I don’t know what this will be, I don’t know where this will go. Every conversation I have is ordered by these same doubts. That something coherent emerges from this blog is just one possible outcome of many. Write on!
I first attempted a blog a few years back. it went nowhere apart from the above very brief and not very promising text. It now reminds me very much of how it feels at the start of a new therapeutic relationship, above all a group, whether a new therapy group of strangers in my practice or an experiential group of trainee therapists while teaching, or even meeting people socially for the first time – the same mixture of deep uncertainty tinged with fear, combined with an exciting emerging sense of endless possibility:
What do I want to say?
If I knew what I wanted to say presumably it would just flow out of me and appear there in front of me, suddenly out there and out of reach.
What can I say here?
This seems to me to be the main question. And here I am saying this because for the moment nothing else is emerging. Perhaps this is how I currently feel safest here, saying this…nothing much in particular.
But then where am I?
I suppose I need to give myself time to work that out. For the moment it feels such a stark, lonely and empty landscape to be sitting in…a virtual nowhere!
Who will read it?
And will I put any effort into ensuring this gets read? The moment I start thinking about who might or might not get hold of this is when I start worrying about what people might think and then, as is the neurotic way with things, presumably it falls apart.
Who will I be here?
Surely, here’s an opportunity to re-launch myself in the world, to liberate repressed parts, to boldly go….. to be my own private James T. Kirk. Maybe I would just like to write, without feeling that it has any particular purpose or necessitated outcome. So often I start things because I want to be a writer, or a poet, or smart, funny…
I am nobody!
Who are you?
Are you nobody
For the moment then, this is a dialogue with nobody, which could well simply be a monologue, which is really the only way it can start, apart from with myself, and which occasionally takes surprising turns and enters into a dialogue with others and, in-so-doing, becomes something more nameable and out there in the world. As I said, quite a lot like therapy, group therapy in particular, above all group analytic psychotherapy. There will be long silences but I will struggle on and surely something will come of my struggle.
You must go on. I can’t go on. I’ll go on. (Samuel Beckett, The Unnamable)