April 24, 2012

Type 3

Shakey from the Ventolin, stirred up by the news, dead spy suspicious circumstances, forget about the truth, press/police/politicians corruption: likewise.  And wee man has been ill and grumpy.  Mild four year violence pretty regularly, I hate it, don't want to be scared of my own son but I am.  Naughty step/thinking space employed several times today.  He's stopped listening to the word 'No', I can't look at him as just someone else that ignores me when I say No.  Been too lax on him recently, too wrapped up in my own tiredness and struggles.  He got his appetite back today though and tomorrow is another day, he's well enough for nursery, I'm well enough to clean.

The goddam dreams.  Intense, vivid, often violent and impossible to decipher.  Family turns bad again, so I take wee man out in search of safety but the locations keep changing, Glasgow, London, Aberdeen I tell myself.  Later he's a girl, Henrietta, until a yellow car runs deliberately over us and shes scared into a cat I carry around over my shoulder.  A pub once used by Shakespeare, called something Type Trio.  It goes round and round in my head.  Type 3, Type 3, I'm Type 3 but I give nothing up.

Fun at the Fair.  I'd of loved to of been one of those girls that hung around fair grounds, snogging the boys from the waltzers.  Wee man just like me when I was little, just wanted to go in the fun houses.  They have such cool fantasy fronts. Fairytales made real.

Next time with NuShrink I'm going talk about my dad and how I cant get past him when it comes to sex.