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Analysis is interesting, intense, intimate.

My analyst is really good. Her interpretations are accurate, but it’s about more than the interpretations. She is present with me. She is thinking about what I’m thinking about. When she makes mistakes, she apologizes and learns from them, and moves on. When I make mistakes, I apologize, learn, and move on. In just four months, we have a good relationship.

Of course, it is important to be honest, but I’m seeing just how important that is. It really goes a long way in moving the analysis. And when I am honest, there is no judgment on her part.

I’ve learned a lot in a few short months. My mother was constantly over- or under-stimulating, so I engage in self-destructive behaviours to recreate that inner state – it’s all I’ve known. Thankfully, my analyst listened to what I needed and agreed to sit next to me during our sessions. Her physical presence keeps me calm, which is something I don’t experience outside of her office. I’m able to tolerate more difficult topics and more boring sessions without feeling like I need to run to the bathroom and hurt myself.

Also, my analyst identified how my parents’ harmful patterns are now seeping into my daughter’s life. Thankfully, my daughter remains unaware of these influences, but it is important to me that they are stopped before she becomes affected by them. It sounds like it’s time that I put in some firm boundaries. It’s a scary prospect because it means my parents will likely end up hurt, and I might feel them pull back from me. But my daughter’s wellbeing must come first. There is no option, there.

There is still a lot of work to be done. Alexithymia is a bitch. It is often difficult for me to know how to think or feel or act in many situations because I was never taught how. But I have a lot of faith in my analyst and in the process of the analytic relationship. There is movement.

Analysis is hard. It is more than hard. It is incredibly difficult and painful, and I’m only three months in.

I have a dead mother.

Not actually dead, mind you. She is alive and well halfway across the country, which honestly isn’t far enough. But she’s dead on the inside. She’s boring and dull and dead and so closed off from her feelings and instincts that she didn’t breastfeed or hold me when I was little. I didn’t think it mattered too much until I found myself begging my analyst to touch me. Her gentle denial stabs me, every time, on some raw, visceral level and the pain is so intense I find it difficult to breathe. It’s horrible. She says it will get better with talking. I have no choice but to try, if only for my daughter.

I try not to blame my mother for her deeply wounding mistakes, as I can see how her own mother was cold and aloof, and her mother before her. But it makes me angry. I’m choosing to get help so my daughter can have a different experience. I am putting myself through this so my daughter (hopefully) doesn’t have to. Why didn’t my mother do that? I didn’t matter enough? I didn’t touch her in a way that made her want to overcome her problems so she could try to mother me properly?

I sometimes feel slightly jealousĀ of my daughter. She will never know denial of the breast or premature separation or refusal to be held. I simply won’t let it happen. She will wean and leave our bed when her brain and body are ready. I want, more than anything, for her to never have to feel this kind of pain. I want her to be able to mother her own child someday without having to go to therapy to figure out how to do it. I just wish my mother had done the same for me.