Muxia part 2.

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Muxia is the final destination of the Compostela.

Late last night I caught a video of him teaching. I could only watch for a few minuites before the ache in my heart made me shut my eyes in pain, powerless to stop my tears.

I switched the computer off.

Tried to walk away from the cascade of feelings and thoughts.

And woke today, back in Muxia, on the Costa da Morte.

The desire is the same, to just go there - as quiet as a hare, to curl up by his door, to hope that the cold stills my heart as a I sleep beyond waking...

Contrary to what he said about suicidal thoughts, I don't use such thinking to make my days bearable, I don't need to look at my end to feel alive. I am far more simple than that, I don't want to die, but nor do I want to live with this pain. I just want it to stop! Muxia is the red warning light on the dashboard, it indicates that something is very, very wrong. 

The image of myself, dead outside his front door hidden from the street by the darkness of the stone passageway shows me how I truly feel. Because I was shut out once 'therapy' was over. And the things he said in session that were wounding, feel like fish-hooks in my skin. As if I'm trapped forever just there - unable to enter, unable to leave. 

Each barb hooks me in. 

The balancing point I'm looking at is between the bad effect of me disrupting his equilibrium, on his clients Vs the bad effect of some of the things he said on me. This isn't about modalities (style of therapy), this is entirely about the unsaid, about toxic allusions and implied meanings; the refusal to be honest, and the dismissal of my request for resolution and apologies to be made by both of us.

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