It’s 3pm on Wednesday. I’m sat in a long, drawn out meeting. My reflection stares back as I try to concentrate on the agenda items. The frown lines in my face prominent and the bags under my eyes weighing heavy onto my cheek bones. Sadness expelled in the weight of heavy sighs. It was only a week ago I swallowed boulder-sized lumps, shaking as I expressed gratitude for perhaps the best therapeutic experience I’ll likely ever have in my life.
As the week rolled by, I’m unashamed to admit the occasional tear rolled down my face. These bittersweet moments of amicable endings swell inside the body. I knew as soon as the door closed behind me I’d begin to grieve the loss of a safe space and a safe person.
It doesn’t matter how hard you try to prepare yourself for inevitable endings, it never really softens the blow. In relational therapy, you begin to enact the scenarios that have been reverberating throughout your entire life, whether you like it or not. It also provides you the space to experiment with risks you’re too afraid to take in day-to-day life. So when these risks are met with genuine affection, it gives you a taste for what’s possible on the outside. It’s scary and beautiful in equal measure.
I’m slowly learning that when I feel fully and move with intentional grace through the messiness of despair, I’m consciously aware that power and softness are poetically entwined. Somebody else saw the beauty in this and saw the beauty in my uniqueness. It continues to take my breath away.
Our final moments meant the world to me. It was so unintentionally (intentionally?) powerful. A few words of softness and care were enough to break down the final barricades I’d been fighting to prop up. In our stillness, there was intensity. And all I could say was “thank you.”
It changed me in a way I wasn’t expecting. Amidst all the heartache, I’m more able to embrace the beauty in the world around me. For the first time I’ve realised I don’t have to heal from this experience. There was no rush to get over this sadness. There was no comparative deficit to berate myself with. No shame.
I’ve attempted to move through this with dignity. In solitary acts of self-love and bravery I’ve swam achey lengths, climbed hills and explored woodland. As I dance through bluebells and walk miles along dappled desire paths, i’ve breathed into the discomfort that catches me off-guard. Allowing myself to feel the most uncomfortable mixture of deep appreciation and loss I’ve felt in a while.
Carried by the final words, the whimsical pondering and the hope I was left with in that parting moment, I am treating myself with affection. With the affection that others want for me too, I begin to fall in love with possibility.