annanotbob2's Diaryland Diary

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Quick, just write!

I hate not writing and I don't know what to do so I paused the telly and I'm going to keep going for ten minutes and see what occurs - it's like morning pages, but in the evening and I'll correct it after instead of never looking at it again.
Therapy. Fuck. She gave me a book to read - Running on Empty - not Jackson Browne but about emotional neglect in childhood and how you don't even know what you didn't get - they weren't cruel, they didn't beat you, maybe they even gave you lots of nice stuff - to be honest I don't even know what it was I didn't get, and then failed to give my children, but I know there was something and that was it. I remember having a row with Ma (stepmum) who yelled at me that she'd fed me and put clothes on my back and what more did I want? (The 'for fuck's sake' was only implied). I wish I'd had the knowledge to shout back 'Maybe a cuddle from time to time, would that be too much to ask, for a kid whose mother died? Eh?'
We're still going over the background - she, therapist, comes armed with a list of questions - she read out the ones not yet answered today - sex and violence came into it, that looks like another fun session, remembering how they're linked in my mind, after being linked in my life.
I want to tell her about my leg too - this book said if you suppress your emotions they can emerge as physical pain, like the pain in my leg that arrived just after my brother died, lingered just below the unbearable for a couple of years, then went mental when lockdown arrived, and is excruciating now, but still no physical cause has been found. I always fear it's bone cancer as my friend Sue had a pain in her leg that turned out to be bone cancer, far too late for any action, dead six weeks after diagnosis.
It's probably not that - I think that would come up in blood tests and I've had loads of them.
I'm going to stay with Son at the weekend, maybe swim in Hampstead ponds, but I have to get there first - driving to a new part of London on my own - the sensible route takes me along by the first care home, back where Sammie used to live. I feel really scared of it, I'd go on the train but I have to take a bed to sleep on. It will be OK once I start driving but this bit, the beforehand, is awful. Ah well.
There were two adverts on telly just now that featured people doing beach cleaning - one for DFS - cheap shit sofas that don't last five minutes, and Persil washing liquid, that comes in plastic, non-refillable bottles. All shit.

11:07 p.m. - 09.06.21

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