The Two Things I Remember About My Final Therapy Session
I remember two things about my final therapy session.
Firstly, treading down the uneven stone steps that led from his front door into the Square before turning left onto The High Road for the last time was an immense relief.
I had survived! And now I was free. The process was over.
Number two was how awkward I felt during my closing session.
What would we say? How would we say it?
Would I break protocol and give him a hug? We’d never even shaken hands. The thought worried me. Is that what I was meant to do?
We'd been in a relationship, albeit benign, for over ten years. The therapist taught me about the benign father figure, and cast himself in the role of a separate but supportive other. I didn’t have to think about him, ask after his well being or worry that he couldn’t cope (btw I did - and he could) because he was a therapist and that was his job.
What was he thinking? I wondered. How did he feel about our years together?
We’d already discussed the need for thank yous - none as it turned out. Leaving therapy is a process in itself. A gradual reduction of sessions, tying up loose ends, an exploration around closure and endings.
You have the tools, my therapist said, you’ve done the work.
Therapists call therapy work because it is.
Digging through dirt, my dirt, your dirt, pulling rotten roots out and holding them up to the light while the therapist says, consider it this way, had felt brutal, exhausting and intrusive. But in the right hands, with the right therapist, I had become resilient and flexible.
I’d learnt to contain and express my emotional states. My emotional self. Allow any jumbled feelings to settle. Feel the chaos, better, witness the chaos, and then settle.
I knew how to stretch my arms wide, when I wobbled, and find balance. How to fall and pick myself up… without destroying myself.
I’d opened up, and opened out.
How many times had he said goodbye? Was it easier with some than others? Was it easy with me?
Afterwards, what would he do? Reflect, put on some music or just make a cup of tea before the next one…
When I first started to see my therapist, he played music between clients. I know this because on the way out I’d use the bathroom and Massive Attack or Tracy Thorn would sing me down the stairs.
I tried not to make jokes or make light.
Ah yes, he’d said, on more than one occasion, as I attacked his psychological probing, Jemma’s sense of humour!
Nothing like someone calling out my humour to make me focus.
The session was coming to an end. My awkwardness grew. All hug thoughts vanished.
I know I don’t need to say thank you, I said, it’s not a situation that warrants or needs a thank you.. as we discussed… but… thank you.. for... putting me back together..
I tailed off. His silence, loud.
… and saving my life.
Not even a raised eyebrow. I waited.
At least I’d said what I would kick myself later for not saying. Surely he’d offer one last note upon which I could rest my existence. Was that too much to ask for?
Ten years!
He remained in his chair.
Well, he said…
I steeled myself.
This was it. This was the big one.
He smiled.
It’s been…
Yes?
… interesting.
Interesting?!
Is that all you’ve got?
From the depths of the house I heard the doorbell ring.
He checked his watch. Our time was up.
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