This is so difficult. This is getting worse and worse. I can't be in myself. I can't be there. But my death is not there to save me now, and it shouldn't. This death is my protector and my worst enemy. At the last session I didn't feel anything. I only focused on one thing, to say kindly and politely goodbye and be careful to avoid leaving bad feelings behind me in the room as the last goodbye.
Two hours ago I had an alarming experience which tortures me constantly. I thought I had already seen hell. I hadn't. This is hell. I realized that I am the only destroyer here. I destroyed the relationship, me only. I have always had that fear of destroying him, the therapy and myself together, so I tried to do what I could to avoid that disaster. And he was of course fully aware of this too. He knew me. He was a very strong, wise and professional therapist, and I am not idealizing now. I have not destroyed him, but I have destroyed his concern for me. And I have destroyed the therapy and myself. I did that. I didn't just fail the therapy. I destroyed it. How can one live with that?
Here it comes: In the beginning of March this year my therapist called me to cancel our half-yearly appointment, because his wife had got cancer. When he said that he would call me when he felt ready to cope with his work again, I just said: Ok, talk to you then. And we hung up.
Who, even the best therapist, would be able to feel any concern for such a ghastly ice queen after a 18 years long relationship? Who would touch a living dead after that?
It did strike me afterwards that I didn't show compashion to his sad information. But it didn't break through to me, if you know what I mean. This is my armour, my death at its worst.
Time passed by, and after about one month I started wondering. I assumed that he was still in a crisis. Or maybe his wife had got worse. Another month later I was to leave for my 6 weeks holiday on the 2. of May. So two days before my departure I decided to write him a letter. So I did. I wrote that I would be away for 6 weeks. I also wrote that I didn't know how his wife was doing, but that I understood that it was serious and that I felt sorry for him for that. I sent the letter the day before my departure. He called me the day after my homecoming to tell me that he had decided to stop at work and to appoint a final session with me.
So my conclusion is (I know it is guessing, but …) that he might have been ready before I left for holidays, but had given me up because I, on the phone, had given him the deathblow to his last hope and belief in my ability to get out of my poor ghastly armour. And also I had turned him cold towards me.
How can one live with this insight?

I do think of writing him. But how can I write this to him? Another thing is that my therapy took place at a hospital. So it was for free all the way. Only few got that opportunity in my country. I was lucky. Now that kind of therapy is no longer possible here. Only maybe at a private therapist. All therapies are now private business, and 50 minutes costs at least 140 US dollars.
I do not have my therapists address or phone number. I am sure though that if I send a letter to the hospital, he will get it. They will send it to him, I believe.
If I decide to write him a letter, I will have to think, think very hard what to write.

I don't know ...