To my previous (most excellent) therapist:
Why did you fire me? (Don’t answer that.) I miss you.
Were you afraid I was going to commit suicide on you? I almost did. Did you know that?
If you could do it over again, would you change anything? I would. We never would have met. I probably would’ve wandered into your church eventually and we would have met on normal people terms. “Normal People.”
Did I come across as withdrawn or deceitful towards the end of our relationship? I’m sorry if I did. I didn’t mean to.
Did you know that all of the shits ‘n’ giggles was the best therapy I could have asked for some days? Most days? You made me smile. You gave me something to look forward to.
If you had it your way, would you have had me admitted to inpatient care April 1st, 2014? I think about that day sometimes, and find it a wonder I was sent home. And more of a wonder I wasn’t sent in that October.
Did you know I still miss you and think of you often but have yet to get mad at you for calling it all off? I’ve been angry with myself for it; I blame my own inability to heal—to respond to treatment, to speak truth—for our split.
Did you know that it had ABSOLUTELY NOTHING to do with you?? That if we had waited a month, the lithium would’ve started to make a dent, and a couple more months, that Prozac would be added and give me the final boost? Did you know I would be stable?
I just needed someone to talk to. That was you. Someone to laugh with. You. Someone to tolerate my silences as an acceptable part of who I am rather than some unsociable flaw. You. Someone to pick my brain and tsk my shoulds and name my depression and the darkness inside (Heloise, you named my depression and darkness, do you remember that?) and greet me with enthusiasm and, again, make me laugh. To laugh with me. YOU.
Thank you. I miss you.
Love and peace to you,