Saying Goodbye to My Therapist
My summer has revolved around two things: working and packing. Bedding, towels, a minifridge, a kettle; everything that I will need once I finally move out on my own and into the chaos of university. Don’t get me wrong, I’m extremely excited to strike out on my own; but it’s also difficult to say goodbye to people that I’m used to having close by. As I prepare to move, I’m trying to create little memories that I can tuck away in an empty corner of my heart: laughter around a beach fire, a family board game, a late-night conversation. These sweet moments help me say goodbye.
However, there is one person that I’m not sure how to bid farewell to. She isn’t a friend or family member, and I’ve never spent more than an hour at a time with her, yet she has been one of the most important people in my life for the past two years. She has seen me cry and knows some of my deepest secrets. A simple “goodbye” just doesn’t seem like enough. Should I make a card, buy a plant? How do I say goodbye to my therapist?
I met Meredith two summers ago, and, as can be expected, our meeting wasn’t exactly under the best circumstances. I was extremely sick; my body ravaged by an eating disorder and my mind an anxious mess. My ED had twisted my thoughts to the point that I didn’t see how my mental illness was killing me—I just knew I wanted to be thinner. When a family friend suggested that I talk to someone, I was incredulous. I don’t need that, I’m completely fine! I’m not spilling my guts to some random stranger! My protests were ignored though, and soon I found myself unsteadily climbing the stairs of a drab, smelly building, each step taking me closer to a conversation that would set me on the path to recovery.
Meredith’s office was situated on the second floor of the addictions and mental health building, smack dab in the middle of my small hometown. The receptionists were a loud, pleasant group, constantly shouting messages and bits of gossip across the room for the whole office to hear. My first time walking through those doors, I was completely overwhelmed. Already lightheaded from climbing the flight of stairs, my heart flip-flopped nervously as I took in my surroundings. The room was warm and smelled faintly of sweat, and most of the threadbare chairs were occupied by middle-aged, worn-out looking people. Self-consciously, I whispered my name to one of the receptionists, a sentence that I would repeat each and every week for the next two years: “I’m Jocelyn. I’m here to see Meredith.”
That first appointment is a bit of a blur to me now; I remember sitting between my parents in that musty waiting area, and I could clearly see Meredith’s smiling face coming around the corner, inviting us to her office. But I have no idea what was said once we were all seated in the tiny, dimly lit room. We probably discussed family, my childhood, past trauma, all of the first-day-of-therapy stuff, but what I do remember is that my parents did most of the talking. I was still quite wary, and honestly, pretty embarrassed. Sure, Meredith seemed lovely, but she was still a complete stranger, a stranger who now knew way too much about me.
It took a few weeks, but my discomfort eventually went away. I began to see Meredith one-on-one, without having my parents as a safety net, and I was amazed to find myself opening up to her. The stories came spilling out, and with Meredith’s help, I was able to connect the dots between seemingly random events, finally drawing a clear picture of my mental illness and the trauma that led to its development. I finally understood that what I was feeling wasn’t normal or healthy, and I began to think that maybe the voice in my head telling me what not to eat wasn’t helping me, but rather it was slowly killing me. I was starting to heal.
Of course, it wasn’t all a walk in the park. Therapy is extremely difficult, no matter what you’re going through. There were days when I just did not want to be there. I would sit silently while Meredith gently asked me questions, too mentally drained to answer any of them. And then there were the art exercises; me sitting at the desk with a sheet of paper, drawing pictures and feeling silly while Meredith asked what they meant. We soon realized that crayons weren’t going to be the key to my recovery.
I was getting better though, and around 10 months after my eating disorder recovery began, I was given the “okay” to stop seeing the doctors and dieticians who were keeping track of my physical health. However, I knew that I wanted to continue to see Meredith. She had become a hugely important part of my life, and I couldn’t imagine not having our weekly visits to look forward to. When we ran out of things to talk about, our conversations began to turn into gossip sessions. Needless to say, I was hesitant to say goodbye. I still felt like I needed to see her, and was scrambling for excuses to continue my treatment. Then, a year after I began therapy, my mental health once again flew into chaos when a realization hit me. With my brain finally clear after months of starvation, I was able to put into words a fact that had been teasing the edges of my thoughts since childhood: I, a born and raised good Christian girl, was a lesbian.
When I told Meredith about my revelation, she was nothing but supportive. However, she also made it clear to me that this was not her area of expertise; she was an eating disorder counselor after all. She suggested that I find someone specialised in working with LGBT youth and offered to put me in touch with one of her colleagues, but I declined. I couldn’t imagine seeing anyone else. So Meredith helped me through my self-discovery as best she could. She advised that I wait a bit before coming out to my parents, and when I ignored her advice, she helped me deal with their less-than-stellar reaction. She listened to me gush about a cute girl that I knew, and comforted me when said girl began dating one of my best (male) friends. It sounds cheesy, but I don’t think that I could have made it through those first few difficult months without her.
Now, as I count down the days until I leave for university, and the excitement for a new beginning (and new, hopefully gay, girls) builds, I can't help but feel a twinge of sadness. After two years, it’s finally time to say goodbye, and unlike my friends and family, I won’t be seeing Meredith at Thanksgiving or Christmas. This will truly be goodbye.
I will soon approach the reception desk for the last time and mutter my greeting. I’ll sit in the waiting room and wait to see her smiling face come around the corner, and then I’ll follow her through the maze-like hallways to her tiny office. We will sit down and then what? How will I say goodbye? I guess that I will do the only thing I can: offer her my words of gratitude. I will thank her for always listening, never judging, and being stern when I needed it, and I will tell her how much she’s helped me heal and grow, and regain the sparkle in my eye.
And who knows, maybe I’ll buy her a plant too. No one can stop me, because in the end, I don’t think that there is a proper way to say goodbye to a therapist.