I’d been thinking about it more and more in the past couple of months. I have been feeling steady, and good, and ready.

I talked to my therapist today, and we discussed where I was at when I started, and where I’m at now. We discussed the goal I’d set for graduation, and whether I had reached it, and whether I had other goals in mind to pursue. We agreed that I was ready to fly free.

Today was my last Friday appointment. The last Friday I’d have to drive to work. The last week I’d have to work extra to make up time for the Friday appointment. The last Friday I’d have what felt like a half day extra to myself.

I’m flying free. Two and one quarter years after I started going to therapy to deal with my essentially lifelong depression, I’m flying free.

I’m thrilled. I’m excited. I’m nervous. I’m a little bit sad.

After two and one quarter years, it is going to be a bit strange to not see my therapist on Friday afternoons. I didn’t realize it until afterward. Until after I’d gone to the bookstore for my final Friday splurge, until after I was home again. I’m going to miss her, though that’s not really the right word. It isn’t the same as a friend you talk to periodically. It isn’t the same as a relative. It is both more and less than that. It is the safety net, a structure, a person who I wanted to live up to and yet never needed to worry about acceptance. She is a person who had what seemed like an unending kind regard, who helped pull me from a depression that I was so deep in I couldn’t even see how much it had consumed me. She is the person who held the hope and confidence that I could someday be without depression, even before I could conceive of such a thing for myself.

It is so strange, to say goodbye to a person who I never saw outside of those 50 minute sessions every Friday. To say goodbye to a person who helped me so much over these past couple of years.

I’m flying free, and if there are tears falling in counterpoint to my giddy laughter, it feels right.