”Can you push him down the stairs?”

I asked my psychologist with melancholy tinged mischief.



She answered after laughing in a surprised burst.


”Even if you think it is for the greater good, as I am against causing harm in any way.”

”What about bundle him up and lock him in a dark small room? You do not need to starve him or anything just feed and hydrate him and let him out on a leesh once a day for a short stroll.”


She shook her head and laughed again.


”OK.” I answered.


It was my third session and I could feel myself starting to feel a bit better about the whole therapt thing. It was something I had refused to to do my whole life due to the strongly held beliefe that getting professional help would induce my creative flow and ability to string words together in weird and wonderful ways.

It was thought that trying to free myself of my anger hurt and general feeling of contempt for myself would somehow infiltrate any talent or fire that I possessed. So I avoided it until something happened to change my mind.

I tried my best and my hardest in an attempt to get something I wanted with every inch of my fleshy bloody and pumping heart.


I had never wanted anything more. It burned within me and as a result it was my inspiration to write and write and write. Everything I wrote in that period of time was for the one thing I wanted to possess for my very own. The fleshy, bloody and pumping heart of another person whom I considered wonderful and very special.


Unfortunately what I received in return for my hand cramping, tendon straining hundreds of pages worth of effort. The reward was not what I had my sights set on. Instead such a roundabout ride of manipulation, lies and swash buckling selfishness that I was left reeling and confused not even able to walk a straight line of truth and clarity.


I was made to doubt myself and feel panicky just from seeing him. No longer was it butterflies and hyperactive giggles, I wore a face that a smile played across with the effort and struggle of a sick child crawling across pavement.


Thus I was no longer able to put anything down on paper. I was blank. I was dried up of ideas or a need to write. Simply looking at a pen and blank page caused tears to revolt from my peepers and wash my cheeks with an influx of salty wetness.  The demons began chattering within my brain a crippling noise with one destructive purpose.

Do not write.

Who the hell are you?

A girl whose scribble could not even win over one person! Tell me, pet. What hope do you have of fooling hundreds of thousands of people if you could not succeed in your one small and insignificant reason for wring? It had happened anyway without therapy to blame.


Being taken over by a huge heavy black cloud that clung thick and sticky tight.

The decision to invite the black cloud to have a cup of tea with me, was made. Complete with some delicious biscuits and engage in an incredibly amicable conversation. It is unclear how long this will last. It is unclear how many metaphorical tea parties it will take.

It is of little consequence.


I do so enjoy tea parties.