A Farewell Note to My Therapist

In the low light of evening, I paused and looked back at the office building behind me.  My eyes searched for the light of the room I have come to visit regularly for a year and half.  Finding it, I took a deep breath, wiped a tear, and turned back to my car. That first step forward felt important.  Like I had just walked into a new existence.  I felt a sense of peace wash over me and I knew it was right, leaving there.

I had said goodbye to my therapist.

When I started going after Callie died, she told me that I would know when it was time to stop.  And I did.

It was time.  I had realized that mostly our last few sessions had just been about life.  Normal life stuff.  And that the few times that it was grief stuff, I could handle it without much help anymore.

She had done that for me.  Taught me how to handle it.  She listened as I cried, questioned, worried, and reminded me that it's ok.  It's all ok.  I let it all out there.  She heard my darkest thoughts and helped me let go of my guilt for them.  I learned so much about myself, beyond the grief.  Even though it was terrible circumstances that made our paths cross, I wouldn't trade it for anything.

We had a great goodbye, with a  few tears.  She told me that yellow will always make her think of me and of Callie.  Butterflies will always make me think of her, but I don't know if she knows that.

I never hugged her after our sessions even though I always wanted to.

Except the last time.

A big hug.  And a farewell to the most wonderful person that I hope to never see again.

I've got this now.