The Varnished Untruth Read Online Free PDF Page A

ridiculous state of mind and body’? I’m an educated, insightful woman of mature years – a psychologist, for God’s sake, a wife and mother. I have sailed the world, fended off pirates, guerrillas, sharks and
Strictly
judges, why on earth had I put myself through such physical and mental torment, and why did I continue to aggrieve myself in such a shockingly pathetic manner?
    At least I was smart enough to know I was in trouble; at least I recognized that the answer to that vital question lay somewhere in the mire of my elusive, murky past. And it clearly lay far beyond any discoveries that had been made during the thirty-odd years of therapy I’d undergone with a dozen well-respected mental health professionals. Therapy is like peeling an onion – layer by layer by layer, until you get down to the raw centre. For some reason I’d never really got to the core. Yes, there was no other choice left: time to book an appointment with myself.

Chapter Two
     
    T HE S HRINK S HRUNK
     
    But where on earth would I start? Usually, it would be, ‘Hello, I’m Dr Connolly. Help me to understand why you’ve come to see me . . .’ But that wasn’t going to work when I was the patient as well. This could be scary. Could I be as compassionate and insightful with myself as I am with other people? Could I avoid being judgmental of myself? (If so, it would be a first.) For sure, I would know immediately if I lied, dissembled, or tried to distract the therapist with small talk, humour or flirtation. What, so I’d have to be completely honest with myself? Wow, what a concept. And near impossible. Much of what goes on in one’s psyche occurs well below the level of upper consciousness, and teasing out material from the unconscious mind can be very difficult, requiring the help of therapists, shamans or dream-tenders. I’ve received guidance from all of the above, but the work has always been slow, painstaking and incredibly challenging. Could I manage this next phase alone?
    And how exactly should I go about trying to ‘shrink’ myself? Should I perform self-hypnosis? Analyze my own dreams? I already do that. What about . . . delivering my ‘stream of consciousness’ into a Dictaphone and then analyzing it later? Or perhaps I could employ a technique used to help overly left-brained people to allow their creative, right brain to function better – it might undermine my own reserve in exactly the right way. Being right-handed, I took a pen in my left hand and positioned it over a blank piece of paper. After a few minutes it began to move, seemingly without my conscious control.
     
    Don’t know who, where, why . . . help me . . . am I she proud strong clever or am I little, unknowing?
     
     
     
    Instant regression. That was promising. I pulled up my metaphorical therapist’s chair, took my notepad, and tried to stare empathically at myself.
    Why don’t you start by telling me something about your childhood? Perhaps some positive memory you might have . . .?
    Ah, yes. My childhood. (Deep breath.) Ahhh, where to start . . .? (Silence)
    Take your time. In your mind’s eye, what are you seeing?
    Somewhere, I have this black-and-white, Brownie box camera photograph of myself in early 1961, wearing a woollen cardigan beneath the Egyptian sun, sharing a camel with my father. I remember feeling guilty about the wicked delight I felt when the rogue leading my mother’s camel threatened, ‘Pay me more, lady, or I’ll make the camel dance!’ Did I mention I didn’t much like my mother?
    Hmmm . . . Pamela, you just made a very important disclosure but couched it in a throw-away style – would you care to tell me more about that?
    Later . . . I watched gleefully as she bounced around like a rag doll on a mechanical bull, wailing contemptuously. The thought of it still makes me smile – is that so wrong? (OMG I’ve just remembered that I kind of tricked her on to the Jurassic Park ride at Universal Studios when she was in her