48. slow progress

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Every Saturday morning I have my grief counselling session

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Every Saturday morning I have my grief counselling session. It gets me out of bed early, which was disappointing as I left River alone in my bed but I said I'd be back later. Today we worked through what I've been ignoring when it comes to Liam, I spoke openly about my feelings over the last year.

It hurt more than I realised. To open up my heart and share everything with my therapist.

I sobbed to the point of choking but afterwards I felt better.

They gave me some tasks to try at home, including not putting too much on my plate at once and focusing on one thing and then another. Giving myself a lot of breaks before I reach burnout and that I should keep a journal of my daily emotions to see if a pattern arises in the future.

Triggers are hard for me because sometimes I'll hear a song or see a person wearing Doc Martens and I'll instantly be reminded of my brother. So now I need to figure out coping mechanisms when I feel a certain way.

But progress is still progress, no matter how little.

I head back to my apartment and push the keys in the lock, opening the door to find my father sitting on the sofa with River handing him a hot cup of something. I stop and glance between them.

"Ah, son," my dad grins, taking the mug to put it down. He stands up and walks towards me. "I'm so glad to see you."

I brace him in a hug. "You too, dad. But I thought you said you'd be round at two o'clock?"

"Sorry, plans changed." He pats my back. "Hope that's okay. River let me in because I knew you were in therapy."

My head shakes and I shrug off my jacket and hang it up, River retreats back to the kitchen where. "Are you okay?" I ask as I sit down beside him.

He hums. "Yeah, I'm okay," he breathes quietly. "How have you been?"

"Coping but getting better... I think."

River soon comes over with another cup and places it in front of me. I flash him a grateful smile. "Thank you," I say as he perches on the chair opposite us.

"How was your counselling?" My father asks with gentle curiosity.

"Hard," I admit. "But it's a start. I realise now that I have so much on my chest that I need to get off and it feels like a relief to tell it to someone who I don't feel like has to carry the burden of it."

My dad cups my knee. "You were never and will never be a burden, Alex."

I smile at him. "I know but it feels better to offload to a professional about everything, it's like I can finally clear my mind of how I feel and do some factory reset."

"But we're still here," River says as he leans forward to press his forearms on his knees, eyes focused on mine. "If you need someone outside of your therapist, you can always come to me, or your dad. No matter what."

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