Milestone

At my final junior school summer fair, I paid some unmemorable number of pence to a palmist in an orange tent and learned that I would live to be 82 or 83. It's the only piece of information I retain from that interview. The palmist could have alerted me to me other, equally significant life-patterning events but I have no recollection.

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Visualisations

I was a mess when I got to Deirdre's consulting room yesterday. A summer cold, even more dentistry and not eating or sleeping well for days hadn't helped. I felt fragile and transparent, like I could buckle in on myself.

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A big Gestalt vomit

Mid-afternoon on the sofa, I masturbate to some bad kink fiction. It is a mechanical release so that I won't feel horny later. This morning I sat in Sigi the therapist's room and cried as I regurgitated some of my most painful memories. I talked about standing by my dad's hospital bed when I thought he was dying and he told me that he had given up trying to connect with me. We didn't use the word connect - it was 1991 - but you know what I mean.

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My Dad

It's an odd trajectory when you start writing a sex blog which becomes an open relationship angst-fest and then you find yourself writing about your dad. Where am I going with this? I had an embattled relationship with my dad. He died of cancer when I was 20. He was diagnosed when I was 13. My dad died nearly twenty years ago, which is half my lifetime. I suspect no one has exerted such a strong influence on me or shaped my character as much as he did.

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