It is not an easy night. It is 4AM and my grief is keeping me up like a little child. In fact, I believe it literally is a little child. My psychologist introduced me to Internal Family Systems and the idea that we have different “parts”. Within me are parts stuck at different ages. I didn’t always interact with my psychologist as a 31-year-old adult. I attached to her like a child attaches herself to a mother. Sometimes my young part(s) would not only hijack my emotions but they would hijack my behaviour. There was one session I spent on the floor playing with the toys in her office. I put some of her little soft animals in her plastic expandable ball (there is one for sale on Ebay here for reference) and rolled them around. I built block towers out of dominos, and then balanced my psychologist’s little toy hedgehog on top, very impressed that it did not collapse. My psychologist had two crochet otters called “Harry” and “Ginny”. One day when she took leave she let me keep one of them. She kept “Harry” and said she would carry him in her handbag wherever she went so that she wouldn’t forget me. They were like friendship charms. She said it was normally what she’d do for her children, but she trusted me and thought it might help. It did help. I kept “Ginny” by my bed and she was of great comfort, so much so that I had trouble relinquishing her when my psychologist returned. I gave “Ginny” back to her crying and then left abruptly.

One minute I can write a post about how abusive my psychologist is and how much I hate her. The next minute the sadness sets in. I am so confused by how someone who seemed to care for me so much can hurt me just as much. I hardly recognise the callous person she became in the end. I saw her once, sometimes twice, a week for four years. She was the highlight of my week and the person I’d tell everything to. Then she allocated 90 minutes to end our relationship. I’m sure she is not losing sleep or contemplating suicide because I’m gone. What did The Script say? When a heart breaks, no it don’t break even.

One session the receptionist made me herbal tea and I forgot to return the clinic’s cup afterwards. The cup sat in my car while I was in hospital, and continued to sit in my car after I was discharged. I didn’t know what to do with it. My dad ended up throwing it out. I was angry at my psychologist at the time so let him throw it away. Tonight I wish I had of kept it. I know it wasn’t as cute as “Ginny”, but it was something I could hang on to. Something to remind me of the safety and love I felt with my psychologist during those moments when I still believe in it.

I feel myself slipping into a desperate phase of my grief. I contemplate still driving to the clinic on Monday for my appointment. Maybe a part of me doesn’t believe any of this has happened and we will continue as normal. Or maybe I want to beg and bargain with her. I know it will only hurt me being told to go home. It will be just like the time I was expelled from my course five years ago. I was told my presence was distressing for the other students, and received a letter requesting that I no longer attend class. It will be like all the times throughout school I was excluded from friendship groups because people didn’t like me. It will be like the time I was five and accused of sexually assaulting my friend. The teachers watched me in the yard like I was a criminal, and when I went to play with her or other friends I was told I had to move away. It will also, of course, be just like all the other therapists who said they no longer wish to see me. I still keep them buried inside my heart, like rotting corpses. Now I have another one to add to the pile. My heart is racing, I am teary and I want to scream just thinking about turning up at my psychologist’s clinic. But it also doesn’t feel right not making that thirty minute trip there and back on Monday now. That is our time. It has been for four years.

This is the ugliest part of my grief. I much prefer the anger. The anger is what will allow me to push her away. The anger will empower me. I wrote a complaint to her licensing board about her a week ago. But my grief is like the ocean…. Sometimes calm, sometimes angry, sometimes frightening full of rips dragging me down into the underworld. I am not sure how long this is going to go on for, but I feel strapped into a rollercoaster with no control over its course.