A diagnosis is made only of words. 23rd August 2021.



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 we are together. Both fighting metaphorically, for all and every 'non-compliant service user'.

But we are not equal. I cannot know - or even ask - why he feels this way about psychiatry. He, on the other hand knows exactly why I feel this way. This imbalance in our language, in our knowledge of each other is integral to therapy. Our language as therapists creates a gap, this void, this empty space for our clients to fill.

So, here's a problem - I'm not a client - And this way of talking, in which I'm open whilst he is closed - just disempowers me.

In this session I found myself talking about Mesopotamian stories, of the sacredness of blood, and he's telling me about Leviticus, and how stories are used to bolster ego and maintain insider-outsider groups. We are in dialogue, it feels good, much laughter, and I have the giddy, blissful sense of our souls touching.

Yet, in my notes I write how I feel:
Hollowed out, empty.


As if I'd dreamt that I was at a feast, 
but no matter how much I ate and drank, 
no sense of satisfaction, 
no sense of this is enough.

As if I'd walked into the Fairy hill, 
 A thousand years sped by
 in the whirl of a single dance.

Everything I thought I'd known slips
into dust,
and I'm alone.

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