The Black Box.

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.  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 heroic disasters was a thing!  Regardless I stay with his 

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 directions in

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 tog

NOTES 12th August 2021.  At the very centre of our dialogue The word  phantasy ripples through the air 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 someone placed it there so they can escape?  No, that interpretation doesn’t seem righ

NOTE: 9th August. 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,  and t

  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 blurring of the lines. There was a difference betwee

25th July 2021. Notes A day full of physical panic, my body full of crawling spinning electricity.  Not a nice feeling, not nice at all.  Then suddenly I was washed through and through. And the weaving, spinning, churn stopped.  I stood for a precious moment in the still point at the centre of the Sun - and I felt love once more. Mostly the laughing, that we laugh together... And that I am culpable.  It stops the panic.  Stops me waiting for the hammer to fall   Stills my expectation of a coming time, my trial by language. What is my worst fear? More hours, weeks, months of blaming myself for feeling anxiety.  So, more of the same then!  I could tell - when my husband was lying. My anxiety was well founded. Just no information... What do I want to know? Only good and positive things.  I'm beaten up. The greater my need for positive,  the harder it is to accept there can be negative consequences  for honesty...  26th July 2021. Discussion. There is that cough - he tells me not