Imagining whatever comes to mind can be a frightening experience. Writing can be a frightening experience. Sometimes I’m a frightened writer. This must be why, when a page of my own words is before me, I imagine myself in what I call my writing home, a safe place to create. A few times a week I experience another, yet related mental home, lying on a couch in my psychoanalyst’s office, attempting to say whatever comes to mind. So far in my hours on the couch, this has been impossible to accomplish, since there always seem to be things in the background of my mind that refuse to let me speak them. At the moment I’m in both homes simultaneously, and I wonder if this sentence reflects a dissociated state of mind. I imagine that these sentences keep my mind together, one word at a time. Writing home and therapy home speak the same language, which I’m learning, one day and sentence at a time. It’s a language of the mind, body, and spirit, of what it means to be human. Maybe this is why I write. Where else, besides on the page, can I explore so much at once?