Where are the intimate relationships my analyst promised?by Anna Blundy / October 15, 2015 / Leave a comment
Published in November 2015 issue of Prospect Magazine
I’m sitting on a beanbag up a remote mountain in northern Italy. This isn’t the English person’s idea of a Tuscan idyll: olive groves, lanterns in the trees, a warm evening breeze and a pink glow from the sunset as the first sip of Chianti goes down and the burly villagers shout greetings from the lane. It’s raining and the house is taking on its winter chill. I’m on my own, have been on my own for days and will be on my own for…well, perhaps forever? I am sick with fear about money (there isn’t any), about my son (too far away, too vulnerable) and I’m going to try (fail?) not to drink a whole bottle of wine tonight after my daughter goes to bed. Apart from the son and daughter aspect, it feels as though nothing much has changed in my mind since 1994 when I first visited my psychoanalyst. No, wait. It has. I had money then.