Saw the doctor today, god, I don't understand how she does it, but the knotted-windpipe + hot-unshed-tears-behind-eyes effect is removed. Sincere thanks are due, again, to the reader who messaged to observe that Psycho Killer is partly in French and therefore it's a reasonable assumption that everyone over a certain age and culturally literate knows it, wherever in the world they happen to have been brought up. Yes, I readily concede this is plausible, and what a pity that I think the analytical conversation has moved on quite a distance since the original discussion. Next time I think of something I want to make the doctor explain to me I will certainly workshop it in advance on social media. Although probably on facebook rather than here. I've figured out that Facebook is where I should be when I want to have a conversation, here is better for thinking out loud.
I suspect blogging about therapy and shoes is one of those things which will run its natural course. It kills me to say that, because it's opened up some vistas that needed opening. I can see, theoretically, that I'll feel differently at some point, that I'll be able to think about other things. That's not to say I am free of the need and the desire yet/now. I'm not. I'm in deep. I don't really want to be over it, truth be told. I have many awesome, lovely and beautiful pairs of shoes, and therapy continues to be a source of insight, empathy and creativity. Long-time readers of this blog, classy and select bunch that you are, will perhaps recognise a torch I've carried for years, in various states of flickering and flaming. It used to just be Campers, but now I have more catholic tastes in footwear. I read a lot of psychoanalytic literature, in an entirely academic spirit, before entering therapy - starting with most of Freud and working in a systematic way through the British tradition, via Klein and Winnicott and Bion, right up to Adam Phillips - and one thing I grasped from that immersion is that therapy has rules. I thought that a cardinal one was that the patient must not read Freud et al during the analysis. I did, though, furtively, for a couple of years before fessing up and being told it was totally fine. The Fight Club rule does not apply, so far as I know, although I wonder and yes, worry a little. The only rule I know definitively and explicitly does exist is that, unless infectious, delirious and at death's door, the patient must turn up. So that's what I'm doing here and now, I'm turning up.
Living room window with shade pulled down
Shade pulled up, crepe myrtle on song
Thanks to 38 km on the bike, a kind husband who saw I needed some personal time, and half an Ativan three hours before bed, I slept better last night than I have for a long while. I spent the solo time in town, buying zines and jeans - the zines all playing delightedly at angst and gloom, in that forgivable and even kind of beautiful narcissism of youth - and the jeans so inkily black that you just know they're going to ruin everything else that goes into the washing machine with them, even other black things.
Town hall clock from city square
I'm teetering on the brink of forming one of those habits that's more of a nuisance than it is fun. The last few mornings I've stopped in the city square and got coffee there, adding ten minutes to my commute, a 7:30 am shot of caffeine to a system that is already habituated to a double shot at about ten o'clock, and deducting $4.10 from my overall daily balance sheet. I can afford it. But I ride to work and I bring my lunch, and I am quite attached to the notion that I spend almost no money during a normal working day. I suppose this makes me feel virtuous. Not much else gives me that feeling, so it is a somewhat agonising choice that is in prospect. What will I do tomorrow? I don't know. I'm not going to attempt to decide. Like everyone else, I just want to find out what happens.