The Corona Borealis.

'He' in this case, is a lecturer for my diploma course. Saturday - It was the way that my body, before I'd become aware... it was automatic, without thinking. Suddenly we were both holding each other's hands! He looks like my husband.  He moves like him.  He wore a belt bag - not like mine, but there was a similarity between us in our belief systems, in that he was like me!  But personality wise, he is nothing like me.  And he is totally himself.  He is not Gavin. But that moment of mutuality, of being in sync, it has left a mark, or a dent, or a rip - that without a second thought my body reacted - as if he was safe.  And Gavin isn't a safe person.  Gavin would not have held my hands.  He would just have looked at me. But, my body would react with trust, habitual trust. And the mark, rip, tear in me and the nightmare I woke up with, and the ache and the tears? I was dreaming Gavin was in bed beside me, and it was the same as it had been; my frust...

I talk about what happened - I'd been on a trip to Arron. I'd got tickets to see the band that got me through my son's psychosis.  They cancelled.  I looked for my lost daughter in the streets of Glasgow.  I couldn't find her. He's asking me , 'what was it like?'  One more Portal map, one more weaving straw into gold, one more challenge that appeared to be impossible.  And I got through with out breaking or crumpling or giving up!. He says - "It's still very present isn't it" I say - "Is it? The memories are clear - present? It is unfinished. But it's me doing the best I can do..." He says - "So why is there a problem now"? What? If I hadn't talked about where I'd been - I'd be talking about the endless writing assignments nightmare that is college! I'm not here to process my expedition to the North. I was only sharing my adventure. In my family the recitation of disasters was a thing, the more awf...

This is the session in which I placed symbols of the four directions, at each of the cardinal points in his room. A stone in the North. A feather in the East. A candle in the South and The sound of the sea (I played a recording) in the West. Perhaps I should have dropped this fly-by intuition thing I was doing, perhaps I should have availed myself of his psychotherapeutic knowledge. But, he was my beloved. I had just an hour. And the terror of the Kohuts was upon me - that our laughing together, our getting on, was his deliberate construct - twin ship or some other reparative relationship maneuver.   Not real.  No actual connection.  Manipulation.  Only his illusion and my delusion.  And in this room, well our laughter, it felt real. But that question he asks himself, the 'who am I to the client' question and how he seeks to be 'who they need me to be'.   But I don't need him to be anyone except who he is! My North star is vanishing. Working out the...

NOTES: I sit at his feet gazing upwards.  the tiny jewel  in my nose keeps  catching the light... I leave feeling empty, hollow. I'm his client no matter what I say. I'm not his trusted companion it bloody hurts. He is the therapist. I'm being baby sat... The hall of mirrors bends the light. His colours change. A divine chameleon. And I sit. At his feet. Last week the sudden,  burning thrill  as our little fingers touched. A sensation like hunger  and going over the crest of a hill  too fast. The session. Into the void... No plans, I didn't email him before the session to say what the subjects may be. But he follows up a link I'd sent to him some time before; an interview with a psychiatrist who stated boldly that a diagnosis of a mental health condition such as schizophrenia, is made entirely out of words. He is staggered; how is it ethical to carry out medical interventions, prescribe brain altering substances based entirely on a person's words! And ...

NOTES 12th August 2021.  At the very centre of our dialogue The word  phantasy ripples through the air (with a ph) Idea condensing now into form,  Professor Couliano slumped,  a single shot  through the head. Metaphor, within a metaphor within a... bullet. That extinguished once and for all  the flame of his life. Lots of bullet songs in my life right now:  Filter - 'Hey man, nice shot'. Covenant - 'Time is like a Bullet'. Puscifer - Bullet train to Iowa...  "Going to be a while before we hit the ground"  And this connection that I'm imagining,  or longing for,  or creating,  or destroying? When the waves come  I am in bliss.  The session. There is a picture on his wall. I go over and take a good look.  It is Mediaeval,  A fayre or market, a festival day? And in the picture there is a big, stripy box  Full of people!  Are they trapped?  There is a ladder inside this rather large box,  Has...

NOTE: 9th August 2021. Calm acquiescence. Really? As I sit here in a car too hot for dogs, radio on,  belly full of fluttering butterflies. I watched an old documentary about Eric Berne this morning. 1960s looked modern. Shock to see people smoking. Once so normal... And  People expected answers,  psychotherapy//Enlightenment! But mostly... I'm terrified why? Undertow Kit gives me back everything I give him He doesn't reply to my emails anymore.. What has happened? I feel his warmth, but I'm what? Stupid I guess. Getting to the point where I tell the truth. Just say it I'm in love with you ... And you must know this, feel it, see it? This session is almost too painful to recall and write. There was so much 'us' in it. It didn’t feel as if there was an agenda. We talked as if we are friends and equals. But returning to this session and thinking about it - I feel my heart break - because what if this sense of equality was nothing but a result of his  technique,  ...

  After a passionate plea. Sent as a voice recording.  I said it was about the past. I had needed to tell him how I felt.  How I felt about my son, my husband, the fear.. But it was in the time of Covid,  Zoom,  I was in the house.  Impossible to speak freely. Now I need to tell him how I felt.  An hour isn't enough time!  I want him to know who I am. I sit in the car about to go..  This is not therapy! I had sent him a voice message full of blurred lines, and five months later the blurred lines had sunk into the mud as trenches surmounted with razor wire...in a minefield.  I had no way to know this as I hit send. As I prepared myself to knock on the door and start this session I believed in him as a trusted companion. I wanted the enormity of my journey, the weight of it, the devastation, all of it to be witnessed and acknowledged. I was trusting him to see. And I needed an emotional, whole, a real interaction.  There had been a bl...