T,

I'm not sure why, but when I want to talk to you, I don't journal anymore. I pull out my phone and get on Tapatalk. Something about yelling into the ether where I can be heard...just not by you.

I have been thinking about what my love for you means. Because my love for you isn't purely paternal. That would be fairly easy to assess. My relationship with my father is simple in its complex nature.

But what I feel for you, T, is more than that. I also view you to an extent as a mentor, which probably doesn't seem odd to you at all. After all, your career started where I am now. It's one of the things that drew me to you. I knew I'd be able to discuss school with you in a way where I didn't have to waste time explaining everything. Though, as an aside, I cringed when you used the word "educable" in session a while ago. All students can learn. It just goes to show how much education in America has changed in the last 30 years.

But I digress. I think that there's a part of me that wants to BE you. I could see myself sitting in the chair instead of the couch. So I want to learn as much about you and your craft as I can do that if I do decide to pursue psychotherapy later on, I can pass down what I've learned.

I'll miss you tomorrow. You won't miss me, but that's OK. I'll survive.

Daisy