The Psychoanalyst

After unsuccessfully dabbling with kinesiology treatments and yet more physiotherapy, I began to wonder if the problem might be psychosomatic. As I explored the mind-body connection, I stumbled upon the work of Dr John E. Sarno and a condition called Tension Myositis Syndrome (TMS). He suggested that chronic pain could be the mind’s attempt to distract from suppressed emotions — rage, guilt, frustration — which we often bury beneath our efforts to be good, helpful, accommodating, and never fail.

This didn’t just explain my mysterious symptoms and the lack of any clear medical findings — it also described me. TMS sufferers often have perfectionist tendencies and a habit of suppressing uncomfortable emotions. I had certainly been deeply upset by things in my past, but believed I’d crossed the forgiveness threshold and moved on. Still, I figured it couldn’t hurt to explore the possibility further.

I saw a psychoanalyst, who asked me to write letters to three people from my past who may have ‘wronged’ me — not to send, but purely as a private exercise. The idea was to explore any lingering emotional residue I might still be carrying. I started with a close family member who had sent me a series of distressing communications in the lead-up to, and after, my move to Diamond Harbour had left me shaken, confused, and emotionally depleted. I had no idea how to respond, seesawing between firmness and compassion, trying to defuse the situation. Eventually, I had to step away for my own wellbeing. There were moments during that period that left me feeling genuinely frightened and overwhelmed. Looking back, I now recognise that while I felt like the victim at the time, the deeper tragedy was someone else’s pain manifesting in destructive ways. After that chapter closed, our relationship gradually improved and became more civil — not close, but better. And I no longer felt that unresolved anger about it was lingering beneath the surface.

Then there was the redundancy incident at work — which I had already addressed through the proper channels — and by then, the physical issues had been with me for years. So that didn’t seem to be the source either.

Which left one person: my former partner. I genuinely thought I’d done the work and moved on, but when I tried writing that letter, I struggled. I was too reasonable. Too eager to understand and excuse. I was even apologetic.

“Get angry for goodness’ sake,” my psychoanalyst urged me at the next session. “You’re not sending it. Just let it out.”

That’s when things shifted. The only way I could do it was to write it like a novel. Once I allowed that voice out, I hit a wellspring of unprocessed emotion. I wrote compulsively for weeks. I’d hoped to feel relief afterwards — the kind of emotional detox people describe when they ‘finally let it out’ — but instead, I felt considerably worse. More weighted down, not less. I planned to talk it through in my next session.

But I never made that appointment. Something happened that set in motion a chain of events that solved the mystery once and for all.