The A-Z of crazy baby dreams

Christmas sister AM yoga

I will not begin with the actual dream which I fear would be tone deaf: it conjures memories of a colleague who might sit a little too close at break time and recounts in dull, claustrophobic detail their whole dream sequence from the night before. Or maybe I feel that breathlessly arriving and opening my mouth to let a vivid, recurring dream or nightmare tumble out belongs in the realm of the psychoanalytic couch. It would be bad form elsewhere, and it belongs in a room where the rules of listening and being-with and reciprocity are different.

I value dreams. I don’t know if all dreamers interpret their dreams as emotional codes that need thinking about and puzzling and mulling over, but I do. It is good leisure time sport, like knitting or cooking. I think of dreams as little arrows to the heart, pricking me. They urge me, telling me something I half know or need to know on a deeper, more gut-and-bone know.

I flew to Canada to spend Christmas with my sisters and I quit my job in education at roughly the same time. Both were exciting moves and I feel I relearn this paradoxical truth often: with every birth of something new, a loss looms on the horizon and gestures to a death that must be grieved at the same time. My son is old enough to leave for a week now, which is a momentous milestone. He can bear my absence and enjoy spending time and bonding with other significant attachment figures. Although I am so grateful that I am not-needed enough to spend a significant amount of time away from him, to claim a little more of ‘a self to return to,’ a task Adrienne Rich says all mothers must do, I am saddned by this shift in our dynamic. He is my baby and he fits differently in my arms year after year. He does not nap on my chest anymore and I am not the only person he runs to now when he hurts himself or wants to be soothed. We do not spend the majority of our days together, now that he is in school. I loved seeing my sisters but by the end of the week I felt a hunger to smell his head and hold him. The ocean between us frightened me. And I love my new job, it was time to grow and spread my wings in a different sector, but I also miss my former staffroom, my former colleagues, many of whom I knew before my son was born. I miss their banter and comraderie and stolen minutes of quick coffee breaks and raucus lunchtimes in the staff room.

In my Yin yoga practice, a question the mat has taught me to ask is, ‘when?’ The mat is where I meet myself, and it is the place where shame and anxiety and fear and sadness pool inside me. When I am twisted up and still, I might become aware of a feeling welling up inside me. Does it belong to the past, the present or the future? Is it an old wound from childhood I need to bear witness to, or is it something that is bugging me about my current circumstances, or something I am dreading or wanting for the future? It sounds like an obvious question, ‘when is this feeling happening?’ but it is not always easy for me to discern when a feelings belongs to: emotional truth is written in our limbic systems and coded in our heartbeat and adrenal glands and they don’t bear time stamps. An airplane journey across the Atalntic when I am thirty six can transport me back into the psyche of fourteen year old me, trapped on a plane, leaving her home and friends, helpless, tearful and very, very young. The question of when is multi-layered, associative, flat, collapsing. It takes time and intentionality to parse and fashion into an artifact.

I dreamt of holding a baby. I woke up, every time, pinched with longing. The dream stung me. It recurred for weeks. The baby suckled and cooed and nuzzled into my neck. When? Is this a future baby, one that I long for but do not yet have- maybe I want another kid? Is this a present baby, symbolising the growth that traveling to my sisters and my new job and identity-outside-of-mother and professional life that I have recently claimed? When I realised it was a past baby, a baby I was missing, it was not a new baby, it was a familiar body, I body I had cared for, a particular relationship. The sound of him latching on when he nursed. Maybe I didn’t need to dream it again, once I realised I was missing my infant son: at any rate the recurring dream stopped. And grief flooded me. The weird thing about dreams is they are pure metaphor: one symbol gestures to the next, which then gestures to the next association like reading a poem and the image unfolds a little more and takes up a little more space in my soul, echoing a little more, reverberating off the sides with each emotional resonance I bring to it. And suddenly, I was not just missing my infant son, I was missing the smell of my therapist’s old consulting room and the way my spine felt on the couch when I lay on it. And bearing witness to the teenage girl who was forced onto a plane to go live an ocean away from everything she knew. And reckoning with the loss of my colleagues I had only said goodbye to a few weeks ago. And I keep thinking of Thomas Lux’s beautful poem ‘A Little Tooth,’ about parental letting go and the lines from Louise Macniece’s poem, ‘Prayer before birth.’ Babies.They get born and grow and change and get bigger and it is a relief and joy and also incredibly sad; new flourishing and passing away are always intimately connected to one another. I grieve while I grow.

Copyright Diana Smith 2020

I learned allot about the poetry of Free Association by reading psychoanalyst Christopher Bollas ‘The Evocative Object World,’ and ‘The Infinite Question.’

Adrienne Rich’s book on motherhood, ‘Of Woman Born,’ continues to inspire me.

You can find ‘Prayer Before Birth,’ here https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/prayer-before-birth/

And ‘A Little Tooth’ here https://poetrysociety.org/poetry-in-motion/a-little-tooth-1

📸 My sisters joining me for some morning Yin in Canada this Christmas

Scrooge’s darkness is in me

I did not realise how Scrooge I am until I sat on the sofa, clutching my knees to my chest and sobbing at BBC adaptation of Dickens classic A Christmas Carol. I am Scrooge sometimes: Guy Pearce’s numb, ‘the most hard done by’ self-pitying, defensive, ‘I did no worse than any other businessman,’ version of the character. His portrayal swirls with depth, psychological complexity and sensitivity: I am simultaneously rooting for him to find his soul and face his (significant) demons (there are at least two harrowing scenes that gesture to his childhood trauma) and also I am repelled by his subtle dissociative behaviours of counting and intellectualising, by his inability to, as one spirit says, ‘only see what was done to you, not what was done for you.’ I did not know that Dickens’s hard-hitting Victorian moralising could be updated with some gorgeous writing, acting and cinematography but evidently it can be; Scrooge moved me to confront my own apathy and I found myself weeping with the conviction that I too, like him, do not seek absolution or redemption- those narratives that centre on restored innocence are beside the point, they side step the question of the pain and harm he has caused the Other. ‘Remember,’ the spirit of Christmas present says, sternly, kindly, ‘this is not about you.’ The moment of transformation is not situated in the erasure of Scrooge’s sins but in the realisation that it is possible to effect change, that actions matter, that it is better to be pricked by ‘pins and needles’ and feel connected to humanity than to be holed up in one’s head, that while his own suffering exists he has always had a choice: to use his suffering to connect him to his own tender heart and humanity or to wall himself in. The gut sobs came when the truth landed in me: that I have been complicit in various forms of oppression by my silence and apathy. I cannot be let off the hook any more than Scrooge can, and besides, that isn’t the point. ‘There is so much more work for you to do, spirit of Christmas past, present and future,’ the final words of the series haunt me, and I know they will do their work in my heart the same as they did in Scrooge.

It is time to unfurl

When a metaphor haunts me, I heed it. Alice came to me after work most days this autumn, smashing through the ceiling in her stripey stockings and hunching awkwardly in the rabbit hole she had outgrown. I would see her, like an apparition, all of the sudden too violently too big and unwieldly, uncomfortable in her ungangly positions, all knees and elbows. One Saturday morning I pulled down my copy of Alice in Wonderland from my bookshelf and squinted at the iconic illustration. Yes, that is exactly how I felt. Cramped and uneasy: I closed my eyes and imagined blowing up my life. I imagined bearing down with all my weight on those cartoon dynamite levers, the kind that blow tunnels through mountains and make holes. I needed a bigger hole to sit in. So I did it. I am leaving the education sector. Ten years ago, back in September 2009, I was so excited about equipping kids with the tools to change their lives and I am still excited about that but the changes in education mean I have been increasingly unable to use my hard-won skillset. I found myself cornered into more tick-box work that was pushing students towards attainment at the expense of teaching literacy and lifeskills they need to decode and access their world and flourish and build a life they want to live in. Alice haunted me and told me my soul was dying and I was in danger of suffocating here: I blew open my life and I am starting a different role in the social care sector in mid- January in a job that will enable me to do what I love doing, equipping people with the tools they need to forge a life they can flourish in. 

But I don’t think I am finished blowing up my life. I have so much to give, and, with joy, it occurs to me that no one is stopping me from giving it. I am not going to ‘shrink from touching my power,’ as Adrienne Rich chastises me, in her poem, Hunger. I call myself a writer, but that doesn’t mean I have to use my big, gorgeous voice to write a novel. I can use it for whatever the hell I want! It is my creative libido, and I want to wield it to create a world I want to live in, that is humane and just and gorgeous. I can write letters for Amnesty International #writeforrights or use it to write letters to my friends or use it to advocate or amplify concerns and voices and injustices. I can spend my privilege. I have so much to spend. I can take risks and protest and speak truth to power because I have leisure time now that my kid is older and I am able to choose not to have another one, I have an able body, a support network, emotional agility and pretty good mental health from years of expensive therapy, I have the credibility that white skin and a middle-class pattern of speech buys. I have a neurotypical mind. I have the anchor of a stable family life and I have enough financial stability to own a flat in London and buy nice vegetables. My right to remain in this country is no longer precarious. I need to spend this privilege. I do not want to live in a world where I am disconnected and helpless, watching greed strip the most marginalised and vulnerable of their fair share, their dignity, their breath and sanity because I am not free if I am silently complicit, if I stand by and watch it happen without putting up a fight. But I have more than fight in me. I have an opus in me. I want to join (I am late to the feast, I know) the great work that others have been doing. I want to add my voice, my time, my energy, my money, my power to everyone else who is already effecting change. 

Alice is no longer haunting me now that I have decided I refuse to be small and powerless. Instead, now I bring to mind the suffragette statue of Millicent Fawcette in Parliment Square. If there was ever a time to unfurl a banner, ‘Courage calls to courage everywhere,’ 2020 is the year to do it.

Hail Mary, hold the baby

The most recent walk began at Crossbones cemetery. There is a Mary grotto in the graveyard dedicated to the ‘Winchester Geese,’ the sex workers who are buried there, outside the boundaries of the city. Into the metal grating, for her, I tucked a cheap plastic baby Jesus I pinched from a nativity set. Hail Mary, please hold this baby for me so I can roam and feel free. I know in my bones, this thing. That someone always needs to hold the baby so I can experience release. There has to be someone who, sometimes for us, can hold psychic babies, the screaming infants who are all hunger and un-metabolised feeling, someone who can connect with us in the throes of our human struggles. (Sometimes I just need someone who can hold the real, literal baby so I can leave home. I guess historically women have done this for men). I imagine what it might be like to walk the city ‘like a boy,’ enjoying their privilege. I walked Maiden lane (now the primly named ‘Park Street’) and the old stews, imagined the brothels and playhouses. I wondered, as I stood in the the narrow cobbled alleyway still called Stew Lane, where you could get a boat to ‘The Clink’, what it might feel like to cross the river in search of adventure. No responsibility or ties, nobody’s mother or wife, anonymous. Just a ferry to the Southbank, and then another boat back home, crossing back again when I have gotten my fill of thrill.

Tentatively, I have started sharing with my husband the stuff that I don’t have answers for, the knots I have gotten myself into, telling him about my restless heart and all the stuff I can’t figure out by myself. When I am feeling restless and angry and claustrophobic or anxious or too crazy to think. I tell him when I need to roam. I call this telling surrender. It brings relief.

We can all do this labour of holding and witnessing for one another. It takes strength and an open heart but it is one of the kindest gestures I can think of offering and one I appreciate receiving. I grew up telling myself I had to have my shit together all the time. That was how I survived childhood and it is a good tactic. but I don’t want that identity anymore. I want to let go sometimes and be the person who doesn’t always have the right answer. I want permission to be a mess, to be all running mascara and claim the space to fall apart.

Last weekend I took some time to walk the city and (literally!) stumbled across a sign advertising the ruins of the old Rose theatre on Park Lane in dodgy Southwark. I took a photo of the dark, jauntily lit ruins. The Tudor playhouse smelled of Thames dirt and rust and damp muddy wood. I felt a little more human, a little more grounded after my roam. It felt good to claim the space for my soul.

I can seek holding when I feel the need for surrender welling up in me, but my son doesn’t have words for this need yet. I interpret his erratic behaviour as a bid for connection. When I do this labour for my son I call it, ‘containing his behaviour,’ when he squeals and leaps like a wild colt after a day at school and he can’t sleep or sit still or regulate himself, I try to offer him a little of what I have craved, the sense of letting go. Of letting someone else do the thinking and metabolising for a little while so he doesn’t have to be good all the time, so he can fall apart and know that I will be present for him. My deepest hope is that when he is older like me he can ask someone else for this labour without shame and that he will open heartedly offer it to people he loves without embarrassment. He sleeps most soundly after he has picked some fight with me and howled at my limit setting. Often, maybe he asks for something he knows I will say no to and I can tell he is on the edge of tears, he needs to get it off his chest, he needs me to say no so he can cry and wail and shout and be angry and have someone catch him. And then hold him close once all the sobs are out.

Today I instinctually said a Hail Mary under my breath and I said it feeling all the longing. I said all the words but I know she understood that I meant hail Mary, hold the baby because I need someone strong enough to catch me.

 Copyright Diana Smith 2019

Slipshod mountain over Blake

I discovered ‘mountain’ pose by accident, I landed into it, slipshod, when I fell out of ‘tree’ one morning and now it’s maybe my favourite position to pray or meditate in. It felt so delicious to stand like that, catching my breath after a series of haphazard warriors and a wobbly tree and some wonky downward facing dogs and I reckoned it must be a ‘real’ yoga pose it felt too good not to be- a quick google afterwards gave me the word for it. I am all lengthened spine and firm sole when I take my stand in it.

The last few weeks have been a whirlwind of endings and beginnings. I started work again full time for the first time since he was born and he started school. This is end-of-an-era stuff, I am not so needed, my identity is shifting again and I feel unsteady, shaky, a little tense and kind of exhausted. He is tossed at sea too: his SOS in a bottle washes up at bedtime and when I leave the flat and at the school gates and anywhere he can assert himself, anywhere there are limits or thresholds. Bathtimes, mealtimes, goodbyes. His instinct is to throw his weight around, push the (shifting) boundaries to find out where he still holds power. He has not chosen any of this and he is trying to find purchase, a grip, where does he exert control, where the limits of his autonomy begin and end. I respect his process: he is deft at thinking his way through problems in his play. After the tears, the superhero cape comes out and the plastic power tools and the boats get bombed in the bath, sink and then bob back up again. He plays at omnipotence and mending things and resurfacing after the blast and it looks so satisfying.

And my instinct is to play too. I find myself at Blake’s grave again, I offer him a single stem of crimson and sunlight petals that looks like one of his etchings. I find myself taking my stand in ‘mountain’, astonished by ground under my feet that is sacred ground of lunatic dissenters. In front of me, Blake, behind me, Defoe. There is a place here for the ones who don’t quite fit, the crazy misfits who wanted do their own thing, who were not cowed by convention or institution, who chose to stay uncomfortable. There is a place, it is called Bunhill fields and it is just outside the City of London, this is the place where they buried the ones who stood their ground. They did not like being told what to do or how to live. I said a prayer for the soul of my fierce son, wished him some dissenter’s courage, hoped he would keep a hold of his soul and assert his autonomy when faced with challenges that are not of his choosing. I breathed a few breaths for myself, prayed to keep touch with my soul during this transition. And standing there, I could breathe again, I could feel that ground under the soles of my feet and I feel it is my ground too, it connects us all.

Copyright Diana Smith 2019

The slinky of devotion

In an astonishing gesture of extravagance, we missed our flights. Or skipped them. Normally I can talk him down from his particular insanities and he from mine, we’re nicely codependent in that way. But when he remarked the night before our romantic getaway to Rome that he felt weird about leaving the four year old behind in a different country from us, the unease that had been politely coiled in my chest all week loosened and spiralled out. Once it gained momentum, my devotion collapsed over itself, moving haphazard down the steps like a stupid, bobbing slinky obeying some dumb force of inevitability. And this is what a fired up attachment system feels like when it gets going, an unhinged, out-of-control, runaway slinky. So we didn’t go to Rome in the end. We didn’t see the Colosseum or drink wine or watch the sunset together. Instead we left the kid in the flat with my sister (as planned) and booked some a cheap Premier Inn room in the same city as our kid and ate trashy snacks and read and napped and went to the pub. I’m not proud of our behaviour.

Devotion is costly. It is crazy. It runs its own course. It writes its own rules. I really wish I was not the sort of mother who has the urge to raid the laundry hamper and smell her kid’s clothes when he goes to nursery but I am. It’s weird and reeks of compulsion. I talk endlessly about needing more headspace and time to myself and then when I get it because the kid is finally being looked after by paid professionals, I walk into the silent flat, sit down on the sofa and do not write or read or do anything productive. I weep and open a bottle of prosecco, partly out of celebration and partly out of sorrow that he is growing up so quickly. In the same vein of over the top gestures of unhinged devotion I think I might have become vegan out of grief this week. He’s going to school the first week in September and it suddenly occurred to me that mother cows and baby cows are being torn apart all over the UK by industrial farming. Suddenly I can’t bring myself to eat cheese or put cream in my coffee. It feels wrong. In some kind of gut, panting -Labrador heart logic, the same limbic system that makes me sweat and pulse with cortisol and metallic tinged palpitations when I contemplate leaving the county without my kid is the same limbic system I share with all mammals. It’s weird to think the thing that I reckon makes me most human is the thing that paradoxically is my most animal self. I’m kind of in awe of it actually. I like how at odds with myself it makes me, what a stranger I become. My logical self that wants a romantic holiday with my husband to explore Rome is at odds with my devoted animal mother self who probably wants to curl up in the laundry hamper with some jam stained t shirts. I don’t know how to reconcile these parts of me so until then I’m just going to drink tinned cocktails in bed like the trashy mad bad sad lady I am with my husband in a hotel room no more than 3.5 miles away from my son and call that a romantic weekend away.

Copyright Diana Smith 2019

Not to shine in use

Rewind two or three weeks ago to Russel Square tube station, me fighting back tears as I accused my husband of a thought crime and he responded to my mad.bad.sad lashing out by generously offering to spend the afternoon with the kid so I could connect to myself. Sometimes his goodness kills me.

I said yes but I felt guilty for not checking in with myself before I took it out on him. I should have acknowledged how frazzled and crazy I felt. I have been doing allot of childcare (standard- it’s summertime) but I had also had allot of time for myself. I’ve recently started taking boxing classes which I adore and I have had quite allot of evenings of meeting friends for drinks and time to read in bed and nap and go wild swimming and do yoga and cook elaborate meals. I’m not running on fumes or living on scraps and yet I WAS STILL IN A BAD MOOD

But maybe one thing is missing from that list. Which is writing. I stopped writing for a few months because I wanted to goad myself into doing something with my psychegeographer content. I told myself I wasn’t allowed to write anymore essays till I’d done the slog montage of finding agents and carefully reading through and editing and writing cover letters. I thought maybe that would motivate me to slay the hydras I’m scared of: boring admin and critical editors and rejecting agents. All the usual monsters encountered when on personal Odyssey.

It turns out writing keeps me sane. When I don’t make time to write I suffer. I feel like a jammed photocopier. I feel like experience is souring inside me. I swallow life and then it just sits in me, unthought about and plugs/clogs/numbs/builds like residue. It’s gross, it’s ugly, more than once over the last few weeks I’ve mumbled to myself (pretentiously), ‘how dull it is to pause/to make an end/to rust unburnish’d not to shine in use.’ Rather than the narrative of artist as mad, I am finding evidence that I’m writer-as-sane. I shine in use. I am a better mother and lover and friend when I make time to write. When I finally let myself sit down and put some words onto a page a few weeks ago, I felt relief. So in addition to setting sail on a little publishing odyssey to see far away isles and discovering whether someone might want to bind and print my lunatic ravings about motherhood and psychoanalysis, I’m going to keep writing my essays and publishing them regularly on my blog. Maybe not once a week but often enough. I don’t want to make any money- I don’t need or want to make a living off my writing. I have a job I adore and a little flat in the ‘burbs and I have a room of my own and enough space and leisure time to think and I have a voice and lots to say- but what I do need is audience. Good readers make me into a better writer but mostly I love the intimacy of autobiographical essay writing, the way it opens me up and connects me to others, the way I shine in use.

Copyright Diana Smith 2019, Thameside PAUL London

The title of this post and the poem I’m quoting from is Tennyson’s Ulysses

The drama of birth: a subject fit for literature

I wish the drama of birth was a literary subject. A few days after giving birth, when I was stitched and bleeding and bruised and weeping at two pm on midwives who would come and peer at my wounds and talk in gentle, encouraging tones about my milk coming in, I googled famous birth scenes in literature. I found a few rants about the lack of serious, literary writing on the subject and a paltry list of authors who had attempted it. Hemingway, Dostoevsky, Atwood.

I understand all the omertàs. Birth stories are still something we joke about, that are often confined to typo-ridden confessional comment threads and forums. Our stories are fissured into tribes and corralled into the ghettos of the anecdotal. Not until we try and read universal truths into any birth story we come across- the way we generously read men’s stories of war and love and death, the way we step into their shoes and try and extract meaning about the human condition from their very particular, gendered experience, will we succeed in taking the subject of birth seriously enough to write good fiction about it. We have to get better at generosity. At dignifying every sort of birth with the sort of lavish attention that makes meaning-making possible. When there are hierarchies and moralities (and pregnancy and birth are absolutely structured by all sorts of dogma about natural birth and breast feeding and idealised madonnas instead of good enough mothers), then there are codes of silence and shame instead of a rich field of experience to write from. In psychoanalytic terms, until we collectively integrate all of our experience, the good, the bad and the ugly, we will be forced to write very one-dimensionally. As I write this, I am listening to a chorus of judgmental women in my mind: memories of voices who have dismissively told me birth wasn’t that bad, maybe I’ll forget it, that a c-section is a violent way for a baby to enter the world. As if all birth isn’t violent, as if it were possible to peacefully, innocently give birth. Not until every kind of birth is validated and we de-manacle our minds from high-horse madonnas looming over us and chiding us into giving birth ‘the right way’ will we be able to claim our own material.

One of my friends who had an elective C-section evocatively described her experience as feeling like she was a washing up bowl being reached into and rummaged around inside of. Such an extraordinary image. If we choose to pay attention- not to the manner of birth and how close or not is measures to some ideal notion of birth- instead, if we turned our focus to the quality of the woman’s experience, the descriptive possibility, the words she uses to describe the minutiae of felt, embodied experience, if we turned our focus away from the ethics and towards an acceptance of the drama of it all, I think we would be astonished. I think everyone would stop reading about war and death and love. I think no one would be able to tear themselves away from the drama of birth.

All the elements of great literature are available. The joy of waking up at midnight, soaked from my own waters breaking. The violence of my fractured tailbone, the agony of contractions, my inability to speak or make anything but gutterel, animal braying. The moment they all rushed in because his shoulder caught inside me and they weren’t sure he could breathe. The excruciating stitches after and the torturous fantasies of messy scarring and bulging organs and unhealed wounds. Passionately pumping every few hours so my milk would come in for him; weeping with the midwife as she reassured me that I WAS indeed breastfeeding if he was latched on, even if I had to supplement with formula. The strange, cancerous molar pregnancy I suffered before R came into being, when they scanned me and there was nothing but some sort of fertilised growth in my womb, not even an embryo but a kind of tissue that made pretty patterns on the sonographers screen but would need to be sucked and scraped out of me. This is such rich, fertile material, and so many of us are not free to draw on this as a proper literary subject. And it is a shame because there is so much to say, so many paradoxes and violences and euphoria to lay out and examine.

Copyright Diana Smith 2018

Tomorrow I’m ending therapy with the man who gave me a soul

Cindy Lauper’s ‘Time after time’ has just come on in the café I’m writing in- its the song I’ve sung to my therapist recently as our nine year analysis draws to an end. I’m bawling into my hot chocolate and wiping the tears as I write, thinking yes. He looked and he found me time after time. And I’ve fallen and he’s caught me time after time. A suitcase of memories… I’m a soppy, sentimental foolish girl but also the power ballad speaks to how I have experienced my therapist’s relentless search to find me. I was buried alive when I first entered his consulting room, crushed under the weight of my solipsistic self-recriminations, suffocated in apologies, mummified by inhibition. There was no way I was going to bust open the coffin by myself and scoop the earth out one fistful at a time till I reached the surface. When I first arrived on his couch all I could do was lay there, supine, helpless, entombed in embryonic silence without any hope he even knew I was down there. I think if I had died, they wouldn’t have found scratch marks on the lid of the coffin- I’d given up on anyone reaching me, any chance at human connection. I didn’t even know I was slowly asphyxiating. I’d gotten used to my shallow breaths that barely took in what I so desperately craved: attention, presence, kindness, compassion, the company of others.

Well folks, he found this zombie. Dead-then-undead. Here I am. Over three evenings a week, over and over again, time after time, he kept digging till he reached me. The reason I can weep in my therapy sessions over the last month is because he kept going till he made contact, till he clasped my hand and pulled me out: I emerged, shallow breaths, wobbly legs, blinded by the sun, stunned at the rhythm of my pulse, astonished at my capacity for heart.

I don’t know if everyone experiences therapy as sacred. I have grappled with how much he has meant to me, how much I owe him, how deeply I have loved him. I’m aware I pay him by the hour and he has been professionally trained- this is a weird paradox that I can’t untangle. For those of us who needed more than just a kind ear and a bit of compassion to heal our childhood wounds- for those of us who were left for dead psychically speaking- those of us who were hopelessly damaged in ways that would make even the most experienced therapist balk- enlivening us is a heroic act. I have used him in ways I could never use a friend or a partner. Partners and friends require reciprocity, some giving in addition to taking. I needed a deeply unequal relationship. The kind where one person was doing most of the heavy lifting for a long while, the way parents do for babies. I urgently needed someone to run and grab a shovel and start digging. I needed an intensely consistent, attuned relationship- the kind that, if you’re lucky, you get offered once as an infant and then never again- one far beyond the scope of what could be sanely asked for from the usual channels of relating. Sometimes I think it is even more than what I could ask of a therapist: it would have been very reasonable of him to throw up his hands and say, too hard. I can’t reach you, you are too wounded. Especially in those first few years when I didn’t turn up to my sessions or turned up drunk or turned up silently absorbed in my own internal thrashings, unable to ask for help. He spent allot of time waiting for me to turn up in every sense- and when Cindy sings ‘I will be waiting,’ I erupt into more sobbing. It gets me in the gut. What an extraordinary thing to do for another human.

I have never trusted anyone as much as I have this man, I have never leaned on anyone with all my weight in the way I have relied on him. No one has ever seen me so skinless. He holds my whole history, and by taking all of me in he has made it possible for me to claim my story. I am more alive with him than I am anyone else: I crackle with humour and intelligence in front of him. He was the first person to call me into being, to invite me to exist as I am. He was the first person to see who I am when I am unashamed and ‘unleashed’ as he calls it, the way I am now most of the time, the way I move through the world now.

I feel so tender at the moment. In the sense of being both a little bit sore and also with a staggering capacity to be affected by cheesy pop on the radio or something beautiful someone says. I am weepy and grateful and a little shambolic but alive. So alive. And I’ll say goodbye to him on Friday.

Copyright Diana Smith 2018

Choose your own apocalypse: On walking Daniel Defoe’s Journal of a Plague Year

Those of us who have crazy parents don’t get to choose the apocalypse we are born into. Whatever it is our parents fear- be it bombs, the middle-classes, nuclear holocaust, public transport, germs, bad table manners, being shown up- gets transmitted to their kids, and we, as their children are forced into living their perception, their as-if existence. I lived the the jungles of Costa Rica and in the suburban, homeschooled deserts of Arizona where my parents could feed their schizoid worldview in peace. Keep the kids away from schools, from churches who didn’t have the right theology, from brain-dead institutions, from ignorant neighbours who didn’t agree, from the spying government, from supermarket loyalty cards that might track our canned bean choices. We never choose which delusions and paranoias will be our inheritance: our parents get to decide who we will be frightened of and how much we hate the outside world, how armed we shall be when we leave the (sometimes literal) bunker. If we’re lucky, if we choose to do the work, we might slowly come to realise we can disarm and there was no need for (the sometimes literal) bunker and rifles and (sometimes literal) self-defence lessons by ex-Chilean army officers. At some point we might come blinking out into the sunlight to discover that the apocalypse never really happened- but what do we do with the rifles, the memories of the bunker, the synapses that can’t be pruned, our reptilian knowing. What do we do with our unchosen apocalypse.

Choosing to walk an apocalypse is maybe a weird decision for someone who claims to have lived through her parent’s own personal one, and who generally hates that genre of film and writing. I can see that. I have chosen to read and re-read a text and walk particular bits of the city that bear an uncanny resemblance to the textures of my childhood. But maybe it is that quality in the writing that draws me to it, the voice that masquerades as journalistic reporting although it trades more in fantasy than in facts. I want in on Defoe’s hysterical, fevered apocalypse, saturated as it is with screams and boils and melodrama. I infinitely prefer it to the pared down, austere one of Mcarthy’s The Road. Defoe gives me permission to play- the Plague of 1665 is mine to take, because he made it his, first of all: the crazy religious language in Journal of a Plague year, the descriptions of infected houses having a foot-long Red Cross painted on their door and the words, ‘Lord have mercy on our souls,’ painted, in my imagination, in scarlet and maybe over a lintel or something. I imagine the claustrophobic screams of terrified plague victims who are quarantined to pest houses and their own rooms. That was the word my mom used to use when she would send us to our rooms. ‘Quarantined.’ ‘You are quarantined to your room girls until you apologise.’ I love the long, internal theological debates the narrator gets himself into about providence and should I stay or should I go with spurious capitals and labrynthine syntax and no punctuation for miles. The indignity of mass graves and plague pits, the despair, the evacuation of the city, the isolation and mistrust. My mother would pray to god before we drove to the air-conditioned supermarket to buy packets of pasta and mincemeat and bags of apples, pray for protection, for a safe journey and successful shopping, addressing the angels to keep charge over us, especially Michael the archangel, and then she’d smoke a cigarette or two at the steering wheel to calm her nerves.

When I walk the narrow alleyways described by Defoe with others like I did on Sunday, I get some control over the apocalypse. I get to choose this one and how I interact with it. I’m not a victim of circumstance anymore, I get to have a little bit of control, I get to make some decisions. And I got to do it with friends, as an adult, on my own terms, one foot in my own imagination and memory, playfully. And maybe this is the logic of play therapy, when I practice psychogeography like this. The thing that I fear is the thing that is transformed, through play, into something that I can use for for the development of my own identity-to add psychic weight to my soul. Because this is a way of claiming my own past, of stepping into the heart of pain rather than denying my history or disavowing that story or numbing my feelings about my upbringing. Walking the plague allows me to go back into the trauma but at a safe distance. I did not get to choose the flavour of apocalypse my parents put us through- and it changed and shaped my psyche and palette for melodrama and language and religious fervour in ways that are still surprising me. But perhaps I could have some say in how I choose to play with my history. This is grown up play. This is proper make-believe for thirty somethings. And I love walking the city like this, and I’m grateful other people want to come play with me.

Copyright Diana Smith 2018

I’m deeply grateful to Anna Hart http://www.airstudio.org who transmitted, through her walking practice, how valuable reverie and dipping into internal, subjective space is during a walk. Before I joined her weekly Kings Cross walking club in 2015, I thought psychogeography was largely a fact-saturated affair, consisting mainly of turning attention outward toward the city in an frenzy of objectivity. Her monthly silent walks cured me of this notion and taught me how rich, how satisfying it can be to pay attention to imagination and not just buildings and shared histories.

I’m also deeply grateful to Michael who asked on Sunday’s walk, ‘So, why do you want to walk the plague?’ Great question.

Daniel Defoe’s Journal of The Plague Year is published by penguin and is a cracking good read

If you fancy coming on my next walk, you can find more information here

📸 Photo credit: Kat Haylett

Reveries of a mum on the psychoanalytic couch