I’ve often wondered what it would be like to bump into JP (not the pope but my old therapist). It’s been seven years since I saw him and given the circumstances (broke up with girlfriend, therefore had nowhere to stay and moved back to London) I never got to say a proper goodbye. I think when I left we both thought I’d be coming back, so even our last phone call didn’t end in the way I used to think endings were meant to.
I’ve written to him over the years, tying the loose ends into neat knots that in real life usually unravel, though I would never tell him that part. I wrote to him when I got funding for my MA (but not when I got ill). I wrote to him when I quit drinking (but not when I started again). I toy with the idea of writing now, but I think I left things in a good place for him, and a note of hope is where every Recovery Narrative should end, right?
The truth is, that man’s kindness saved my life. At my most down, at my lowest weight, at the deepest point of despair (up until that point), he was there, unjudging, prodding only gently and letting me reach my own conclusions where I had to. I think a lot of people could do with a JP in their lives.
Occasionally I catch myself wondering what he would think if he could see me now, working, writing and drinking in moderation. Then I stop wondering, because he can’t, of course, see me and perhaps the best I can do to say thank you is to live, live, live.