Sickness

I see Patsy S.: my sister, my psychotherapist, my friend Sally, n Daisy and her kittens.  They’ve all come together here.

As I lay in bed moaning (see Bad Hot Dog Day) my old fiend Sally came back to me.  I cried as I haven’t ever been able to.  Tears from the heart, tears from the gut, tears, warm tears and now a little later I am up and I have the funniest feeling of warmth through my middle, as if it were busted for years and is now healed.

I see that there were both negatives and positives in each of these life-long relationships, that I was often misled in my naivety.  I didn’t see that Sally was a competitor, or my sister; even my psychotherapist, who admitted that she felt insecure around me; I didn’t realize that she was jealous.  Daisy was special, very sweet, but we had our negative moments and I wonder whether she took my mother’s attitude, they were friends, and kept a distance and a curious speculation about me.  In all these relationships I placed great trust and in all of them it was broken; with Daisy it was broken by me.

Anyway a sickness can lead to insight.  There was a Saint, I can’t remember her name, was it Julian of Norwich?  who prayed for a great illness and found that one did come upon her and in her experiences of almost dying she saw magnificent visions of Jesus.  And in my first semester in college, in a course called “Modern Intellectual History,” or something like that, I opted for the option to read novels about illness, and these have been very important to me throughout my life, especially “Tender is the Night” by F. Scott Fitzgerald.

I am finishing this post the next day, Monday.  My illness continued throughout the night, and I slept and dreamed intensely all day today, missing an eye appointment.  The next post, “Clan of the Cat,” was taken from this one, and wraps up this blog it seems; this blog continues from 5 years of writing online about life, psychoanalysis, my family, my marital family.

My last dream was about shit.  Just like at the end of the novel August from 1983, about a psychoanalysis, which my psychotherapist had me read.  I was sitting on a toilet in a lake, and the shit kept coming and coming.  Sally and Ty and the rest of the old crowd were there watching.  I filled up the whole area of the lake and then there was a thick dirty foam covering it.  Obviously I was still sick.  The foam wouldn’t dissolve or dissipate.  I woke up remembering it plus the end of the dream which I have now forgotten;  I went back to bed again after eating a bag of frozen mixed vegetables (microwaved), and laid down with my eyes closed but did not sleep as I was afraid to dream again.  Now I’m up and feeling better.

Shit represents needs, an old friend from the state hospital once told me.  The psychologist at the hospital in California told me I was suffering from too much “old shit.”

So maybe my psychoanalysis if finally over.  I’m just half-dead that’s all.

 

 

 

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