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Show 134 My daughter. Please. I imagine tears, too, but of course I can't be sure. Papers were signed, I have seen them, with certain conditions they took me. It's sad, but my earliest memories of adults are not of my parents at all but of doctors and nurses, especially nurses, all in starched white. Yesterday was Wednesday again. Dublonsky and I had our little session. I told him I had started on the journal and I felt so good I almost winked at him. "Wonderful," he said. "How much did you get written?" "Only a couple of pages," I admitted. "That's fine. More would be unhealthy. Where did you begin?" "At the bottom," I said. "With my little bottom." He laughed at that, just like I knew he would. He thought I was being cute just for him. He thinks he sees through me. "But I don't like it," I said. "I'm going to start over." "That's fine," he smiled. "With something like this there are always a great many beginnings, the important thing is that you've begun. What have you learned so far?" Dublonsky is always at his charming best when he thinks he is leading a patient down the golden road of self-discovery. It makes me want to kiss him. So I couldn't resist telling him a truth I knew would excite him. "I've learned," I said, "that I hate my mother." |
