It’s that time again. I woke up with a feeling of dread and anticipation. I have therapy tomorrow and it seems to have paralysed me. I both want it and don’t want it. There is the anxiety over whether it will be a good session or not – something I don’t always seem to have control of – and the knowledge that I must face the journey home afterwards, which can be filled with frustration and regret if I have been shut down, curled up in contorted postures of concealment and shame, or an almost-elation if there has been a sense of freedom of speech, an excited mental chattering at her, a desire to continue the conversation, which collides headlong with the knowledge that I won’t see her again for another fortnight. I always miss her most just after I’ve seen her.

I was going to use this time – while I can’t seem to think of anything except therapy anyway – to write an overview of how I have found it so far, because my reports are very much just that – reports of what was said and done in an individual session. I endeavour to make them as comprehensive as possible, but they leave out many of the currents of thoughts and feelings that swirl around the whole process, and they involve little reflection on what is happening.

But that will have to wait until later, because for the moment I am in a blind panic about the morning. I wrote these letters you see. Yes, more letters. Well, fragments of letters to be more accurate. Will I let her read these ones? I feel I have to – I feel it is a crucial step, or I am just stuck in the same old silence forever. At the same time the thought of her doing so induces such shame and terror that my mind just says a big I CAN’T. That’s where I’m stuck at the moment.

I don’t think there is any way round this, no way forwards except through. I need to take the risk of trusting her and no one else can do it for me.

I just hope it doesn’t kill me.

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