CBT therapy ??

  Therapist: So, what’s sitting on your mind like an overweight pink elephant in a deckchair?

  Patient: It’s the past. Keeps popping up like a socks that refuses to stay in the drawer.

  Therapist: Ah, the past. Slippery evil. Likes to sneak up behind you, poke you in the hips and then vanish when you look at it too long. Tell me more.

  Patient: It’s.... Years ago. But sometimes it just... drops into my thoughts like an anvil in a cartoon.

  Therapist: And you’re still carrying it around, are you? Like a slightly sad pet rock with abandonment issues?

  Patient: Pretty much. I keep thinking about what I could’ve done differently.

  Therapist: Well, unless you’ve built a time machine out of spoons and tea cups, there's not much to do about the past, except let it wash over you like a particularly smug wave.

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  Patient: But I don’t want to forget. That feels wrong.

  Therapist: Forget? No. You don't forget the bad dragon just because it’s flown off. You hang up the sword, dust off your armour, and maybe stop roasting marsh-mellows near caves. Letting go isn’t about pretending it never happened. It’s about not letting it keep writing the rest of your story in eyeliner and existential dread.

  Patient: But how do I let go?

  Therapist: You don’t wrestle it into submission. You make it tea. You say, “Hello, old thought, you're still around,” and then you politely suggest it might enjoy a holiday somewhere far away.

  ?? Helo darkness my old frend

  Patient: That sounds... strange.

  Therapist: Most wisdom does. Look, imagine your thoughts are little hedgehogs. Sometimes, one curls up and refuses to uncurl. You don’t yell at it. You wait, give it space. Eventually it uncurls, waddles off, and gets stuck in someone else’s a.. garden n hose. That’s letting go.

  Patient: So, I don’t fight the feeling?

  Therapist: Exactly. Fighting just makes the rabid hedgehog dig in. Observe it. Nod at it. Then let it wander off on its own spiky little journey. And maybe breathe while you're at it. In. Out. Like the universe sighing through your nose.

  Patient: That’s oddly comforting.

  Therapist: Most things are, when you stop trying to stuff them in boxes labelled “fix it”???????? and start offering them cookies instead.

  Patient: I’ll try. No promises.

  The rapist: Good. No promises needed. Just progress. Slowly. Like a philosophical zen O. snail with anxiety and a map written in crayon.