I had a depressive moment this week. It was brought on by the death of a police sergeant in his station in south London. Shot by a prisoner, who was handcuffed. How this happened is not yet fully explained but, suffice it to say, he is dead.
That prompted an email from the mother of my two children, my ex-wife. Someone I regard as the love of my life. She recalled how she’d often been scared as I left for work.
A really good friend, who is also a psychotherapist, suggested we meet for coffee. That we did, meeting at a local hotel.
She knows me well. Better than I know myself. I explained my current state, how it had been brought about by the death of a police sergeant and the reflective email from my ex-wife.
She listened carefully. Then told me, abruptly, to move on. She said I’d been moaning about this lost love for years. It was a long time ago. It was not coming back. It was gone. Get over it!
I persisted. This was the love of my life. I still needed explanations.
Then write it down. Get it out of your system. Move on.
Back home I mused for a while. Sometimes tea and sympathy seem to be all you need. I’d had warm coffee and a sharp rebuke.
Later that evening I went online and bought a fountain pen, good writing paper and a bottle of dark green ink – my ecological roots still remained.
I will write my side of the story. It may never be read by anyone else. It may help.
So far this morning I feel more positive. Loads to do, lots of projects spring to mind.
Life goes on.