It’s not what I thought it was. I think that I know my body. Am I so wrong? It gave me the heebie-jeebies. He called them parasites. Parasites in my gut. Well, bacteria really. The wrong kind. Bad bacteria. So he wouldn’t do it. It wasn’t worth it. He advised a lab test to find out. Find out which ones. Animals living inside me. Why not? We are but animals after all. Might I be cured? Is it possible? I was prepared to put up with the inconvenience. So be it? It is expensive, I shudder at the cost. But he is behind me. Let it be so. I am curious. What are they? They may have been there for years, for eons. Bless them. A host. A host to these creatures. No light of day. Not a sign of it.

The murky mist has lifted. Blue coming through the cloud. I was a little thrown expecting one thing and getting another. C’est la vie. I meant to write about my work yesterday. The tension was intense, it overtook me. My back a rigid mass of muscle, pulling my shoulders forward. I see the Brute tomorrow, she will loosen them. But how discombobulated I feel afterwards. Trippy-uppy I call it. Watch out. I am so lucky. All this healing. I’d like to offer it back. Can I? I baulk a little at the intimacy. She is non-plussed in her Swedish coolness. The only time I’ve seen her a little distrait was over the ordering of a new cooker. Where do you start? she asked. There’s so many.

We were early and had coffee, finishing off the crosswords. I do love him. We snap in the car, just a little over the directions. It is me, usually, stressed at being out of control, fear of being lost, being late. And yet, I am always early.

It’s my mind, it always does it. Says it. Is that it? it says after every work day. Is that it? And yet, I did, I achieved what I set out to do. I follow my plan. I set myself before the blank page, the blank canvas, the blank screen and write, create, make. I do it, religiously and yet it always finds fault. What is that about? Where does it come from? I remember feeling the same way as a child pre-school and during school. My work, my marks, my writing, my drawing was never beautiful, never sophisticated, never transcendent in my eyes. Why? I made comparisons always. With my sisters, with my fellow pupils, with my heroes. Why? Who had introduced the need to compare? Where had that compunction come from? Why wasn’t what I had to offer good enough? Can I ever answer these questions? He doesn’t think so. He sees my specialness, and tells me so all the time. Was it my parents? My mother was critical certainly, and I have her voice inside my head, and yet, I can understand. I do understand for she was the child of a critical mother too. It is just a repeating. That’s all. I can stop it. I can halt it. Now if I like. Like the bacteria, kill it with good. Simple, eh?