text: “Grow up Petra. It's about time to grow up, and become emotionally mature, or you’ll continue to whither and crumble like dried fragile rose petals,” is the last thing he said to me. Can you believe it?! The cheek! What does he think he is, a poet?! Who does he think he’s talking too? I’m 47! He’s 30! I’m old enough to be his mother, almost. Literally speaking I AM OLD enough to be his mother! Perched on the edge of his sickly green couch, I dug my fingernails into its soft corduroy, and starting with a violent simmer, began to boil. Dagger eyes almost lurched out of my head, as I tried my sweetest smile through clenched teeth and managed, “Thank you so much for pointing that out, I’ll think about it.” And. I did think about, as I walked out of his office, and marched down Picadilly, waving the masses out of my way, and demanding that the whole of London disappear into one huge black hole! I thought about it some more, as I stormed with the intensity of a demented lightning bolt around the flower beds of The Rose Garden, in Hyde Park. Playing his words around in my mind, again and again, boiling more furiously, it burst into a frenzy of tormented bubbles, “Grow up. Grow up! Emotionally immature. Whither. Crumble. Like dried rose petals. Dried fragile rose petals! Hmm. I’m not sure if he should be saying things like that to someone with no self-confidence, to someone who hates themselves, feels like they’re a complete failure and have wasted their life entire life! Hmm. That was not very skilful. In fact, that was very unprofessional, and could cause severe further damage to my self-esteem, from which I may never recover! How dare he talk to me like that. How dare he say those mean things. How dare he drive the nail in deeper! He better apologise the next time I see him. No actually, you know what? I’m going to quit therapy. There you go! Take that now you 30 year old fledgling who knows nothing about real life, because you’ve only just outgrown your nappies. There! Not sure I can trust him. He’s just mocking me! No other therapist would say such a thing. He’s not qualified. How can he be? A mere 30 year old child who says that I’m like dried fragile rose petals, which makes absolutely no sense anyway! Completely contradictory is what it is! Right, that’s it! I’M QUITTING THERAPY!!! Oh my god. He’s right! Dam it! Oh, the little bastard is right. What do I do now? Where’s my chocolate?!” I sit on a bench, take a deep breath, whilst fumbling through my bag, hands shaking, “Where’s my chocolate??!!” I proceed to unzip all the little compartments. Mirror. No chocolate! Phone. No chocolate! Lipstick. No chocolate! Nondescript object. No chocolate! Purse. No chocolate! Half-eaten apple. No chocolate! Teddy bear key ring. No chocolate! Little pink slimy snake thing that’s supposed to stick on the kitchen tiles when thrown with force, but is now covered in grime and fluff!! NO CHOCOLATE! Underestimating the power of my rage, the bag is accidentally catapulted from my hands three metres into the air, then lands on the ground one meter away, just in front of tiny sandalled feet... I stare, body shrinking into the bench with embarrassment at those tiny feet, as full realisation of my childish behaviour whacks me in the chest. I take a deep breath and meekly look up. A small boy of no more than three years wearing a KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON t-shirt looking me directly in the eyes, breaks into a cheeky grin. He looks at my bag, then back at me again, then back at the bag, which he picks up, turns over with innocent curiosity, and playfully shakes out the contents. I grimace as everything tumbles out, including a bar of CADBURYS CHOCOLATE! Being the first thing he spots, he relishingly plucks it from the unsightly clutter, and places it on my lap with a don’t worry manière. I take a deep breath... This is where the second part of my life begins... yes that’s right. This is when I am reborn -the beginning part of being reborn anyway. This is when I realise how deeply I need to change. The journey feels eternal at times, and progress so painfully slow it can go unnoticed, for what feels -simply put- like far too long. The clouds part. The sun shines with extreme brilliance. The rose bushes are expanding in their beds, robust and ready to soar. It's spring. I share my chocolate with the loveliest little messenger that has thus far ever appeared in my life. We munch without saying a word. He giggles and points at the squirls. We play a quick game of hide and seek. His mum waves and gives a thumbs up from another bench, and comes to collect him about twenty minutes later. "I would have come over sooner, but it looked as though you were both having fun," she tells me. We hug, say goodbye. I sit on the bench for a while longer, whilst recalling and pondering some words I overheard a friend say recently. She was giving advice over the phone about growing plants, “The slower they grow, the stronger they grow. Patience.” The friend on the other end of the phone was getting anxious at how long it was taking for his asparagus seedlings to emerge. He would literally shout at the bare soil with exasperation every morning when there was no sign of progress. My friend gave further explanation: “Don’t give up. Try to be positive. These seeds need nourishing, they need fertiliser, they need water, first growing in the dark towards the light. They are happiest in a sunny place. They need looking after and tender care. You can even talk to them, say gentle things. It helps them to flourish. They need all this, yet don’t spoil them too much. It will take time, but your efforts and patience will all be rewarded. While they are on their path of becoming, appreciate and encourage their loveliness, especially when they are just vulnerable seedlings daring to peep their heads above the ground. And when they are ripe, you will harvest beautiful crops, which you can then share with others.” However long it takes, for however many days are left, there and then, I decide that it's time to grow up...