Investigating Transference… – C: Week 57, Part I

NB:  This post was going to be over 4,000 words long, which even by my standards in reviewing my sessions with C is ridiculous.  I’ve therefore turned it into two unbearably fascinating parts, of which this is the first.  As you might expect, in reality this is indescribably boring stuff, so proceed at your own peril, dearest reader.  ❤ x

I was bricking myself about this session with C, after his apparent transference-related realisations at the end of the last meeting.  I don’t want to tell him I want him to hold me, stroke my hair, soothingly kiss my forehead and softly whisper protective words in my ear.  I mean, who would want to reveal such intimate and one-sided desires?  I was totally dreading having to verbally enunciate such material, but in the end – although C made some references to the transference issues at points – I was successful in dodging much of it.  Result.  (Except that it’s not, of course, because presumably this is necessary discussion.  But, in the short-term, this worked very nicely for me).

However, we did end up having a protracted and painful discussion about something else – suicide.  Of course, we have certainly discussed this thoroughly in the past – but, shit suicide attempt in January excepted, this was the first time that I did more than just allude to it as a concept; I actually told him in depth that I had plans to do myself in.

First, however, I had house-keeping matters to deal with.  I was mortified to ask if he would provide me with a letter for the DLA people to confirm that I had been seeing him.  Now I’m mortified that I was mortified.  I should not be ashamed of being on state benefits, because I am claiming for genuine reasons – it’s not like I’m really some sort of shit dolescum twat.  Simultaneously, I hate being a claimant and find it an immensely degrading place in which to be, and it’s bad enough thinking about that myself, never mind having to remind someone that I all but revere of the fucking matter.  In fact, so disgusted was I about bringing it up that I was really quite disparaging about my claim.

I told him that the woman at the CAB had advised that, in light of my declaration of my C-PTSD diagnosis, C should note as part of the claim that I was seeing him, in part, to address trauma issues in the aftermath of child sexual abuse.  “I don’t feel entirely comfortable with acknowledging that to the Social Security Agency,” I said, “but that’s what she advised.”  I shrugged, resignedly.

I went on to point out that acknowledgement of both psychoses and dissociation would also be helpful, then winced and said, “I don’t like having to ask you to do this.”  Read:  I don’t like you being reminded of the fact that I am a useless tax-scrounging cunt.  I want you to think of me as intelligent and articulate, but that’s not what you’re seeing.  So you must hate me.

He said, “I can certainly write them a letter, that’s no problem.  I can say you’ve been attending since February 2009 and we’re due to be concluding at the end of August 2010…”

Thanks C, rub it in.  Just what I need to hear at every fucking juncture.  Besides which, the people who work in the social security are not very bright.  They will assume that a cessation of therapy automatically denotes that I am now well.

“Can you not say that please?” I pleaded.  “If they think you’re discharging me, they’ll think I’m well, which I’m certainly not.  They see things in very black and white terms in my experience.”

He agreed that he “would certainly not give that impression,” then asked me if I was really sure he wanted to reference child sex abuse.

I paused, considering it.  I mean, of course I don’t want that information floating about so evidently in the system.  But on the other hand, I need this claim to be renewed, otherwise I will not be able to survive and will have no choice but to catch the bus.  It is, aside from this, a mere option, but to be so financially fucked as a non-renewal would make me would very definitely make the decision for me.  I sighed, and told him to go ahead.

Rather than just agree to acknowledge the abuse very clearly, C proposed that he draft a letter, which I could then ‘OK’ or reject as applicable the following week, though he then went on to say that he had “mixed feelings” about being so forthright.  I agreed that if you have the symptoms, then you do – what has actually caused them is none of the SSA’s bloody business.

The session proceeded in a curious fashion.  There were several lengthy silences, which were then broken by C making some point about the claim and those assessing the claim.  He eventually asked was there some sort of “shake-up” in DLA, which I confirmed to be the case.

“I’m hoping it won’t affect me unduly,” I admitted, “because I hope to be back at work by then.  However, I expected to be back at work last time after a month or two, and here we are two years later.  So who the fuck knows.”

Time for C to try and annoy me.  It happens at least once every session, does it not?  I think they must be trained at Therapist University to make irritating points when engaging with clients.  It must be intended to force underlying tensions out of us or something.

“Have you ever considered returning now to some sort of work?” he asked.

“Nope,” I replied, straight off the bat.

He looked at me questioningly, so I explained that I can’t think beyond the next hour, never mind any more long-term than that.

He pressed on, asking what it was that I felt was so strongly preventing me from considering a return to work at the moment.

I said, scathingly, that being a risk of losing time, hallucinating and being overwhelmingly depressed and anxious did not present the best circumstances in which to rejoin the employment market, adding that having such an added stress before I was fully able to deal with it would be helpful to neither the potential employer nor me.

“But I suppose I’m thinking,” C replied, “that work doesn’t have to be an all-or-nothing thing.”

“OK, but even a couple of hours here and there – I just cannot conceive of how that’s feasible.”

My irritation was compounded by the fact that some pack of cunts or other were heard to be engaging in conversation outside C’s door.  The room is meant to be deathly quiet, devoid of distractions.  I wanted to go into the corridor and smash the offenders’ faces off the relevant party wall until they begged for mercy.  There is a whole hospital campus, with an extensive outside area (not to mention a canteen), where these wankers could have gone to engage in their banal drivel.  Outside a psychologist’s door that clearly indicates he is in a meeting and not to be disturbed was not the best choice to start up a conversation on anything much.

And bloody C himself wouldn’t let up on the jobs front.  Seriously, what the fuck?  I can understand the desire to challenge my current lines of thinking – but only within reason.  I made it very clear to him that this was not an area in which I felt there was an alternative view.  I know I cannot cope with work in any meaningful fashion as things stand.  And I’m not the only one: A and my mother strongly agree.  Sometimes C will challenge me on something, and I’ll think, “well, there’s maybe a point there,” and I’ll tell him that – but this is one occasion in which I genuinely felt I was the best judge of the situation, and ergo his constant harping served merely to frustrate and annoy.

He claimed, when I showed myself to be visibly pissed off, that he had no vested interest in whether or not I worked; he was, apparently, simply curious as to why I felt that I couldn’t.  “Although,” he added, demonstrating the reality of his desire to pursue this line of questioning, “I suppose I do think that if a person can work, that that can be a very positive thing, even if it’s only volunteering for a couple of hours a week.  It’s not because it’s work, but it’s about being with people.”

As if I am not aware of such an argument as a proponent of jobs.  Of course I am.  I just can’t deal with people.  I said so.  “They make me both homicidal and suicidal, and should go away and leave me alone,” I spat.

There was a long silence, save for the unabated deliberations of shite in the corridor.  The presence of those conversing underlined my point that other people make me homicidal.  I sat daydreaming for a bit about how I would smash them all in if they were still there upon conclusion of my meeting with C.

Eventually I was asked if I had any opportunities to meet new people, to which I responded by saying that nearly all such “opportunities” were rejected by me, as I do not wish to meet or see people, except within very strict parameters set by me.

However, I proceeded to tell him about a planned “Mad Up” next month (a group of mental health bloggers including Lola, Karita, Little Feet, me and more are meeting up in London, though I hadn’t confirmed my attendance at the time).  “I mean,” I started.  “That’s different.  If there’s ever going to be people I want to meet, then it’s them.”

He started wanking on yet again about internet relationships being different; at the moment this lot are all ‘good’, and perhaps if I had ‘normal’ off-line relationships with them all, I would be scared that they would not always be ‘good’.  However, meeting them for one day only mitigates that risk.

“Are you therefore suggesting that I move to England for the sake of making sure I form so-called ‘proper’ relationships with these invididuals?” I asked, not even trying to hide my contempt.

“No,” he said.  “I’m just saying it’s not the same – yet, anyway – as what we might think of as more typical friendships.  However, I’m not discouraging you – I think that sounds really positive.  It proves there’s a part of you that wants to leave the sofa, leave the house, get out there and engage with the world.”

“It’s a small part,” I replied dismissively.  “After all, most people are cunts.  Just…this bunch aren’t.”

Apparently I sounded angry when I used the word ‘cunts’, which I didn’t think was an accurate representation of the issue – you have to spit the word ‘cunt’ out, don’t you, otherwise it just sounds silly.  ‘Cunt’ is phonetically designed to sound harsh, even if you say it with the most saccharine sweetness imaginable.  Perhaps he should have studied linguistics as well as psychology.  It could have been insightful for him.

This gave him an opportunity to say that apparently I felt that he was angry with me, and therein lay his chance to explore the transference issues apparently revealed to him in the previous session.  I reminded him that what I had actually said was that I believed he hated me because he was always accusing me of being aggressive.

“Have you become quite…focused on this idea that I don’t like you, then?” C asked me.

My head was fried thinking about it and thinking about how much I withdraw from life, whether deliberately or otherwise.  As I sit here now of course I can quite easily say that yes, I ‘focus’ quite a bit on the idea that C hates me.  At the time, I couldn’t think straight, so I told him I didn’t know.

He let it pass and we sat in silence for a bit.  I was desperately trying to get my thoughts together – in particular, I was trying to fight all the suicidal thoughts that had been pervading my consciousness for weeks, not because I have any strong opinion on them, but because I didn’t want to reveal them to him.  I’m always scared he’ll ring the bin and I’ll find myself locked up, even if my rational mind realises that to be unlikely.

But when he asked me what was “going on for [me]” as we sat there, I admitted that I was thinking about things that I thought I should tell him, but was scared to.

“OK, maybe you can tell me what it is that you fear about telling me,” he suggested.

I fear you having me locked up.  Yeah, that doesn’t give the game away or anything.

“To do so would be to provide you with the information anyway.”

“Right…well, how might I respond to whatever it is?”

“In a not particularly attractive fashion.”

“What fashion?”

“You see, that’s the point, C: if I tell you that, you’ll know what I’m talking about.”

He thought for a minute, then said, “but I think you can say that you reckon I’d be anxious, angry, concerned, worried, annoyed or something like that – I don’t think I’d be able to work out specifics from you saying that.”

This made me want to laugh out loud.  As if he would be any of those things.  It’s just a fucking job to him.

“Using any of those adjectives assumes an over-investment on your part,” I told him.

“In you?”


“I thought it might just be normal,” he said, making some hand gesture to supposedly support what he said.  “You have thoughts and feelings about people you’re working with, and you and I have been working together for quite some time.  It would be a bit strange if I was just like a robot or something.  Of course you do know I have response to things.”

Ooooh!!!  Did you hear that, readers?!  Dun-dun-DUN!!!

Here, my loves, we leave our epic fly-on-the-wall voyeurism of Alice-like wonder and utter, indescribable joy.  Follow the amazing developments in Part II, coming soon to a PC/Mac/Linux or Unix OSed computer near you.

Has he complimented me?  Does he care?  Does he work the nature of the transference out?  Will I do myself in?  Will I do him in?  Will I get a life?  Will I care?  Will C get an iPhone 4?  Will his beard come back?  Will I transmogrify into a demon and attempt to possess him?

Find out all this and more meaningless bollocks in the next deeply un-thrilling instalment of C: Week 57…NEXT! [LA MUSICA DRAMATICA]

My Life's Emsemble of Characters

Welcome. I am not quite sure how to begin this first post. What I want to do is give any audience I may have some context; I have already done this to some extent in relation to myself specifically at the ‘About Me‘ page of this blog, but I thought I would use this first post to introduce the other characters in my life that have the most significant bearing.

Obviously for the sake of brevity I am only including the main players here. Should anyone else relevant come up at some future juncture, I will of course out line their role in my life.


A is my partner of six years. We have lived together for just under two years. Undoubtedly we have had our problems over the years but ultimately A has been very good to me; emotionally, financially and intellectually.

Before we even met in person (we met online, where we corresponded for nearly a year before finally meeting up), A was aware of my depression. That did not mean he understood it; when I had my most recent episode before this one in mid-2006, he was very much of the view that I should “pull myself together”. I cannot expect him to understand as he has never experienced this; however, as any other sufferers of this illness will know, this is far from a beneficial attitude to take.

However, A has been incredibly supportive throughout my recent breakdown. He indulges my weird idiosyncrasies without fucking me up further. He tries to cheer me up when I am miserable. He listens to my self-analysis, tries to analyse himself where appropriate and just supports where not. He makes me the obligatory-in-the-UK cup of tea for me. He goes out and works five days a fucking week whilst I lie wallowing in my pathetic despair.

A is extremely intelligent and articulate, though would admit to sharing some of my social ineptitude. He is witty, down-to-earth and generally very well regarded by people he meets. Of course there is more than this facade to him – at home he can be easily irritated and rant a lot. But the more this blog progresses, the more you will see this is one of the many things we have in common 🙂

A and I have two cats.


I am assuming the above-named individual’s relationship to me does not require explanation. I hardly know where to start with her. She is to some extent a typical woman, the kind of which I have alluded to in a slightly disparaging fashion on my ‘About‘ page here on WordPress. She is sensitive and emotional in many ways, but very strong and resilient in others.

She married my so-called father in the early ’60s, and to the best of my knowledge the physical, mental and sexual abuse that she endured at his hands began shortly thereafter. I do often ask myself why she tolerated this unacceptable state of affairs for twenty years, but I wasn’t in the position, so I try not to judge her. She does sometimes lament the fact that there was no such thing as Women’s Aid or domestic violence helplines during (the majority of) her marriage, though I believe she did go to some sort of shelter at one point – and then back to my da.

She divorced him after I was born in the early ’80s, for fear that he may harm me too, whether deliberately or inadvertently whilst in one of his drunken stupors. She did let him see me for a while after their separation and divorce, but he kept (a) not turning up or (b) turning up pissed. So she told him to fuck off and not come back. I don’t think this was necessarily a demand that he never re-entered my life, merely that he would stop having to disappoint me and clean up his act before he did so.

I suppose I subconsciously blamed my mother for my father’s desertion for quite a long time. As a child I was unaware of his true nature, of course – and as such I had this stupid father-daughter idolisation of the cunt. But perhaps I digress – I can say more about my father forthwith.

I was fairly stable during my primary school years and didn’t really give my mother any significant hassle. However, come grammar school and my diagnosis with depression, I think my poor Mum almost lost the will to live along with me. I am fairly sure she believed, at least in part, that I was just an angsty teenager with an attitude. She would lay into me both verbally and physically on the days when I could not get up (and thus go to school). I think she thought my two suicide attempts were attention seeking.

I cannot entirely blame her, of course.

Anyhow, the nature of our relationship is fairly positive at present, and has been since I would say I was about 17 or 18. I do feel she takes things out of context and falsely accuses me of things of which I am not guilty, but I suspect that this is probably related to her own defence mechanisms and is not necessarily something I should take personally. That does not mean I don’t, of course.

She is sometimes guilty of seeing my mental illness in a somewhat simplistic fashion – for example,”you just have to start trusting people” or “why don’t you just think about x differently?” Spot on, mother – I’ll just click my fingers and that’s that then. Problem fucking solved. She also doesn’t get that I won’t talk to her about the things in my head. Partly this is because I don’t really want to talk to anyone about them, as (I presume) that would admit weakness. Part of it is also to protect her; I know she worries about me enough as it is, and I have to wish to add to that by conveying to her that I am clinically mad. Furthermore, so much of the issues relate to the way she was treated that she would end up feeling guilty. Yes, that is irrational, but for whatever reasons I am convinced she would blame herself. So her constant bleating about her wanting me to “let her in” really fucks me off. But generally she tries her best to deal with my insanity and support me in the subtle ways that I will allow her to do.

In summary, she’s a good woman who has been through a lot herself and yet, with the passage of time and greater awareness of my various conditions, tries her best to be supportive. She is retired now, and given my current absence from work, I have taken to going to visit her for two or three nights each week.

V – Father

V is dead, having finally popped his clogs in September 2007. Nevertheless, I feel it’s important to include him as a key player in my life, even though he was absent for the vast majority of it. I was asleep on the sofa at Mum’s house the day the phone call came to announce his demise; she woke me up and urgently intoned, “your Da’s dead!”

My response was, “oh, right”, and then I went back to sleep. Then, between Mum and my oppressive wankstain family I was virtually forced into going to the old bastard’s funeral – but that and the blackly hilarious story about his will are tales for another day.

You will already have developed some understanding of V from the above entry about my mother. Additional misdeeds committed against her included adultery and financially fucking her over.

He was an alcoholic, and whilst I completely understand that this is an illness like any other, I cannot allow his behaviour to be excused on this basis. I have complete admiration for alcoholics or drug addicts who fight against their addictions and ultimately overcome them, but my father was not one of them. The fact of the matter is that he never even tried.

He tried to contact me once when I was about 12 or so. Mum and I had just gone to bed and the phone rang; some drunken tosser kept asking for me by name. I told said tosser that he’d got a wrong number, but of course he hadn’t; he knew it and I knew it. My ma became panicky at my protestations down the phone and tried to take it off me, but at that point I hung up and told her that it was just some bloke who’d got a wrong number. I am not sure if she believed me, but after some reassurance from me she did let the matter drop.

I say he only contacted me once, but that depends on your perception. Three weeks after my 21st birthday, I received a birthday card and £20s worth of Boots vouchers (last of the big spenders) purporting to be from the twat. My reasons for not believing this was actually from him require a bit of context.

1. V suffered from MS and eventually was put into a nursing home. Needless to say this has been a source of much annoyance to me as he lived rent free, got a range of benefits and by all accounts had a nice room and was liked by the staff. But that’s yet another story.

2. V’s brother, Merv, is married to my mother’s sister, Georgie. Georgie and Merv have lived in the USA for decades and my older (double-)cousin was born there. In any event, shortly before my birthday Georgie and Merv were back in Norn Iron and detestably visited V during this time.

I am therefore convinced that the two of them, in conjunction with one (or more) of the nursing home personnel, engineered the stupid birthday card. They have denied this, but I don’t believe them. They subscribe to this ridiculous, unfounded notion that blood is thicker than water; as such, they presumably felt that I should “make peace” with my father.

Perhaps I should have gone to see him, even if only to have told him exactly what I thought. But he was the supposed adult in the situation; surely the responsibility to make contact was his?

Anyway, the foregoing invective does belie one issue about which I am generally loath to discuss, but since this is basically an anonymous blog I will do so. My reluctance to do so is presumably resultant of the fact that I do not want to admit it to myself, but having at least in part done so to C, my psychologist, why the hell not here? Whilst V was in the home, and around the time of his death, I kept hearing a lot of shit about how piteous a state he was in, yet what a nice man he was. Poor fucking V, isn’t it such a shame, no one in the world wants him or cares about him, yadda yadda yadda. I was mostly infuriated about and resentful of this, which was both an unfair endorsement of V, and an unfair inference about my behaviour towards him.

But part of me also wonders, “what if?” Would I have got on with him? Had he really changed? Had the public persona he portrayed as a charismatic, generous, fun-loving man (even when he was at his most violent) actually permeated his personality entirely? I will never know. Annoyingly, this kind of saddens me. I despise the man and would happily piss on the fucker’s grave, but I suppose I miss the father I wanted to have.

I have an intense fear of abandonment, of which I was not consciously aware until I began therapy with C (see below). Presumably this relates back to V.


Daniel is my best friend, though we have been separated by the Irish sea for the past six or so years, as he went to university in Scotland and now works as a very successful business journalist in London.

Daniel is irreverent, funny and a bit crazy (not in the sense of actual insanity like mine, but just random and hilarious). His apparent flippancy belies a much softer soul, though. For instance, he cried when I self-published a series of ridiculous stories we’d written as children for his Christmas present last year. Although I seek comfort in him in the form of amusement, he is also quite capable and willing of being serious when the need arises. He is astute in analysing a situation rationally and irrationally and has given me some very prescient advice over the years.

Unfortunately Daniel, who was apparently unsure of his sexuality throughout our teenage years but finally realised (or openly admitted, at least) his homosexuality whilst at university, is presently experiencing a difficult time himself. He believes, with some justification, that his partner of three years is cheating on him. Also, not entirely unlike myself, he feels he has few close friends in his locality – and he feels greatly under-appreciated at work (as I did when I was last there). I am not very good at counselling without patronising, so I don’t know what to say to him half the time. I do care, though.

We met at the end of our first year at grammar school, so we would have been 12. Since he left Northern Ireland, we probably haven’t kept in as good touch as we should have, though this has improved of late. Whatever the case, when we meet or talk it’s just like old times.


Brian is my oldest friend, and second best friend to Daniel. We met right at the start of our foray into secondary education. Brian and Daniel, although they have a companionable enough sort of relationship, have never been close friends. I suppose they don’t share the same interests really, and thus represent different sides of my personality. Brian is relatively introverted whereas Daniel is, ostensibly at least, more of an extrovert.

Brian claims that he is rubbish at listening, but during my recent breakdown I have found him extremely supportive. He lives close to me, though the poor sod works two jobs and has a girlfriend so it is not always easy to get time to see him.

Of late he, like Daniel, has been having relationship problems, though the circumstances are different. His girlfriend has a penchant for flying off on one at him for no reason; in fairness, the poor woman has a really bollocks life and seeks a scapegoat to blame. Transference, perhaps? Being mental myself, I can of course empathise with this behaviour, but Brian’s my oldest friend, and I do not want him to go through this when he has done nothing wrong. Luckily, over the last few weeks I think things have become less volatile.

Brian is something of a computer nerd – as am I. Me likes nerds.

Aaron and Deirdre

More Aaron than Deirdre really, as I keep in much more frequent contact with Aaron, but Deirdre deserves a mention too. I group them together as they are both former colleagues – the only two colleagues with whom I have ever kept in touch after leaving a job.

Deirdre is a 40-something woman – one of my few female friends. vShe is married and has two grown-up children – one of the cool things about her is that her children obviously consider her a mate as well as a mum. They share the same interests and go to rock gigs together. I think this is seriously cool. Deirdre is witty and a bit mad (in the same non-mental way as Daniel).  We don’t meet up that frequently – something always seems to come up – but when we do, it is always good craic. My meetings with her almost always include Aaron.

Aaron is a 20 year old gay bloke, also suffering from depression and anxiety, though at the risk of not knowing what I am talking about I don’t think his situation is quite as serious as mine. The poor thing is certainly lonely and has no success in meeting men. This is mainly because he is scared to try – a relatively self-assured exterior to those that do not know him well hides deep-seated introvertism and, dare I say, self-doubt. Nevertheless, he is irreverent and funny, and has been supportive of me during my spectacular fall from semi-sanity.

The Family

I alluded briefly above to Georgie and Merv, but of course they are not the only members of my extended family. I hardly know my father’s side of the family, apart from Merv, and I am quite happy to keep it that way, as the self-righteous hypocrites at V’s funeral fucked me off intensely.

My mother’s side I do know. She had two brothers though both are now unfortunately deceased. Aside from that, she has three sisters, including Georgie. The other two are Maureen (McC will do for her surname) and Maisie (McFaul). Maureen and her husband – Mark – are alright, if somewhat boring. They are both retired teachers, living a fairly well-to-do lifestyle after very clever property investments from yesteryear.

Maisie and her brood – where the fuck do I even start? Ostensibly she is a lovely, generous woman, but in reality she is intensely manipulative and can be very cruel. She has a multitude of health problems, but perhaps the thing that is most striking about her is her absolute need to have a house-full of talking fucking people. She “likes to have her family [and friends] around her”. She is always delightfully nice to me – too fucking nice I think, how can you be so positive about me all the fucking time? It’s just not natural – but often bullies her daughter Sarah. Not physically, as she cannot physically do much, but she is always complaining about her, shouting at her and criticising her.

For the sake of context, Maisie lives with her husband (Maisie’s husband), her son Kevin, her daughter Sarah and Sarah’s son ScumFan. If she had her way, all of her four children, their spouses, their children and even now their children (as she recently became a great-grandmother) would still live in her house. In a way, all of these people are inexorably tied to that house forever anyway; they all seem to spend a disproportionate amount of time in it. A once said to me that the McFs’ house is like Hotel California: you can check out, but you can never leave. This is about the most truthful statement I have ever heard.

It is possibly worthy of note that it was Maisie’s husband that was responsible for my childhood sexual abuse. He is also mental; he suffers from an extreme form of paranoia. Infuriatingly though, when he had his most recent, and most serious, episode, a psychiatrist was out to his house the next day. I have been waiting 11 years for one and when I finally do get one I will have to fucking go to them! A few years ago, he was sectioned, which from my twisted point of view I suppose is quite funny.

For the record, I don’t hate Maisie’s husband. He is just an irrelevance to me. If anything, in some ways I pity the poor, sad bastard because he has to live in that God forsaken house. No wonder he is fucked up.

I never reported his behaviour towards me even though I was concerned about his various grandchildren. But I honestly do feel that it was only me. I did tell A, and Daniel and Mum also know some of the details. Mum thinks I misinterpreted his actions, though to be fair to her she does not know the whole truth. Even what she does know is not particularly open to interpretation in my view, but I have never and will never push the issue with her. I don’t want her to confront him; I don’t want to ruin the family unit. I don’t really give a fuck about it from my point of view, but my mother loves her family and I do not want them to ostracise her, because I know they would not believe my claims.

One thing that really, really fucked me off about Maisie and her family is that half of the entire billion-strong brood turned up at fucking V’s funeral. They claimed to have been there for Merv’s benefit – thanks to Georgie they are related, and Merv (in their estimation) is a likable man. But what about my mother? Maisie and her family are perfectly well aware of what V did to her. Why were they honouring his death regardless of their affection for his brother? Cunts.

Logistically, I was actually glad to have them there as it meant I had someone other than Georgie and fucking Merv and the other fuckwits from my da’s side of the family to talk to. One of the brood, Maisie daughter-in-law and sometime carer, did have the grace to ask me if I minded them attending. But in principle, I was furious, and a year and a half later I still am. Not that I have ever told them any of this, though I have ranted to the other characters listed above. But I do keep the peace with them themselves. In fact, I am going to stay at their cunty house tonight. I have no idea why let Mum talk me into this.


I will go into more detail about C in another post, as I intend to blog on all the therapists I have seen to date. C is my present psychotherapist, a clinical psychologist with the National Health Service. I have seen a number of therapists of different specialisms over the years, but C is the first one I actually want to open up to, even though it is still difficult at times as I have so many defences built up. He is the first one, I think, that ‘gets’ me. He doesn’t patronise me yet he does show compassion and understanding.

He is a very intelligent man (presumably his PhD in clinical psychology affirms this), which is good for me as, without wishing to sound arrogant, I think I need to deal with someone on my intellectual level. I do live in constant fear of my weird relationship with him coming to a close, because I feel reliant on him and don’t know how I will cope with having to deal with my life on my own again (this after only nine weeks). Or maybe because I am terrified of abandonment; last week with him was the last of our initial sessions, and I was petrified he was going to kick me out. I begged him not to abandon me, which is not in my normal everyday character at all.

C knows I am scared of this, and it is something on which he wants to work. Currently I am scheduled to keep seeing him until about July 2009, at which point the situation will be reviewed.


So there you have it. The main cast list in the saga that is my shitty little life. Reading back over the above, I find it interesting that the people I have no problems with are the ones about whom I have written the least. Is this demonstrative of my internal anger with the others? Perhaps this is a query for C.

I intend my next post to be an analysis of the therapists I’ve seen over the years – I got this idea from a friend on Twitter who very astutely made such a post about herself. I may post something shorter in between, I don’t know. For the record, I don’t anticipate that most of my blog entries will be as long as this one or (I’m guessing) the therapist one, but I feel it’s important to lay a contextual path if I am to speak freely in future about all the bullshit that enters my head.

Thank you for reading.