Tomorrow I will be having a counselling session in Liverpool.
I need this counselling, because I need to know not what I need of life, but how to go about implementing what I need.
I need professional support and guidance, not to take away responsibility for doing things myself but – rather – because there is no one I know in my family or the very small circle of friends I now sustain who wouldn’t be closely involved with the matter to hand.
And I need to be able to work these things out.
And I need to be able to be kind to my family – both close and more distant.
I have got to a point where my own mental wellbeing will either collapse inwards like a dreadful black hole of a matter – as, in fact, it already ultimately did in 2003 – or will allow me to discover a way of being with a person who knows how to touch me in ways I need.
Without a stable job to distract both me and my dear SO from her – from our – rightly perceived financial worries, we are being forced, almost obliged, to face up to our emotional challenges.
And even now, after all these years, with such a job I could muddle through I’m sure. But without it, I have no chance of doing so.
I need physical love more than anything else.
I need to be loved by the touch of someone’s beautiful hands.
And my perfect tomorrow?
It would be to discover that people so loved me that in some magical way they’d kinda agreed to help me out from all sides: a positive conspiracy of the good, if you like.
If not, I shall be dependent on the outcome of the counselling tomorrow – and I am pretty sure where it might lead, too.
I hope my perfect world can establish its foundations, but even if it can’t, today in my fear and terrible loneliness I progress little by little to some other more hopeful – and vigorously recovered – future.