Punctuation Marks

This is the last week of the after-school program I coordinate until late January. We have opted to take the entire stretch between Thanksgiving and Christmas off, which for us adults will be here and gone before we know it, but for elementary school students will seem like an eternity. All week, we have been giving out prizes and certificates – in part to honor the kids’ participation – but also to offer these wee ones closure. Maybe the gesture is simple and for many of the children somewhat obligatory, in my experience, there is something to be said for offering a space to recognize the end of a season – not matter how small or brief.

As I left this afternoon, it occurred to me that amidst this small turn of a page, tomorrow is my last session with my therapist. I know, it is kind of weird to own in this small venue of mine that indeed I have been seeing a therapist for just shy of three years, but there it is – out there. And over the course of our therapeutic relationship, I have certainly grown, feel more comfortable in my own skin and have been generally grateful for the experience. At the same time, recently the whole endeavor, and I am not sure why, has struck me self-indulgent and most sessions I arrive feeling like I have absolutely nothing to talk about. We have, as I believe they say in the business, plateau-ed.

Maybe it was the sixty certificates I handed out this week, but driving home tonight, I decided to get my therapist a parting gift, which according to two of my friends who are therapists, is not that unusual. I bought a copy of Wally Lamb’s I Know This Much Is True, which happens to be perhaps my favorite book of all time and features a plot line revolving around a therapeutic relationship. It seems apt and good way to punctuate this end.