Holding me in his intent gaze, my therapist is telling me that my objection to his ex cathedra pronouncement about my father's sexual abuse of me is a perfect example of Freudian transference: I won't accept what he is saying, because I have unconsciously identified him with my father.

I don't know how to convince this therapist of the clarity with which I am able to distinguish between him and my father. I want to say that if it came to a choice between them, I'd prefer my father, because he at least was genuinely torn: his know–all attitude was a defence mechanism, whereas the therapist's is something more sinister, a closed system of absolute certainty from which, if I am sucked into it, there will be no easy escape. I push forward as best I can against the weight of my diffidence.

‘You told me I was sexually abused by my father,’ I say, ‘and afterwards I have a dream that I am in bed with my father and he's sexually abusing me. Shouldn't it have been the other way around? Shouldn't I have had the dream first, before you made any pronouncements?’

‘You have to trust me, Ciaran.’ The therapist's tone becomes unctuous, almost pleading. ‘Look at this piece of writing you have presented me with. You begin with the statement The Almighty Therapist, the–rapist, the rapist, the mental rapist, is looking down on my unglorified arse. And you proceed to heap all kinds of vilifications on me. Another classic case of transference: you are really expressing your feelings towards your father. He is the one who was looking down on your unglorified – ahem – bottom. And do you know what I connect that with, Ciaran? Do you remember that you told me about those auto–erotic episodes of your teens? You said that after masturbating, you lay on the bed and felt like Manet's Olympie? The painter, of course, was looking down on Olympie's naked body as he painted her. And her bottom, her nakedness, was unglorified because she was a prostitute. You felt you had been similarly degraded, Ciaran. Raped and mentally raped.’