The Christmas hiatus is almost done. It’s been good in its way. Bit too much cooking on my part, but great to see people and spend time together. Everyone thinks my Christmas tree is great.
Just before the festivities kicked off, I had a bit of a minor burnout on my neuroscience project. Too much hacking, too little reality. I’m used to it so I didn’t panic, just backed up the work, took all the papers off my desk and put them into a cardboard box, and walked into another room, and another life. The night before I had woken very early and felt again the heaviness that had been building in my stomach, something I wanted to shift but couldn’t let it go. But when I got up it was easier than I thought, no dissociation, no derealisation, no cathartic emotional meltdown, just turned it off and moved on. And immediately I was back in that space that I cherish so much. Bernard Zeitlyn’s house on the outskirts of Cambridge, 0845 on Thursday mornings, 1974, the smell of fresh coffee and newly baked bread. Marie Singer (Mother Sugar), my first analyst in her cottage opposite Little St Marys, the books on linguistics, the narrow stairwell, the window frame, and that mocking chuckle “I just lerve aristocrats”. Alex, my last analyst, in 14 Fitzjohns Avenue, his infinite patience. The silent echos of a monastery, double doors to protect the secrets and lies, space and time, and honesty. Like Camus in the Wind at Djemila- “the right word here between horror and silence to express the conscious certainty of death without hope”. No more illusionment. I sat down and breathed in. I was my self again.
This morning for some reason I spent three hours sorting out my old diaries and photographs that I have kept in another cardboard box. I find it hard to describe how that left me feeling. Sad about the lost past, the hopes and opportunities, and how things turned out. I wish I hadn’t done it. Bits are missing, particularly my 20s and teens – although they would be darker. There are still loads of files to go through. Why? Isn’t memory enough? Those days are gone, the bad days thankfully are over, the good days – they are the problem, they are the ones that threaten to overwhelm.
I then started reading a book called Being Mortal which I was given for Christmas! A dear friend was having a breast scan this afternoon, and I babysat her two-year daughter. I stupidly worried about her being alone. I thought of the time when I will shut my eyes for the last time, the thought of not being is terrifying. A fog had swept in and I had completely lost my bearing. The scan was normal.
This evening I started working on “comp” rhythm and found some brilliant YouTube tutorials. I have so many plans for the new year, including going back to see my old piano teacher in Yeovil, but only after I have something to show her.
Getting tired now. I tried to watch Loveless by Andrey Zvyagintsev last night but was just too exhausted. I’ll try again now.