Carved on the walls of my innermost being, deep and without voice, is a word. It is the mirror, the hand, and the eye. It writes my true self. Evaluates my true worth. I don’t yet know exactly what that word is, but I have a list of synonyms:
I wish to rewrite that word. I can’t do it alone. I have chosen you to excavate, to represent, to be the hand that writes. I wish you to be the one who helps me find the new word, and to be the one who carves it. You have shown yourself to be trustworthy, and you have offered me your love, a love which I have begun to internalize, and which I return with the full force of my most innocent self.
“We” exist within this therapeutic container, which is so rigid (you have constructed the most reliable walls, which instills such peace within me), and unyielding, and narrow. But within this container are limitless horizons, infinite possibilities, each as real as any other. Within this container, I am allowed all the power of creation I need, and you are allowed all the flexibility to be whatever I need you to be, to facilitate that creation. Within this container, you are my chosen mother, the bearer of a love that feels unbreakable. A love that I feel, not just know about. And that love, made powerful by my acceptance of it, is strong enough to open every door to that inner chamber wherein lies the word.
Our work is unfinished. I have to let you go, and trust that you will return. In the meantime, I’ll do all I can to hold that feeling, keep it real, so that if we work together again, I won’t have to rebuild it. I hope, in some way, you are able to do the same. And if, god forbid, we don’t cross paths again, I will find a way to do the work without you. I am still afraid, though I have support and will not allow myself to crumble. I will honor what we have made, by carrying it through.