[From – Monday 12 February 2007]

I’ve thought that, if I give up smoking, it’s a means to personal power.


Mother has various fictions going on about me – lately, it’s been – Joan should have been a nurse.

A nurse.

I ask you.

I have said, repeatedly, that I would hate to be a nurse.  I have said this, over years and years.

But she has been going on, and going on.

I’ve been letting it go, and letting it go.

Maybe this is wrong.

The thing is, I know that – I work hard to get that out of her head, and she’ll start on another fiction – and, after time, she may go back to the nurse one.

But, today, she said this fiction in front of a nurse.

Oh, I said – I’d be okay at the bedside manner bit, the bathing – the caring, basically.

And the nurse – why do you think you couldn’t do the medical part?

Of course I could do the sodding medical bit.

I wouldn’t want to.

I’d be arguing with the doctor!

And I felt I couldn’t say that.

And so, from letting my mother get away with her fiction, I’m led into a situation where I can’t be who I am, say who I am.

And I come back with deep, but hidden anger.

And I smoke, and smoke, and smoke.

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