Session later today

I've barely slept this week. All thoughts of Father, grieving have been transplanted by therapist and the impending abandonment when sessions end in a few weeks. Its as though my entire being vibrates with pain, sexual and from weeping. The feelings that everywhere you look, that the object of your love is there, right there...you can see him with closed eyes, feel his being, recall his shape and facial features. If he wore cologne I would smell it without him even being near. His fingers are exceptionally long, his hands like my Father's were, large, warm though I've never touched them, I catch myself staring at them during session.

The pain at times is a relief, to know I am still alive, a woman while death would be preferrable to love or feel what is the only form of love I know since childhood, unrequited, unattainable, unfulfilled.

Fcuk Freud

If you cannot love, you might as well be 6ft under. Its like living in a desert.
I actually forgot what a woman can feel like, kept saying I'm too old now to think about anything but preparing for end of life. This has less to do with illness than just feeling like a failure at relationships and never finding someone to return love. There's always been someone who NEEDS me to lean on me, marriage or otherwise, but love... if we might define it as a feeling that has no ulterior motive except that widening of the heart, the feeling that the heart beats faster, that you want to be in that persons arms, that this love fits, feels rights.

 I think part of the problem is, therapy wise, we, therapist and I are mentally/intellectually compatible, he's stronger than I am afraid, and there've been times when I say something so spot on, he leans forward and catches himself before actually touching my hand etc. He's called me 'dear' I'm sure with no intention other than he is kind.

Since this kind of behaviour is so foreign and I am so starved for it, I would like to say fcuk Freud and the concept of transference and note that I actually love this man. I know I cant marry or be with him, he's too ethical for that-but he represents everything in a human male that I've never been blessed to live with, as a father, uncle, husband.

So as ridiculous as this may sound, I'm not sure I want to discuss 'transference' any further with staff because its denying what I feel and calling it something else to make everyone comfortable. Why cant we call it what it is, and go on from there? I'm crying for days as if my heart is breaking and this poor man has done nothing except be kind....
 

Memoir

The study admins know I'm in the process of writing a memoir-an initiative for me to do this study was to be able 'fix myself' by focusing on buried years and develop ability for healthy attachments. Its never been a problem to write about or for other people. I love my cats, but I also have children that need a healthy mother to spend some time with so they know they're loved, were loved and were not abandoned.

As for my parents...can any of us say we ever did NOT know as children when something was off? I recommend to everyone, Augusten Burroughs book, A Wolf at The Table-more troubling than the brutality a violent parent can inflict is the mixed message the other parent sends by telling us our perceptions are not what they seem, that Daddy didnt mean to touch you there, he was playing, or Daddy didnt mean to cut your mother with a glass bottle, she got in the way of the flying glass...so that after awhile your sense of reality short circuits. The other parent protects the savagery with their lies, for equally complex reasons. Co-dependency has become a cliche, but even today its difficult for women to pick up and run with kids unless she has family welcoming her or has money to fall back on. And some women cannot feel or function unless they are connected in some way, even dysfunctionally, with a man.

Maybe I knew extra early because I saw him sober and was his 'handler' as soon as I could walk and speak.
I was never allowed to bring classmates home or go to other children's homes. Never. It was a very small world, the sense of miniature and feeling safe inside are primary underlying factors of agoraphobia with me.

Roethke the poet writes about his drunk father waltzing him around as a small child, terrified as he tries holding on for dear life, his tiny feet on the tops of his father stumbling shoes--we know, we always know. But what name it had, what was wrong I didnt know until some years after he died and I had begun studying psychology etc.
The word alcoholism put some of the puzzle together but there is so much more involved, on both parents' sides.