After the rain last night,
early this morning before I leave the house
about 9.30,
not to return till 4.30.
I'm already yawning with weariness by 10am.
I buy pots of fritillaries in the market - one for a dear friend and one for me.
On the couch of my therapist I uncover an old and deep fear,
"I don't want to be seen".
It helps me to understand my feeling of exposure in the house - in spite of curtains
you can see me inside - even upstairs - from the road....whether anyone is looking or not....it just recreates my sense of vulnerability.
It's also in conflict with my love of open space around me and height above me....tricky not rational.
And another grief uncovered - not only the loss of the future I expected to have with Robin,
but grieving for my own future,
living into a future for which I cannot conjure up any anticipation or excitement
or possibility at the moment.
When I put my key in the door, icy rain stinging my face, the phone is ringing. It's my architect. We talk a long time, teasing out details of placement of oven and dining table and shower and which way the doors should open. I make notes still wearing my coat - the frozen peas defrosting gently into my shopping bag.
When I doze off in front of Masterchef - must be a first for me - and try to turn the TV off with the telephone handset I know it's time to go to bed.
Thank you so much for your honesty, about not wanting to be seen and about your grief for both past and future. I identify with all you say. Bx
ReplyDeletePS I wonder if we write because it's a safe place to be seen - being seen on our terms???
Thanks for empathising dear Belinda.And yes that is a very interesting thought about writing being a safe place to be seen....and it can be risky too...although as you say we choose our terms. Xx
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