Psychoanalysis runs in the family, says Priscilla Robinson
My sister is a psychoanalyst. When I go to visit, I have to sleep on her analysis couch. It is very hard. You could not fall asleep on it if you tried. Instead, I lie there and talk about my problems. And I pretend that there is someone listening.
This is easy to imagine - in my experience, therapists don't say much - but if I'm not convinced I can play the grunting therapist. Or I can look at photos of my sister.
She used to analyse us when we were younger, and every couple of weeks she would bring home a new concept from her psychology lectures to test. Although nobody was sure what the terms meant, this did not stop us from using them. "Boundaries" was a good one.
Apparently, our family did not have very many. And you needed them.
We would take it in turns to yell this word at whoever seemed the most out of control at the time. "Boundaries! Boundaries!" we would shout, as if it were our rallying cry. Now I am remembering the only boundary put to use: my father shouting "One at a time" in family arguments. Within minutes his thick Belfast accent would lift over our jumble of voices, getting louder and louder, trying to order the chaos.
Like me now, calling the roll of my problems, naming them out - one at a time. Like me now, talking to the voices, telling my problems to get in line and approach me gracefully, one at a time. Like me now, calling up those faces from our dining-room table, one at a time, to keep me company as I talk.
Later, I realise my father more often said: "One at a time, Priscilla." So I repeat this to myself, "One at a time, Priscilla," and coax my problems into a slow-moving, orderly line.