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.