freedom therapy brighton

The evening sun was warm against his back. Tempted by the cool water, he slipped off the bank and slid silently below the surface. This was where he felt most at home; his large mass, weightless; suspended in perfect equilibrium.

He moved across the bottom of the riverbed, propelled by his short legs, large tail, and indomitable spirit. Nothing approached, but he didn’t care; he was happy with his own company; with his own thoughts.

He came to a fork in the river. Which branch should he take? He wasn’t used to making decisions. He normally just acted on instinct. If he was tired he slept; hungry, he ate. Now he was out of his depth.

He looked about him for inspiration; a sign to point him in the right direction. Nothing came, just the gentle hum of the water around him. The feeling of insecurity was almost overwhelming. How could total confidence turn to jelly in the blink of an eye? He was physically shrinking; melting; becoming one with the mud beneath him. He was no longer a crocodile. He had lost his essence. He was mud.

But something remained. Just a spark, but enough to ignite hope. It didn’t matter which fork he chose, as long as he chose one. He didn’t need to decide which way to go, but to decide to make a decision. Did he want to be a crocodile, or to be mud? Did he want to live or did he want to die?

He veered off to the right, feeling himself getting stronger with every swish of his powerful tail. He was a crocodile again and this was his home.