Couches

Sometimes I get bouts of happiness, then something happens and I am thrown into the sadness. I know it should be just sadness, but for me sadness has to be called the sadness and not just any other sadness. I refuse to call life a bitch because I have plenty going on for me. And yet there is the cloud of yet the sadness again. I really do not know how to put it into words, and yet that is exactly what I doing. It's either my blog, or years in the couch. And years on the couch do not work for me, since I'm not sure the couch would be able to take me, and also since I'm not sure I'd be able to take the couch. I'd want a red plush couch, full of integrated motifs, just like the ones Marie Antoinette probably sat on before they took her head off. But mine will be a couch which is not head hungry. Years on the couch are also done through appointment, which is another thing I cannot take. I do not like appointments quite simply because I cannot keep them, and also quite simply because they take out the lasser-faire, spontaneity of whatever it is. And for some reason I never understood, just one couch session forces me to dress up, mask myself so prettily that I can see any therapist's bewilderment. I can read their eyes which say, surely this girl doesn't need the couch. But we all do. We all have our couch therapy. For my mum, it's going to church and behaving like a puritan. For my dad, it's doing The Times crossword, going for long walks and running his Gambler's Anonymous at Caritas. For the Mister, it's the dogs and the endless professional stuff which is constantly on the increase in his studio. For me, it's the music, and better still, my cats. Oh and my blog of course. But sometimes I am short of words. I just stare at my blog and write nothing. Because I have no words. I'm at it again, and that's a good sign. I hope I'll stay. Well, on my couch at least.