Who is this person in whose mind I might occupy a small space and to whom I’ll tell my actual dreams?by Anna Blundy / June 18, 2015 / Leave a comment
It was a grey, low cloud London day. I stomped down the road from where I’d parked to my psychoanalyst’s remarkable-for-being-unremarkable house. I have been for supervision at other analysts’ houses—one super-modern thing down a track by Hampstead Heath, another a soft-lit, creamy mansion in Maida Vale. My analyst lives near motorways, a massive football stadium, a kebab shop. My analyst.
The first time I came here I parked right outside. That’s how long ago it was. Before parking restrictions. I probably had a shaking hangover; I certainly hadn’t slept for three nights in a row; I was dressed up to look confident, properly held together, sexy and intimidating. I believed myself to be all those things, ignoring as extraneous to my personality my fear of the Tube, lifts, flying, tunnels, night-time, unexpected noise, terrorism, fire… well, you get the picture.
I climbed the carpeted stairs in 1994, probably sneering at the house’s location (aforedescribed), décor (neutral), the style of the coats on the pegs (outdoorsy), the art on the walls (prints of buildings). How on earth could someone so obviously ordinary be of help to someone so obviously extraordinary (me)? There is literature in psychology about “the freedom to be ordinary” and, 20 years later I have a labrador dog and an estate car, teenaged children and a buggered-up ankle from running. Arriviste?
Yesterday I was comforted by the smell of the house, climbing the stairs of a family home in which the kids have grown up and gone in the years I’ve been visiting; art on the walls that documents the places that are precious to this family; coats in which they’ve…