At 8am I rang the bell, there was a long pause. No reassuring click for me to enter and wait. An elderly man opened the door, ‘She isn’t here, gone out’ he said tersely.
‘Please tell her I was here’ I said, giving my full name.
The door closed. Firmly.
I went to work, Peter was surprised to see me, I had told him I would arrive after lunch. ‘She knew my mother died two days ago and she forgot me’ I said.
After the weekend I went back; a three times a week patient, it was the first one for this week. She began, as she always did, in silence. I could barely speak. ‘I left a message saying I would be coming as usual. I don’t think you heard it’ I said.
‘No, I didn’t. [pause] I am sorry’. Was all she said.
I remained silent for the rest of the 50minutes. I felt cold to the core. Still as the grave. I had nowhere else to go.
It had taken 6 months to find a suitable analyst, I had wanted to see a woman and the location was just possible from my workplace and home. She was the only name recommended to me. And now I was silent, it wasn’t fury but a strange numbness, like that moment after you are burnt, you can see the red skin, but you don’t feel anything. It’s called a full thickness burn.
We limped on. I limped on. The pain seeped through, and I cried, allot, but I couldn’t trust her not to drop me again. Then one day, as if remembering the line of a poem, she began to half speak, half sing, ‘Let me inside you, into your room, I've heard it's lined with the things you don't show’. It was a song I had carried inside for many years, my version was ‘Let me inside you, into your womb…’. I smiled, a full thickness smile and we began again. Anew.
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