I’ve mentioned it before: I am not a Freudian psychoanalyst. I believe that a cigar is just a cigar, that the subconscious does exist BUT is accessible with the right sort of help, and that defense mechanisms only work as long as you’re not aware you’re using them.
My sisters and I – shhhhh, don’t tell – are planning to make my mother a blanket for her 50th birthday, coming up this summer. It’ll be pieced together from about 35 squares; we’ll each make our share and then I’ll sew them all together, ideally by July.
And I Cannot. Get. This. Damn. Thing. Started.
I have literally cast on the same square – my first one – at least a dozen times. And I keep screwing up the size or the stitch pattern, or, my personal favorite, I accidentally used two different sized needles and didn’t notice for about 20 rows.
Now, my mother and I are currently in a bad way, with a very nasty and unpleasant roadblock standing between us. With time, I know it will fade and we’ll figure out a new normal, but for now, it hurts me a lot and I would imagine that it, at the very least, makes her feel distinctly uncomfortable. Freud would say that my inability to get going on this project (especially since I just finished a tank top for X’s birthday in a day and a half, with no errors at all) is due to my psychological ambivalence about my relationship with my mother at present.
I hate that he’s probably right.