I am a clinical psychologist, ten years out of college and practicing in a large west coast city. Your normal, everyday shrink deals with relatively healthy subjects who need counseling. The 'clinical' mind doctor like myself takes on the more difficult psyches, those with paranoia, schizophrenia, other such psychoses and mental illnesses.
I have also added another therapeutic tool to my black bag. I'm a hypnotist. Wait, wait, wait. Before you, dear reader, jump to some conclusion here that this tale is one where some poor lady gives up her charms to a mesmerist, let it be known up front that hypnotic suggestion is just that, suggestion. I cannot command a subject who is under to do anything they wouldn't do while fully awake.
As you know if you've ever been to your county fair, hypnotism is still pretty much just a sideshow, just a step or two away from patent medicine or magnet therapy or crystal healing. Maybe it might aspire to the status of, say, Reiki, but it's not even close to more accepted methods such as acupuncture or massage.
All I know is that it works well with some subjects, and others not at all. Anyway, I find hypnotism helpful in dealing, occasionally, with some of the extreme cases of anxiety and disassociation that come into my case files. If nothing, it can be about the only way some of these poor souls can ever truly relax. At times, the results can be spectacular.
It's how I met Bridey.
Bridey, Bridget, is a classic redheaded third generation American Irish woman in her mid twenties. Pale skin, Irish eyes, nose and chest freckles, the body of Venus on the half shell, she is beautiful. Quiet, shy, her personality is so withdrawn, mysterious, so mercurial and airy she seems more sylph than woman.
Her case was a referral from another psychologist, a woman of some considerable skill and experience who had apparently been stumped by Bridey. Bridey refused to sleep. Somniphobia is a serious disorder that can destroy a person, physically and emotionally. It is also called, in some instances, hypnophobia. And that's why the lady doctor referred Bridey to me -- in hopes my skills could tackle the disorder head on. All other vectors had failed to get inside the woman's head: counseling, pharmaceuticals, exercises, massage, and yes, somebody along the line had tried crystals.
When I met Bridey for the first time, I became instantly concerned. She was the picture of exhaustion, the bags under her eyes were large puffy pillows, her neck could barely hold up her head, she sort of melted into the chair in my office during that first consultation. I felt obliged to attempt some sort of immediate intervention. I couldn't imagine how she even managed to get there, as she had, on her own. Hospitalization was certainly a seriously possible consideration.
But Bridey was adamant. Her refusal to consider a hospital stay seemed a matter of pride. I suspected she simply couldn't afford it.
I'd read her file so I didn't have to spend much time getting acquainted with her case history. The referring psychologist had spent hours questioning her, discussing the situation with the patient, and logged a great deal of time probing Bridey's psyche. She'd looked intensively into her history and her background, had even spoken to her friends, parish priest, and parents. All of it yielded nothing.
The poor woman was afraid to go to sleep, and nobody knew why.
So I decided to see if I could put her under. I have a couch, yes, the classic psychiatrist's divan. But I don't use it. Nothing, nothing, beats a good recliner for putting somebody under. Any man who comes home after work, has a beer, turns on the TV and puts his recliner in full recline can attest to that. Out like the proverbial light.
Only, I don't want sleeping subjects. I want them in that state of almost asleep, but not really awake. It's a matter of how you speak to them, and some carefully placed suggestions. And, their suggestibility.
Bridey went right under.
"Bridey," I spoke low and soft, "you are completely relaxed. Your body feels heavy, but your mind is light. You can go back in your memories wherever you want. I want you to remember a very pleasant time, a happy time and place in your life, and go back there. Can you do that?"
"Yes," she had a soft, sensuous, sweet voice.
"Where are you?"
"Ireland," she said, and smiled. And her voice took on a brogue accent as she spoke, "It's a beautiful summer day and I'm walking with my friends. We're singing, we are, at the top of our lungs, an old song, and striding along in time to the music." Bridey's entire demeanor had changed. Her body seemed more vibrant, alive. Her face was flushed. She began to sing. In Gaelic. I could not make out the words at the time, but I've since found them online.
"Óró, sé do bheatha bhaile,
Óró, sé do bheatha bhaile,
Óró, sé do bheatha bhaile,
anois ar theacht an tsamhraidh."
The song sounded a lot like What Do You Do With a Drunken Sailor, and the tune of the refrain like, 'Hey, ho and up she rises.'
Bridey seemed so happy, so at ease, so radiant, I let her sing on. When she finished, she said something in what I took to be Gaelic.
"I don't understand Gaelic, Bridey," I said, "Can we speak in English?"
"Maureen told me she was to be married on the fortnight."
"Is Maureen your friend?"
"She's my sister."
"Okay," I continued, "Lets go back to a time when you were very young. You are in your mother's arms. She is holding you and you're very relaxed."
"I'm sleepy."
"Yes," I encouraged her, "You are sleeping in your mother's arms. How does that feel?"
She didn't answer. Bridey was actually snoring at that point, very lightly. I didn't have the heart, nor inclination, to continue the session nor awaken her. I stood up slowly and walked out of the room, into my outer office. I kept the door slightly ajar to watch her, but Bridey looked like she was deeply into her REMs.
I took the occasion to call the referring psychologist and congratulate her on choosing my particular skill set. I was glad to be able to tell her that the patient was, at that very moment, sleeping, literally, like a baby.
During the course of the conversation she told me something that stunned me. Bridey had never been to Ireland. She had no sister. She did not speak Gaelic.
I let her sleep. She awoke after four hours of deep slumber, very groggy, and without actually looking at me, apologized for taking up my office time, and fled.
I had never been so intrigued by a patient. The Bridey I'd first seen, there in the outer office, was reticent, mousy, out of sorts, and, of course, exhausted. The Bridey in the chair became a vibrant, alive, and strikingly attractive young girl. Was this a legitimate case of multiple personalities? Dissociative Identity Disorder is extremely rare and difficult to diagnose.
The next appointment couldn't come soon enough. But Bridey's insurance only paid for once a week treatments and only for one month. And the poor woman was obviously struggling to meet her financial obligations. Her clothes were somewhat threadbare and looked second hand. She took four buses to get to my office. So, during our phone conversation setting the time for her next appointment, I took the initiative and her treatment would require twice a week sessions, and the insurance payments would cover the cost.
She looked only slightly less haggard at our second meeting than she had the first time. I asked if she'd made any progress with getting to sleep at home.
"Not really," she admitted, "I lie in bed, close my eyes, try to sleep, but I never actually drift off." Again, she had a hard time making eye contact.
I encouraged her to continue doing just that. Lying down, trying to sleep is itself somewhat restful. The 'trying to sleep' part is, as any insomniac knows, the paradox. Trying to do something is, by its nature, an act of conscious intent. A person can't try to sleep. You don't walk to sleep. You fall.
I queried Bridey about losing blocks of time, lapses in memory, blackouts, hearing voices, the standard battery of questions meant to suggest a disorder in which several personalities inhabit a person's psyche. But she claimed she experienced none of these.
I was eager to put Bridey under. Having done so once, the second time was far easier. And, in her state of fatigue, she was highly suggestible.
