So I got to Pieta twenty minutes late.
I had to force myself out of the car, in the door and then to look into my PietaLady’s face. I don’t know why that becomes a thing – facial avoidance, eyecontactaphobia. She thought that yesterday’s consultant was very hard on me (but then it’s her job to make me feel better about myself) and that maybe PsychCons has issues of her own regarding her job wearing her out because apparently it’s not normal for a psych to suggest that you should be fine in work all day and ask “What’s the worst that can happen [this is not a Dr. Pepper ad]? You go home after school every day and have to go to bed?” It doesn’t seem like work-life balance is being completely ironed out there. Although I know nothing about ironing, I don’t iron. I’m really bad at it. Posh was kind enough to gove me a ‘job’ cleaning her house while I was studying last time and each time I tried to iron The Enforcer’s shirts they looked worse. In the end she got his ma to do it. I just don’t iron. I fold it properly like I learned in retail (you do actually have to learn to fold, you know, it’s a skill I’m glad I have. Not really, don’t look inside my wardrobe: sartorial carnage) and hope for the best.
Anyway, post Pieta I felt the tiniest bit energised and even a tad bit excited about the possibility of the future and I know there is a lovely little twinkling underskirt peeping out from the robe of gloom I’m swathed in at the moment. I feel like I’m coming up with instances of Clothing Imagery from Macbeth here: have I been dressed in the borrowed robes of a teacher all this time?
I feel like now I’ve got school and work and logistic stuff out of the way I can start to focus on the big stuff in therapy. Things that have come up that I now realise are much more insidious in my brain than I thought, having practised avoidance for so long: men; guilt; sex; force; loss; shame; guilt; powerlessness; communication; guilt; fear; my father; guilt; my father’s family; obsessiveness; dissociation; panic; guilt. So maybe I should deal with guilt? I was a bit more productive during the afternoon. The first thing I did was banish all thoughts of tidying up and fussing until I had taken my coat off, put my slippers on and had lunch. I’m one of those annoying mothers who comes in the door and the first thing I do is comment on the state of the place and proceed to move everything back to “its place” while I still have my coat, hat and scarf on and very often a dog on a lead. Is this mindfulness? By the time I got back ElsaDaughter had most of it done anyway so my steering wheel’s nail marks were all for nothing.
Then I tidied my shoe closet (that sounds very Carrie Bradshaw: it’s actually a shelf. I once had eighty seven pairs of shoes, back in the boom years, but then I also had a husband I didn’t need either so I guess I was all about superfluity). I looked for tax documents (unsuccessfully) but I have a cunning tax plan for tomorrow.
I had calls and texts from Posh, Marilyn Monroe, the Rose of Tralee, The Elfin Artist (have you met her? Wow, she’s arty smarty), Gwyneth Paltrow, Monet (I’m sure I’ve mentioned my other seriously talented artist friend who paints the most exquistely poignant symmetric paintings?), John Knox, My Lady, Tom Selleck and The Marchioness, and Quarter Pounder (just about the new season of Ripper Street – don’t panic! We used to watch it. I don’t know why the BBC cancelled it, it’s fantastic and the dialogue is extreme and authentic. But it was nice that he thought to tell me and equally nice that we can text occasionally about rugby and TV shows after such a long and turbulent history together). Then I found a poem he had written me one Vallentine’s Day. We never “did” Valentine’s Day. I actually dislike it intensely but a gesture of no monetary value like a poem is cherishable. Ironically, I found it – red card, gold lettering – in with my tax file. So not sure what category I was putting it in at the time. But I’m hoping it can come out into the memory chest at some point and we can both remember happy times rather than the physical and emotional damage we inflicted upon each other, and he seems in good form, so I’m glad of that.
So then we watch Del Boy the misogynist little ill-informed, arrogant, immature prick get fired from The Apprentice. Her name is ROH-sheen. Learn how to pronouce these things properly English people.
Now I’m off to bed and hopefully I’ll sleep through.
AnnaPuppy had an upset tummy but she’s still her usual irritatingly whingey adorable self, you’ll be happy to know.
And I, I have survived another day on another road, and that has made all the difference.