Counselling two and three

I did start writing about last week’s counselling. I didn’t finish and I didn’t post it. It was too hard.

This week, She started by saying how proud of me she was – the fact that I had come back. She didn’t think that I would.

In exploring where my extremely high expectations and demands came from, we dredged up elements of my childhood.

This week..

Well, this week, it continued. Why do I care so much about what other people think? Where do my negative feelings about myself  come from? Me, apparently. I don’t have a good thing to say about myself it turns out.

We worked out that these pressures to work hard and succeed didn’t come from my parents. They came from myself. Self-imposed. A bar that I increase repeatedly and then hate myself when I don’t achieve it.

I have a lot of anger and emotion that I am continuously trying to suppress. And hate myself when I can suppress it no more and it comes out, because then I see myself as weak and a failure.

I was asked where I had got the idea that crying meant weakness. I’ve no idea. I was never made weak for crying as a child. And  we realised that I don’t see others as weak when they cry. Just me. For others, I feel empathy. Me – hatred.

I did recollect some difficult times in my teens when I had angry outbursts, and how others reacted to it. As I grew older, I worked on that. Maybe that’s where it has come from.

I know a few years ago – still convinced I was too emotional and wore my heart on my sleeve – I was told by a few different people that I was actually the opposite. I hid my feelings too well. I am still surprised by that now.

This perception that I’m not enough, not good enough – well, it seems that my self-worth comes purely from praise from others – it permeates every area of my life from personal to professional. But at the same time, I need to feel that I’ve earned the praise to believe it. It’s part of the reason I worked so hard.

I was asked to define who I was without the academic and career success. I had no other words but failure. I was proud of myself when I helped others. That was it.

And so, linked to that, we realised that as my most constant praise-giver,  the loss of my Dad was huge. He gave me something that no one else has – love for who I am. Constantly, repeatedly and consistently. 

A day later, I’m pretty exhausted. It’s been two very difficult weeks. The counselling aside, my son is struggling again. It’s exam season. I’m going to see Wildcard in just over one week.

I don’t know if this is really helping. I trust the process and I am willing it to work. Thing is, I’ve been told I’m too hard on myself before. I’ve been told that I try to repress my feelings too much before. Where has it got me?

Back in counselling.


Big boots and hens

I’m tired, sweaty, itchy, dirty and thoroughly proud of myself.

About two weeks ago, I retrieved my sturdy walking boots from the porch. They hadn’t been used for probably four years. Maybe four. They were dusty and full of cobwebs but in excellent condition. I vacuumed them sprayed them with insecticide, just to be on the safe side, and left them to settle.

Today, I vacuumed them again and put them on. They felt big. Big girl boots. Probably because the last time I wore them, I was wearing walking socks and was hiking with my friend. I was a different person then.

I was the type of person who went on adventures. I drove for hours, my friend and I, looking for somewhere new to explore. I worked in the garden – gave myself a project and did it. I hated my body – had no self confidence – but was willing to try to combat it through walking and gardening. I went on holidays with friends. I went out.

I was finding myself again. My Dad had died and I had grieved deeply. But I’d decided to start again, just like he had at 39. I was still grieving, but I had hope.

Today, I put the boots on and I mowed the front lawn. I haven’t mowed the front lawn in about three years. It had a strim at some point. I told myself I was ‘letting it rewild’ and I was ‘helping nature’. No, I couldn’t cope.

Three quarters of the way through mowing – it was hard work with grass so long – Wildcard called. By the time I returned, my lawn was covered with bees. Yes, bees. My neighbour said they were ground bees. I hadn’t seen many bees prior to this, which is strange, but nonetheless the lawn was alive with bees.

But this isn’t about mowing the lawn, although that was an achievement in itself.

No. Unable to continue, I drew my attention to the wooden fence at the side of my property . Not that you can see the fence. You can see that it’s leaning. You can see the rambling rose bush and ivy my dad loved are rampant. But no, you can’t see the fence.

Or should I say, couldn’t. I got out my trusty loppers, and I got started. I don’t know how long I’ve worked for, but my forearms and back are aching. It’s looking a bit like Sideshow Bob now as I haven’t managed the top yet. But I am so proud, just to have done that much.

In putting those boots back on, it’s like I rediscovered a part of myself that I had hidden or blocked out. I believed she wasn’t there anymore.

Turns out she was.

Counselling one

To say that I’ve worried about this first session is putting it mildly.  What was I going to say? What do I want to achieve? Do I want to drag it all up?

I walked into the centre and was met with a young girl. I tried not to judge. She is probably only a few years older than my daughter. How could she possibly understand what I’m going through?

But that’s the point of counselling isn’t it? She’s not meant to. She’s there to help me understand it. 

I went with it. I opened up.

What we’ve decided is that I need to find my voice again, find myself. I’ve too many voices (donkeys) and far too much overthinking. I lost my vision of myself – first when I had by breakdown, then when I lost Dad. The last part of it dissolved when I lost my job. Since then, I’ve been lost and unable to trust myself. Therapy will be about finding myself again. Or, finding a new me, the real me.

She was insightful. She listened. She noted my fear of losing Wildcard. She said I have unresolved anger at what happened at work. She said I have a huge barrier preventing myself from moving forward and we need to work out what it is.

And that’s all for now.

Turning back the page

Look at my beautiful cat 😍. I will explain why I have posted a picture of him, momentarily. (And yes, that is a black cat Halloween sticker, in memory of my other cat who recently died 😢)

I’ve had a strange afternoon. Strange, because I don’t really have another word to explain how I feel right now.

The past 36 hours I came down with stomach flu. I spent most of Tuesday night being sick, Wednesday I slept and then was just on the couch with no energy and aching all over.

This morning, I felt weak and achy. By lunch time I had finally eaten some homemade soup, had showered and felt a little better.

My house was clean (enough), washing was on the line and I didn’t feel well enough to do anything else strenuous.

I’d had some errant thoughts, as you sometimes do when you lie around with nothing to do. I’d thought about what I’d said in my birthday post, about not being able to have Wildcard’s baby. Whilst the passing of one day probably hasn’t made much of a difference, it marked the passing of a deadline I’d given myself.

And, of course, as is often the way, this thought then cascaded into so many others. I wanted answers, insight. And it resulted in me deciding to read my journal- my blog, right from the beginning. Whilst I’d re-read my time with Wildcard some months ago, I’ve never gone back to the beginning.

I started writing on WordPress the day my marriage ended in 2016.

It’s been an amazing read. And I’m not talking about the quality of my writing here, I’m talking about my life.

There were posts I remembered that I thought I had written much more recently. That was weird. There were many posts where I barely recognised myself. There were posts which described a life I haven’t lived for a very long time (Covid??).

But what a life. I always feel bad saying this, because I know my life is so much better than some people have to deal with. But my life has been tough.

I read about the end of my marriage and how, despite knowing it was the right decision, my grief in the months that followed. The beginning of a depression which fluctuated over a year and then ended in 2017 with my breakdown/burnout. I hadn’t realised it had started so long before that. The burnout I remember, vividly. There is a post where I document just sitting and staring out the window each morning, just me and my coffee and my cat (yup, that beauty up there ❤️ who helped me through it all. I’d forgotten.)

I read through my slow recovery and my gradual return to a workplace which- I can see now – had become toxic in my absence. And then my Dad’s slow decline and death months later.

Then grief, grief, grief.

There are many tales of Lost Soul. My goodness. I can see why I am so anxious in love now, I really can. It’s no wonder! Everything I went through – and I can’t say ‘what he put me through’ – because I went beyond my better judgement every time and allowed it.

Slowly, slowly, in 2019, you start to see me returning – my grief settling, my infatuation with Lost Soul burnt out, my depression subdued. And then I meet Wildcard.

I stopped reading at that point. Mainly because my eldest son has now started vomiting 🤢.

I feel…so sorry for myself and yet so proud. When you’re living through it, hard as it was, you don’t see the interconnectivity of things. How quickly my grief over the end of my marriage and struggling as a full time working mum with work issues, met the devastation of a rapidly declining Dad. Betrayals in love, betrayals in friendships. It’s no wonder I’ve been how I am, no wonder at all.

There is beauty there too. I saw just how much I tried to do. I was a good mum, even when I thought I wasn’t. I was a good mum through those years of no support from my ex, and with my Dad being ill in this house. I did my best, I really did.

I saw the real self depreciation. Post after post about my weight. Whilst it’s true, I’m nearly 5 stone lighter than that now (and have no wish to get back there), the self hatred is hard to take.

The following was particularly poignant:

To be honest, in just writing this I have summed up the cause of all that I am feeling. There is no time in my life where I don’t feel pressured by outside influences; my roles as mother, daughter, sister, homeowner, teacher. I need to unpick all this, refine and define my roles and carve out a new role as caretaker for ME. That is the one area I am truly failing at, not the others like I believe. I need to keep telling myself that. My one, and only one, failure in my life so far is not caring for myself.

If I have done one thing this past few years, unbeknownst to myself or not, I have battled this. I still do. I don’t feel the pressures so much as the guilt when I neglect one or other but im working on it. Something to unpick with my new counsellor, I think.

I’ve realised something else too. I’m not as bad now as I have been. There is a fight in me that wasn’t there before. My depression never really left me, I think. But I have learnt to fight it and knowingly too now, want to defeat it for good.

This evening, I’ve had laughter with Wildcard (amongst trips upstairs with sick bags for my son.) I feel a certain peace.

Yes, it’s important to look back. For those of you whose blog serves as a journal: I strongly recommend it.

And for those few on here that have stuck by me through all this: thank you. 😊


The sky was a bright, bright blue and I felt the promise of spring in the air, finally. It may have been it: the promise of new life and light. It wasn’t though. Moments later, big fat drops of rain descended. I shepherded my son and his friend away from the park and into the car and we began the drive home. Wildcard called and my son answered, and he spoke to him and his friend making them laugh with his joking.

And then it happened. The rainbow appeared, clear and bright and as I approached the last corner before my house it felt like we were driving through the end of it, the haze of colours like a mirage on the edge of my vision. Can that actually happen? I thought. Then it was there again, seemingly over my house.


I’ve had an unsettled couple of days.

Tuesday night, I spent the evening laughing with Wildcard, tears falling down my face like the raindrops of today, but in mirth.

Wednesday morning, when I received my morning call, he kissed me virtually over and over again. I told him, “I want to come in May” just before I said goodbye.

I finally plucked the courage to tell work that I had a medical appointment today. The appointment is actually an assessment call for counselling. I didn’t tell them that. But, having seen how they treat staff with absences or work day requests, I was nervous and perhaps imagined that the leadership team didn’t seem quite so friendly.

And then, Wildcard told me that his brother plans to come for a month now, from mid-June to mid-July and my heart sank further. I didn’t allow myself to think about how hard that month will be, but I did ask of that meant I can’t go in May like suggested. He, of course didn’t know: he hadn’t spoken to his brother specifically and the dates were not confirmed. I tried to tell him my proposed dates but was shut down – he didn’t want to talk about it any more and would let me know once he had spoken to him.

I was glad this was all said over the phone. Huge tears fell and I couldn’t swallow the lump in my throat. He later apologised – knew that he had overstepped. We had a tense conversation. He accused me of demanding an answer to soon, of not understanding that he has to consult all his family before he makes a decision. I told him that if I actually felt like he wanted me there, I may not be so upset. He told me he did, he wanted me there now to kiss and hold me. He made me cry again just thinking about it. My fb friend said that he only said it under pressure and commented that if I didn’t push, he wouldn’t even ask if I was coming.

I cried myself to sleep after realising that if I am not his number one priority now, I never will be and that is why we will never marry.

Yesterday, despite his promise of an answer, he was preoccupied with the late announcement of an important visitor in work. I didn’t ask, obviously.

Today was my telephone appointment. The dam opened. I told them how lost and alone I felt. How I questioned everything in my life but could never find an answer. I told them of my low esteem and confidence and how it was affecting me in my career and my relationship. I talked about the loss of my Dad, my breakdown and my anxiety and overthinking. I told them of my fight to stay out of the darkness but that I needed help to find myself again. She validated my difficulties and acknowledged my fight. I will receive counselling, soon I hope.

A weight lifted over the afternoon.  


At 4.30pm, I left the boys in my daughter’s capable hands and set out to buy a chippy tea. The rainbow was bright and full arc this time. Similarly, on the way back, the rainbow seemed to hover around my house as I drove home and the closer I came, moved silently around my garden and out to the fields my dad used to farm. I felt him near.

Sure, it’s a scientific phenomenon. But I felt my dad near. I felt like he was telling me that everything was OK, he’s still near. I felt like he was telling me that things were going to get brighter now, the change in the air is the start of something new for me too.

I don’t know what will happen in my relationship. I think a part of me believes that it is over, and probably knew this in January.

The rest of me only thinks it’s over if I believe it is. If I give up. As yet, I still don’t have an answer about May.

Maybe in itself, that is an answer.

Today, a female work colleague asked if I was with anyone. I told her briefly about my 3.5 year relationship. She asked if we lived together and I of course said no. A natural assumption – not for Wildcard, of course. In talking, I told her that if it didn’t work out, I would give up on love and I meant it.

For now, I’m going to revel in the light of spring and the magic of my rainbow and hope for better things to come, whatever happens.


I’m calm – relatively. It’s morning and despite being a Saturday, I woke quite early. I have a fluffy throw around me, have stoked up the fire and made a coffee, and have some lone time to journal.

This morning I woke to thoughts of redecorating, house maintenance and house work. Literally, these were the thoughts that went through my mind.

I’ve let many, many things slide in the past 5 years and although I knew it – and worried about it – I also know I was an expert at ignoring it. I’ve realised recently, like a dawning awareness, just how much my house has grown tired and unloved.

And it is unloved. It holds far too many memories, far too many feelings of guilt. Fear even.

There are times when I’ve made a beautiful garden. There are times I’ve redecorated and redesigned. But they were in a different lifetime, with a different me. I look back on them, shrouded in the mists of memory, and they are like looking at a version of myself that no longer exists.

I’ve been told, so many times, that this house is ‘too much for me’. Whilst a part of me remains indignant, the proof is before me. Repairs remain unfixed, rooms undecorated, garden overgrown. Inside, some rooms are cluttered, carpets need replacing.

When Dad died, I had the finances to do the work but not the will. I didn’t want anything to change, even the leaking tap. Then, feeling alone, I was fearful of getting work done. There have been many times when I have employed someone, only for the work to be shoddy and overpriced. And, with my new found low-esteem and lack of confidence, I’ve not attempted to do anything myself either.

That last point isn’t quite true. For the last eighteen months, I have slowly started to undo the knots of chaos, caused by my depression. (The fact that I’m even calling it depression is a step forward, I think). I’ve refused to give up. I’ve tidied and organised.

It’s an on going battle though. Now I’m working full time again, I have less time and energy to do it. With everything that happened with my children, even daily chores have slipped this last two weeks. This is why I woke to thoughts of housework this morning.

Just over a year ago, I made the decision to return to full time work. I made a plan. With my salary returned to a decent level, I planned how I would renovate my house step by step. I planned how I would get control of my finances and finally cut the apron strings with my ex-husband. I planned how I would prepare for Wildcard to come to me.

A lot has happened since then. I started and left the job. My son’s mental health declined and my daughter’s physical health with it. My finances nosedived again – I have now spent the money I have saved for Wildcard’s move to the UK, just to survive. The world has descended into financial crisis with rising costs for food and fuel and electric. My dreams of Wildcard coming have faded.

This week, the deputy Headteacher at my new school has thanked me for all I’ve done and told me that she will do all she can to keep me there. There’s no guarantee of a job of course, my contract is a maternity cover and they would need to make a new job for me. There’s also no guarantee that it would pay what I deserve.

I have mixed feelings about it. I am happy there. It is convenient, being local, and the hours are good. I’m working with SEN children which I am passionate about. I’m even enjoying the extra work they are giving me, as they are aware of my background and strengths.

But… I don’t know if I want to be sucked back into that world. There are issues with the place, as documented by the high turnover of staff. They won’t be able to offer me a role back to what I am capable of, even if they wanted to. I could apply for other jobs, more appropriate to my experience and earn good money again. A stab of fear tuns through me at the thought. Whilst I’m happy, I know that’s not what I want for the rest of my life. I know that I still yearn to use this old house and land for some good. I know that I want to be my own boss and to do something that I am passionate about.

How can I start something when I have nothing?

I can’t believe that after nearly two years, I’m still in limbo land. I sometimes wonder if some of my desperation for Wildcard is linked to having a sense of purpose, a direction, a partner. When I dreamed of him coming here, I had a focus. I pictured us working on the house together, building a life together.

Maybe part of what I’ve been feeling this year, is recognition that I can’t put that pressure on him (even if he doesn’t know why). This is my life, my career, my house, my responsibility. Whether he comes, or not, those facts won’t change.

We could talk about my terror that he’s going to decide to come and my house isn’t ready but it would be pointless because I don’t think it will happen. And that’s it, isn’t it? I no longer am confident he will come.

I needed to get my head out of cloud 9. All my hopes and dreams were wrapped up in him. Now, I’m sitting in a rundown house and realising that whilst I dreamed, the outside world continued to age and decay.

Unfortunately, whilst this post has helped me admit some home-truths, it hasn’t yet yielded any of the answers I need. I can only hope that with the clarity that’s dawning, answers – a path – are on their way.

Be Gentle, Be Kind

That there, is a rather indulgent coffee for 4.30pm, made with single cream and some salted caramel syrup. First, I rarely drink coffee in the afternoon as I won’t sleep. I also don’t have syrups in my coffee as they’re too sweet. And cream goes in coffee at Christmas.

As I spent 12 hours overnight in the A&E departments of two hospitals, I think I deserve it.

I originally started a post at 6.30am, sat in a treatment room of the second hospital. I’d been awake all night. My son was sleeping on the ‘bed’. Here’s what I started writing:

How dare I start to feel happy again, finally. My anxiety was slowly being controlled. I am happy at work. Things with Wildcard were steadying. 
I'm sat in A&E with my son and it's 6.30am. We left for the hospital at 10.30pm. We've been awake ever since and this is our third hospital (although the first doesn't really count as they sent us away as apparently 16 years doesn't equate to a child.)
I won't say why we are here. Just like I didn't tell you when my daughter was in A&E just four days ago for an on-going illness that became acute. 
There's nothing quite like thinking your child may be seriously ill. I'm going to allow myself to feel sorry for myself. However, I know thinking does nowhere near compare to knowing - my heart goes out to anyone whose children is poorly. 

Yes, I was kind of bitter and angry there, wasn’t I? Angry at the world.

Since we arrived home at 10.30am (he is fine by the way), I’ve slept for a few hours, showered and started some stew:

This is comfort food at its best. It’s made from chicken – bones and all – vegetables and herbs. Full of goodness. What’s more, it’s easy to make and – more importantly- it’s what my dad used to make.

I’m being kind to myself. I hope you noticed the drops of cream on the counter (although that was a little exaggerated) and the dirty pan behind the stew (reality). I should could have got up and cleaned yesterday’s dishes. I haven’t. I made the stew, then made the coffee.

I need comfort and gentleness. The stew is all that, wrapped in a warm Dad hug. I don’t make it much, mainly because it never tastes quite like Dad’s (it is impossible to replicate) and also because it used to make me feel guilty. Dad used to make this regularly – a few times a week with different meat – and I got to the point where I was sick of eating it. I pretended to and binned it. It was one of my sad confessions on his death bed. I loved the stew, loved the fact that he cared enough to make it for me, but sometimes didn’t want it again (sorry Dad).

Now of course, I’d do anything to come home to the smell of it, Dad bustling in the kitchen.

I was angry this morning at the world. Now, I’m not. I’m still exhausted but I’m relieved that my son doesn’t have a life threatening bleed in his neck. I’m grateful for the kindness and understanding of many of the staff which cared for him, and me.

I realised before, walking into the kitchen that I had left dishevelled when I rushed him to A&E last night, that this is the saddest part of depression. You spend months, years trying to fight a mental illness. By the time that you start to recover, you then have to try to wade through the mess of things you neglected because you couldn’t cope. Recovery is hard enough, but having a mountain of unfinished business on top of the gargantuan issues that possibly caused the depression and are still there, is heartbreaking.

I’ve decided to be kind to myself.

I’m slowly, slowly working through the things I put to one side. There are many of them. They worry me. But, I’m being gentle to myself in recognising that I couldn’t manage them then, and expecting a magic wand to resolve them instantaneously now is unhelpful. It will take time and that’s ok. Slow and steady.

So, I made my stew and made my coffee and I sat down to write. I allowed myself time to write this post. The pans will be washed and the cream mopped up, when im ready. They will be done at some point. Leaving them because I’m lazy is not acceptable. Leaving them as an act of kindness to myself when I am physically and emotionally exhausted, is .

The coffee has long gone and my stew is smelling like my childhood home. I’m going to make a fire and bask in the warmth of my home and the luck that both my children and ok and with me.

Prompt: goodbye

Describe the last difficult “goodbye” you said.

Although not the most recent, it’s certainly the most difficult: saying Goodbye to my dad before he died.

He had been in hospital for a few weeks. We knew the end was coming. The selfish parts of us hoped it wouldn’t be this time.

But we were given a choice and we made the decision to end his suffering.

We didn’t tell him. So, in those initial hours when the treatment was still in his system, he was alert and talking. He ate and drank. And we had to pretend that we hadn’t just sanctioned the doctors to let him die. We couldn’t say goodbyes overtly because we didn’t want him to be anxious as he declined. I think he probably knew.

When the end finally came, he’d been unconscious for a few hours. We’d sang to him and talked to him and reminisced. With his last breaths, we told him over and over that we loved him…we thanked him for being the best dad…we told him he could rest now, we would be ok.

We’re not of course. But it was still the right thing to do


My mind was full of silliness and jealousy.  I was in the car and just about to pull put of my drive when I noticed a car had stopped on the road behind me.

A young woman approached, flustered, and I guessed she was lost.

I wound the window down.

“Hello, do you know if anyone around here had a black cat?”

“Yes, I do “

“I’m really sorry but I’ve just found one by the side of the road. We were just about to take her to the vets to see if she was chipped. She’s got no collar but is a bit chunky and was well loved.”

I start to put the window up before I realise she is still talking and stop myself.

I stop the engine and get out of the car.

Her husband has now also got out the car and he opens the boot. Time slows or quickens – I’m not sure which – but I realise that they’re opening a suitcase and then a blanket and there is my cat not injured but dead.

I yelp and sob. He’s still warm. I pick him up and feel his heavy warmth and soft fur and I cry and cry.

I see that he was hit on the head and take some comfort in the fact that his death must have been instant. I pray silently that his spirit is still around long enough to see how much I love him.

The couple are still talking but there is just noise pain in my head and the sound of my own cries.

They offer to help me bury him and offer to help how they can. I just thank them and say sorry and then I walk into my garden sobbing.

I thank my beautiful, chunky black cat for the years of love and laughter I’ve had with him. He wasn’t old, maybe three. As a six month old rescue kitten, he was lively and energetic. As an adult he was greedy and grumpy but loving.

Only a few days ago, we watched ‘How to Train your Dragon’ as Toothless reminded us of Arlo.

Arlo would bite my calf if I didn’t feed him quick enough. He would grumble if I pushed him off a dining chair to sit down. He would sneak upstairs and lie on our beds. I once caught him eating cake even though his cat dish was full. He’d twitch his tail and open his mouth to show his teeth when you annoyed him. I’m covered in scars on my hands where he used to love me by clinging on to my hand and arm with four claws and teeth.

He was grumpy and sassy and oh so loved.

I will you miss you Arlo. God Bless.

My Christmas present

Facebook was a game back then. I’d long ago disabled my real account, bored of the drama and conversely the day to day posts of the contents of someone’s sandwich.

The name was mine but in a different form. I was trying to be a new me. Upon advice, I was using Facebook rather than it use me – talking to strangers from far off places. Trying out socialising skills which were rusty and dusty and under-used. Not that I wasn’t selective – some people I just avoided no doubt like some avoided me.

I will never forget…

Then, one day, there was your request in my inbox. I opened it up to see your face and ‘wow’ left my lips before I smiled. You were single, so no harm. I could…practise my flirting. I could…learn more about a culture I was already intrigued by. I could talk to an attractive man, even for a short time.

I accepted. You messaged. I replied.

In those early days, I was shy and you were persistent. I was hesitant and you were patient.

It was just for fun though.

Until soon it wasn’t. My feelings grew. I was conflicted and torn, suspicious but hopeful. You made me laugh like I no one had ever done. You were consistent and dependable.

And then, less than two months later, it was Christmas. My first Christmas alone.

In the previous year, when Dad had died, I was still numb. I dazzled like a Christmas light, not allowing the grief to surface, determined after six months of loss that I would make Christmas special. I’d filled my house with people and love.

But that year, I was alone. My sisters were with their extended families. My children were with their Dad. And I felt it keenly. I was alone, not with my Dad.

You told me you wouldn’t leave me alone. On a day that means little to you, you made it mean everything to me. You called me, more than before, just to keep me company from thousands of miles away. You made me feel loved and wanted and special. You gave me more than I ever expected.

I love you loyalty and your patience, your integrity and your faith. I love your humour and your teasing, your dependability and your mind. I love your face and your body and your spirit and your soul.

That was the moment I fell in love with you. The time I felt the most alone, the most vulnerable, the most insignificant. That’s when I really knew that I loved you.

I love you.