Miracle of miracles, I think I may have found myself a psychotherapist at long long last. Unsurprisingly these will be private sessions not provided by the NHS as, despite my parlous financial situation, I simply could not wait any longer. Waiting too long, as with other medical conditions, can be the difference between life and death. As Irvine Welsh suggests, I 'choose life'.
So right now I'm very emotional because not only can they see me as their one and only discounted financial hardship client, but they can start seeing me tomorrow. As they said just now on the phone, it does seem as if our finding each other was meant to be.
Thanks for reading. Here's a poem I wrote so long ago and never sent anywhere. Don't know why, I think that it might have something about it that's maybe worth a minute of your time.
am i torn?
don’t make me laugh. in two
pieces, or is it more? don’t juggle
my perception of the world
and leave me bleeding, torso
on the floor, separated from my legs,
a trickle seeping through the cracks
of the linoleum, beneath broken
bulbs; upstairs, behind the flaking paint
of number 62’s locked door.
/
you can’t tear me apart with words.
that isn’t real. your hands might render life
harder than it was & you could kill,
smother it with more than kisses
for a final breath to loosen love
that can’t be lost; it can’t be found,
you cannot hold it, consume it,
or devour it if it can’t be seen;
& that’s the thing,
/
if i have love that isn’t there
& holding hurts but doesn’t tear
then who can say that they are torn—
except the one who brings us here;
the one who cries with love, with fear
that never leaves, the moment you are born
Robert Harper