I Broke Up With My Therapist

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Today I broke up with my therapist.

It was mutual.

No shouting. No tears. No one dramatically stormed out of the room. There was no “I think we should see other patients.”

Just two grown women calmly agreeing that after roughly a year of poking around inside my brain, we may have reached the end of what can reasonably be achieved without replacing the entire operating system.

I originally started therapy because my brain had apparently resigned from active service.

I couldn’t focus.

I was exhausted all the time.

My ability to concentrate had deteriorated to approximately the attention span of a Labrador who has just heard a cheese wrapper open three rooms away.

And then there was Lemon.

Thinking about her didn’t just make me sad. It could completely derail me.

So we worked on that.

We talked.

We analysed.

We did EMDR.

We examined grief, exhaustion, coping mechanisms, emotional responses and probably several dusty boxes in the psychological attic that I had previously labelled DO NOT OPEN – STRUCTURALLY IMPORTANT.

And somewhere along the way, things actually got better.

Not fixed.

Let’s not get carried away.

I still miss Lemon.

I always will.

But grief no longer feels quite as capable of kicking down the front door, setting fire to the curtains and taking the rest of the day hostage.

My brain occasionally focuses on something for longer than two seconds.

I understand myself a little better.

And apparently that is where therapy gets slightly inconvenient, because eventually you reach the point where there isn’t necessarily another psychological dragon hiding behind the sofa.

Some of it is just… you.

So today Anita and I agreed that we’d reached the end.

Which means I am officially being released back into society.

Unsupervised.

A bold decision.

Thank you, Anita.

You helped me through one of the strangest, hardest stretches of my life, and I do feel better than I did when we started.

As for the remaining issues?

At this point I suspect they’re less “unresolved psychological problems” and more “personality features.”

The sarcasm appears permanent.

The dark humour is load-bearing.

Avoidance remains a highly developed professional skill.

And some of my coping mechanisms have been carefully cultivated over several decades and frankly have seniority.

Could they be healthier?

Probably.

Are they currently holding parts of the building together?

Also probably.

So we’re leaving those beams exactly where they are.

Therapy complete.
Grief still present.
Brain somewhat operational.
Personality regrettably intact.

Five stars. Would get psychologically excavated again.