Secondborn was telling me about his exciting birthday supper last night at a nearby fancy restaurant.
“You remember mussels?”
“Yes, I remember mussels.” It’s not so long since I last ate some.
“Well I had those, and a lovely sauce, and that fat spaghetti stuff, what’s it called?”
“Yes, tagliatelle. Anyway it had squid ink in it and so it was black. I think everyone was jealous of what I had.”
Including me. When, I wondered vaguely, might I have such a supper again?
I mentioned this in passing to the shrink.
“And of course there’s nobody to do that for Rachel, to take her out on her birthday, look after her. Ah. That makes you cry,” – the latter remark said slightly triumphantly, I thought, probably because I never cry in front of her.
Of course it makes me fucking cry you fucking bitch. Of course it does. I’ve spent considerably more than half my likely entire life dealing with that thought. Concluding that the answer is because I’m as utterly undeserving and loathsome as I’m told I am. You spend five years telling me that isn’t the case and guess what. There still isn’t anybody there. Only now you’ve taken away my way of dealing with it.
My life is slipping away. Like the leaf I grow old, bruise, discolour, fade, embrittle. How to deal with this terrible wrenching desire for love, for tenderness, and the knowledge that I’m just too fucked in the head, too old for anything for me, just for me.