Yesterday, I had an initial phone consultation with a practitioner recommended by my beloved belle-mère.
By the sound of her voice, D was from Northern Ireland and she immediately put me at ease by calling me my love.
“You think I don’t have shit days?” she asked. Turns out, although she’d managed to heal the pain caused by having an alcoholic father who took his own life 20 years ago, her debilitating panic attacks and cancer, she still has shit days. I found that reassuring.
She continues, going for the jugular.
“Find a photo of yourself as a wee boy…”
I have one stuck above my desk.
“…and tell him it’s alright now. It’s safe, the danger’s gone…he doesn’t have to hide anymore. That he’s precious”
I do this.
After an eternity of silence, D speaks again.
“All those people that you’ve loved and helped, and all those people you have yet to help, through your gifts…they’re waiting for you…waiting for you on the other side of this.”
There are tears running down my face.
Then silence. And the fullness of a grief released.
A little.
It’s enough.
For now.
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