Robertson rang on Saturday morning to say our regular coffee at the market would be in the ‘new place’, rather our usual coffee spot.

“Sorry” I said, “I won’t make it to coffee today. I have a therapy session at 10:30…”

Phew. I had said it. I had admitted to my ongoing and ad-hoc therapy. I was pleased with myself for having mentioned it casually to a friend. An edge crossed, even if it was not as easy to ‘fess up to as I would have liked.

Robertson, to his credit, didn’t skip a beat and suggested a catch up over brunch the next day.

When we met he asked how my massage had been. Massage? For a moment we were both puzzled and muddled. He thought I had gone for a beauty treatment or a therapeutic massage.

The relief I had felt thinking that Robertson, a good friend, had simply accepted my use of therapy, turned to dismay, as I realised I had been misunderstood. Haha…. I sort of nervously laughed it away.

Therapy. I would love talking about therapy to be easier, more everyday. Therapy is one of the things that has helped me through grief, it is one of the ways I have looked after myself.

I must have bats in my belfry for shrugging off something so important, and something I should talk about and explain more. After all, where is the stigma? Only in my mind? I know I perceive some reproach from the world at large, and there’s no specific criticism. It could be just me…

During next week’s coffee with Robertson I’ll tell him more.