Journal,” having passed on.  

Emma sat alone by his side reading his last precious words.  He was at peace, he had found gratitude at long last.