I had my first ending last night.
I’m no good at sewing. But I like my ends sewn up. Which is why I’ve been intrigued by my inability to tie up loose ends, and my simultaneous detestation of them. Yet those ends tend to dangle in my life.
I’ve lost my dad to cancer, my mother to dementia, and my sister to fraud. Hey, I could win hands-down the Derby of Suffering, and the Grand National of Loss.
But I have never properly or consciously managed an ending. Until today.
I still have dried-up mascaras in my make-up drawer, squeeze-drop shampoos on the edge of my bath, and around-the-world scribbles in my journal.
Except to face someone who wanted to finish with me – in a counselling, constructive sense of the word; to move on, and realise that she had had her comfort, support, and unconditional space within which to explore her stuff – was liberating in its own way.
I had feared that time, rejection, and ‘confrontation’. Except, in facing it in a dignified and honest way, without any jagged edges, it blessed me with humility and the simplicity and warmth of humanity. Instead of feeling rejected, I felt that something had been wrapped up, with a hand held out for future contact.
Now, instead of fearing an ending, I will embrace it as an opportunity to appreciate how far I’ve come, rather than viewing it as a slight to my abilities, or an obstacle to further progress.