London yesterday.

See my face in the glass of the tube. It is angular, my face. Lines and planes. Hair pulled back and shiny dangly earrings, not my norm but which I am trying to make it so. iPod in ears, songs playing haunting music (Pacem by Kathy Haggerty). Book idling on my lap - I am greatly enjoying it, but it takes concentration. In my handbag a small, hand-jotted list detailing things that I wanted to talk to him about.

My tube gets to the suburb early. I walk through the north London streets, not really sure who I am. My hair is escaping and floating around my face. I tuck it behind my ears and feel my feet on the ground, a connection.

When the time comes I go to his house. As I enter another one leaves and we do not make eye contact. Do not see me as I do not see you and together we can pretend none of this ever happened. I go up to the room. I sit. I talk.

His room is the one room where everything is safe and everything can be said with impunity. I lay my soul bare in that room, and every haunted image and darkened corridor is laid to light. He has a large stained glass sculpture in one of his windows of a fiery sunset. I stare at it often.

I do not lie to him.

I have never lied to him.

We talk and talk and talk. I do not cry but he does. He tells me that I lead a life of great stress - full time job, twins, renovations, fucked-up family, finances, health issues, a relationship, a traumatized childhood (his words). I tell him this is not stress, this is just life. I am stubborn. I will not concede this one. He says my bathtub actions of a week ago were the result of my nervous system saying Enough. Enough, do not give me anymore because I cannot take it.

My family we park. They are crazy today, they'll be crazy tomorrow. I hoped they would come round, like my father did, but it appears they will not. It is true - the babies have lots of love in their life. I won't expose them to instability, I fight too hard to keep this platform safe.

The winds are blowing. There is something that the sand of my fucked-up memory is uncovering. I tripped over it - I was walking through the corridors looking for stationary and there it was. I can almost see the tip of it. It is big. It is wrong. It is very, very wrong. Don't touch it, says my Couch Man. We will not deal with this now. Put the shovel down and leave it alone for now. We will get to it but not now. Not yet.

I don't remember anyway, I tell him. Because I don't.

What's happening to me? I ask.

Fix me, I beg.

Make it stop.

He talks to me. I am not broken, he tells me. I am a self. All selves are inherently good he tells me. I sense a philosopy discussion here. I will arm myself with Sartre and Rilke. They are cynics in sheep's clothing. He tells me that the self is always pure, that the mechnisms one develops to be safe are what get warped, twisted, and hateful. Even in the worst offenders the self is good, it's just pursued by packs of angry psyche.

He tells me I am a good person inside.

I am unconvinced.

He tells me we shall work on self. We shall work on control. We shall work on stress. We will work on ending ther neurosis. We will prove to me that what is inside me isn't black and infected and dead.

We have to meet more than once a month. He says this not to line his pockets as he's not like that. He tells me that I'm vulnerable. This is dangerous territory. We are meeting weekly now, and I will have to make cuts in our budget to accomplish me being so very screwed-up. This week everything broke - my watch. Alastair's watch. A glass. Our car. My mind.

I trust him.

He tells me that I can do this. That I love my children so absolutely that I will walk through fire to make myself right for them.

He knows me.

I trust him and tell him things that would send you fleeing from this website.

-S.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:07 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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