A letter

Dear Johanna,

It has been so long since we spoke; since I last saw you; since you were such a fundamental part of my life. And yet. Yet. Not a day goes by when I don't think of you at some point. When I don't wonder what you would say if I told you something that had happened that day. That I don't imagine your facial expression at something I thought and verbalised. Call me strange, but sometimes I think I can feel you there next to me, almost holding my hand and encouraging me to be me. Which is what you always did. You always celebrated who I was and who I am and I knew that you believed in me. And by believing in me, I don't mean that you 'believed I could get better' - your belief in me felt so much more than that. You believed that I had a future, even if I never fully escaped the grasp of the eating disorder that had been with me from such a young age. You'd be impressed with me, actually. The other day I wrote about the genesis of my eating disorder and I owned it - I accepted that it was there from a really young age as you always thought. I reflected and realised that there were aspects with me from early childhood and pre-teenage years. I think it's the first time I've done that. And it was your voice at the back of my mind that helped me to find the courage to own that.

It's so complicated, and I know that you know that. I know, even though you're not there for me anymore, that you were invested in me and my recovery - to whatever extent that means. There has never been anyone else who has understood me so implicitly; who has known when to 'call my bluff' and when to challenge me; when to listen empathically and when to refute or question what I'm saying. No one has ever 'got me' in context to such depth. To this day, I wonder if you could read my mind, and then I just wonder if it's a case of me being so open with you in a way that I have never been able to be with ANYONE else. To know that space was safe. To feel that I was being listened to and shown understanding. That you breathed the model of therapy that you followed; you were the very definition of compassion and were completely 'compassion focused' in your approach. You were there for the worst and you witnessed the ups and downs, but you were unwavering in your approach; gentle yet firm, compassionate yet determined not to let me talk my way out of issues that needed tackling. You stood by me through thick and thin (literally) and I still hear your voice and see your shoes as I look down to the floor (where I often focused my attention). 

I could go on. And I probably will. I want to bring you up to date on my life. I want to tell you all about India; I want to talk to you about the hell and back I've visited since suffering with encephalitis (I could have died, but I didn't). I wish I could yet I know I can't, so I'm writing it down. And it might not be the last time I do so, but I wanted to touch base. I wanted to let you know that things aren't perfect, but that I've gone back to work as a teacher and that I'm now teaching 5 year olds rather than 9 year olds. I want to tell you about my niece and my sisters and my nana and my mum. And Paul. I want to tell you about Paul. But I can't - you're not there any more, but you always believed that one day I would write it all down. And I feel like I'm finally in a place where that is my best form of therapy. And so I'm writing. I worry constantly that it's not what other people want to read, but I'm writing it and maybe that's all that matters. Every time I put pen to paper (ok, fingers to the keys of my computer) I feel you there next to me - believing that I can and I will write my story. So here it is. The beginnings of it. Who knows where it will go?

Hannah