Behind the couch

I came of age career wise under the weight of psychoanalytic thinking where your internal world was the richest place imaginable and although there might be things happening to you in your external world, those things only mattered in so far as they could be viewed through the majesty or horror of your inner world. 

That’s why as an aspiring trainee therapist I longed for the day when I would feel brave enough to suggest to the people who came to see me for help that they rest their heads on my couch, their eyes hidden from my view as I sat in a chair behind them, rather like my analyst did when I began to see her in the mid-eighties, an experience of which I was terrified, until I first tried it myself.

Once on the couch, I could not resist that space.

I could lie there on my back, close my eyes and fire away from the depths of my mind, whatever thoughts or feelings came to me, knowing that Mrs Milanova was behind me listening to my every word and trying to make sense of it all for and with me. 

I could not see her as I lay on her couch. I could hear her breathing and on those few occasions when she snorted loudly into her handkerchief to blow her nose, I was indignant.

I could not see her to anticipate the sound, to me like geese honking. I’ve been sensitive to this ever since.  

When I’m seated behind the couch, listening to the thoughts of another, I feel some pressure to keep those bodily noises – the inevitable sneeze, the occasional grumbling stomach to a minimum, even as I know my body’s gyrations are normal and inevitable and part of the quality of being human – under control. 

Apart from her nose blowing, Mrs Milanova’s words and noises, tended to soothe me, even the shuffling of her shoes on the floor. Not being able to see her made it possible for me to say things I would never dare to say face to face. 

If I had looked into her eyes, I would have needed to get some measure of what was going on there inside of her. But out of sight on the couch was not out of mind, at least not out of my mind.

I could treat her like the parent I never had, one entirely dedicated to me, at least for the fifty minutes of every day when I saw her. 

A precious time, one I came to value above all other times. A time when I could be centre of attention even as I spent much of my time talking about and thinking about the others in my life. There were other times when I worried about Mrs Milanova and whether she was okay with the terrible things I said. 

She taught me to speak the unspeakable. 

For instance, even as an adult when my babies were little I talked to them of ‘breaking wind’.

The word ‘fart’ like other expressions of bodily activity bothered me to the point I could hear people say the word and I’d blush. 

When my third daughter was six or seven, the age when everything toilet wise is fascinating, the age when kids’ insults stretch to expressions like poo-head and bum-bum, she took a fancy to a poem my husband – who did not suffer from my squeamishness in relation to the word fart –  recited for her amusement:

‘Here I sit in silent bliss

Listening to the trickling piss

Now and then a fart is heard

Followed by a plopping turd.’

My daughter wrote down these words in her best handwriting and attached the verse to her bedroom door where I saw it daily and often enough to have it embedded in my memory and confident enough to recite it during one of my sessions with Mrs Milanova.

We talked then about my fears of bottoms and bodies and other things to me unmentionable.

After that day I could say the word ‘fart’ with equanimity. It had lost its shameful aura.

All this evolved through the painful process of coming into myself.

Of getting beyond a feeling I experienced often during those first few visits to Mrs Milanova, when I felt like a slug, a black slimy creature with no skin who walked up the curving path to her house for session after session to tell her about the horrors of my internal world.

In so doing, I grew a human skin, which I wear today even though it’s not a perfect skin and cannot fully help me against the ailments I describe living in a world where there’s real scarcity and imagined scarcity, in a world where people are persecuted by their fears of not having enough to the point they are cruel to others more needy than them, cruel to the point of barbaric, and my heart breaks down into small fragments of grief.

If only we could share more and not worry so much about whether only we will survive. Not if it means we hurt one another with our disregard.

Unlike Mrs Milanova who brought me back to life with her loving interest and regard.

Crap food

It hasn’t been easy inside my head of late. Feeling persecuted on many counts. The world-wide swing to the right scares me. The sense there’s not enough to go around, a state of mind that induces a type of desperation whereby we stop caring about our most vulnerable.

Not a society to which I want to belong. 

But I do belong, and I’m part of the privileged, even as in the back of my mind I can sometimes feel as poor as when I was a child. 

But poverty is relative. My family never went hungry, but we ate crap food, or at least to my mind it was crap. 

The cultural stereotype of the food my mother cooked from her life in Holland: bulk stodge, potatoes with every meal usually mashed because they went the furthest, mixed with onions and carrots or apple sauce or something with an Indonesian flavour, like Nasi Goreng with a fried egg on top. 

One egg to share. 

Eggs were a luxury, like chicken, which we rarely ate. Sausages and cow’s tongue. 

Maizina pop for breakfast, a type of porridge, more like gruel, made up of corn flour mixed with water and heated on the stove top to a gluey consistency and sweetened with sugar or golden syrup. 

Not an ounce of nourishment but it filled the belly. 

Bread, bread and more bread, preferably white, which had just come into fashion then. Tip Top and sliced, slathered in margarine and jam. And buckets of LanChoo tea, always with several spoonsful of sugar and a goodly amount of milk. 

We weren’t poor, when you read it like this. 

It was the real estate surrounding our rented house at 2 Wentworth Avenue in Canterbury – posh houses, double storey mansions along Mont Albert Road through whose fences we peered on our way to school – that left us feeling poor.  

I didn’t pay much attention to the cars people drove in those days but all those houses held more than one car in their long sloping driveways and their grass was green and kept short and their flower beds were filled with exotics that needed lots of water, which wasn’t a problem in my childhood until the drought struck in the late sixties and signs went up everywhere, 

‘Bore water in use’. 

The thought police were out in those days, too.  

People dobbing on neighbours who snuck out in the middle of the night to bucket water over their roses and were caught in the glare of torch light. 

The government restricted watering hours to alternative days and only for a few hours in the early morning or evening.

Rather like the way the government took to restricting the petrol you could buy during the strikes of the early eighties. Where cars were restricted to one $20.00 a tank only on alternative days depending on the first letter of your number plate. More rationing. 

My mother told me once about the coupons issued during the war, again to restrict supplies when there was not enough to go around.

Not enough to go around, the feeling today as the rich get richer and the poor get fucked over. It scares me.