Each week I attend individual sessions with an Art Psychotherapist. I have not yet been able to use the materials that she lays out for me, paper, pencils, pastels. Today I spoke of a recurrent impulse that I have to take a small piece of charcoal and crush it beneath my fingers onto a sheet of paper, thereby marking the surface with black dust, effectively ruining the stick of charcoal, and soiling the paper.
I am, however, held back, immobilised. I cannot ask for the piece of charcoal, I have rehearsed it so many times in my mind, that to do so now would seem mannered. Nor could I bring myself to take the material in my hand; I sit with my hands folded in my lap, as inert as if I were paralysed.
It is too great a step to take.
I cannot draw.