I miss her.
I miss the way she laughed at my dark jokes about suicide and death. And her disapproving glance at my self-deprecation. A quick side-eye at my dismissal of her complements.
I miss her doc martens walking towards me, inviting me into the office after waiting in the cold entrance. They knew me by name there.
I miss the black choker around her neck. The kind you used to get at the dentist after a filling. Tangled into a perfect pattern.
I miss her Disney world lanyard that hung from her pocket. A reminder of a magical place far away from the cold, white hospital walls.
I miss the way she knew my quirks. Like how I bring my knees to my chest and wrap my fingers around each other when I’m nervous. Or how I tap my finger tips on any surface like they are playing an invisible piano. A Sonata. Or how she could tell when I was going to cry before the teardrops even formed in my eyes.
I miss the advice she gave so sparingly encouraging me to seek my own answers to my problems.
I miss the way she shared my language. I could swear without feeling judged.
I miss having conversations that weren’t solely about my illness.
I miss how she made me feel like a human. A real person. With real feelings. Validation.
I miss the validation she gave me. I could believe that the trauma was real and I was allowed to feel whatever I needed to process and cope with the weight of it all.
I miss how she listened to me. Almost as if we could be friends in another universe. My stories were fascinating to her. Not just another memoir in a sea of books. Could they really be captivating?
I miss her knowledge and desire to constantly be learning. Each time we met, she had just attended another class. Desperate to help others. But in a way that could only be described as lifesaving.
I miss the way she knew when my illness was grasping tighter than usual. Or how she knew when I was in crisis without having to whisper a word. I miss feeling heard. Feeling welcomed. Feeling cared for. Feeling valued.
I miss her.
Yet as I sat there in my hospital bed listening to the faint beep of the machines, I watched her walk away. The doc martens’ subtle squeaks trailing further down the hall. A silent tear drops from my cheek onto the cold floor. I know I will be okay. We may never cross paths again. The sun may never shine the same way as it did the days I got to talk with her. The world may always feel a little different. But I will be okay. I will find another June who understands me.
A therapeutic relationship reaches inside the heart and mends things that were close to breaking. It takes your broken pieces and hands them to you with a “fragile” warning. A reminder that you can do this. A gentle push forwards.
Always a friend.