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.