Take Good Care

take good care of yourself with a latte with everything


Week after week, he says it. “Take good care.” As I walk out the door, thankful that the time is finally up. This dreaded therapy appointment is finished. The longest hour of the week. I’m terrible with feelings. I’m terrible with vulnerability. I’d rather toss my hoodie up, put on music, write terrible poetry and disappear. That’s way better. But week by week, I show up. I do the work. It’s hard work. I hate it.

Take good care. I don’t always remember what he says, because that’s how therapy goes. It’s a lot of hard stuff, a lot of cringing, a lot of omg are we done yet? But after every single appointment, I remember this. Take good care.

I don’t know why he says it. I don’t know anything about it because he says it at the end, when I’m finally free to leave so I don’t wait around to ask. Maybe next time.

Take good care.

This week, in this last week before my wife moves out, I seem to hear it in all the spaces of me. You want a latte? Take good care. Another beer? Take good care. Are you terrified? Take good care. You should go to bed, but read one more chapter first. Take good care. This is too hard, you don’t have to do it alone. Call a friend. Take good care.

Transitions are hard. You’re ready for the hard and the good and the easy and the impossible, but you can’t do anything about it, yet. You just wait. You just take good care.

Okay. This time I’ll listen. This week. And maybe always, but especially now.

Take good care.

Author: Casey

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