by Nick Jones
Can’t live with them, can’t legally kill them.
‘Perhaps we could start with you?’ She leans forward a little. ‘Can you tell me why you are here and what you hope to get out of the sessions?’
‘Sessions?’
She pops a pair of thick black glasses on her nose and lifts the top page of her note pad. ‘Yes,’ she mumbles, ‘bom, bom, here it is. Four sessions. Your friend Mr Watts paid for them up-front.’
‘He’s my accountant.’
She shrugs, ‘Either way, you have four if you would like them.’
What I would like to do is go home, bolt every door in the house and lose myself in a deep slumber. ‘How many sessions is normal?’ I ask.
She considers the question for a moment, ‘Well, it depends. Often four is enough, sometimes it takes a little longer and I end up going deeper. As I said, we can just see how the first couple go and take it from there.’
My heart-rate has definitely slowed. She has the pace and demeanour of that rabbit from the Caramel chocolate adverts.
Why are you so busy? The rabbit used to purr. Take it easy Mr Bridgeman.
I chuckle at the thought and she smiles back. I am aware of a clock ticking. It’s quiet in her office, just the gentle rumble of distant traffic and that ticking.
‘Do you use a watch?’ I ask.
‘Hmmm?’
‘A watch, you know to swing in front of my eyes?’
It’s her turn to laugh, but she does it carefully on the inside, ‘Personally, I haven’t, but using an object as a point of focus can be a good idea. It’s a tactic, a way of distracting your conscious mind. Did you know that our brain only uses ten percent for the conscious mind? The other ninety is for the subconscious, where the real action happens.’
Makes sense to me. My subconscious eats my ten percent for breakfast. Then it hits me. Guess my brain just spat it out from back there. I remember the film. Lost in Translation. Then another, The Girl With a Pearl Earring, or necklace as Mark liked to joke. I think that’s rude but I don’t get it. Anyway, the actress is Scarlett something, but Alexia Finch is a very plain version of her, not airbrushed or dolled up. Strangely she also reminds me of a sports injuries therapist that tortured my hip joint a few years back. They have a look, her type, a slightly horsey look, mixed up with yoga and herbal tea. Bet she’s a yoga bunny.
She continues, ‘That’s really what hypnotherapy is all about; getting below the surface and doing a spot of maintenance, helping our subconscious to re-programme itself.’
‘Like brainwashing.’ I say with a shrug, delivering it in my patented and special way.
‘Perhaps.’ Alex raises an eye-brow and tilts her head forward, ‘In a way it is like washing your brain, cleaning away some of the learned behaviours that might be causing problems.’
Earlier, she described the use of a watch as a tactic. I know I have mine too. In order to avoid getting to know people I tend to be sharp, to the point and often rude. Alexia Finch seems to be very good at not biting when goaded. Her years of experience, I presume, years of listening to other people’s dross.
‘Mr Bridgeman.’
‘Joe is fine.’ I concede.
‘Joe it is.’ Her voice is silky and calming. ‘Tell me Joe. What do you hope to achieve?’
What do I hope to achieve? What does that mean? In life? Generally? I take a deep breath and sigh. I stare at the floor and guess what? No words come. I’m back at school. I swallow and feel the ticking of the clock banging against my eardrums.
She speaks slowly and quietly, ‘Perhaps you can tell me why Mr Watts felt you needed to come?’
I look up at her. ‘He wants to help save my business.’
‘And what is your business Joe?’
‘I’m an antiques dealer.’ I stop and frown, ‘Well I was.’
Alex is making notes now, ‘And how do you think I can help you?’
‘I need to sleep.’
‘You suffer from insomnia?’
‘Yes.’ I admit, breathing again.
She scribbles more notes, pushing her glasses up her nose every seven seconds or so. ‘How long have you suffered from sleep loss?’
‘Three months this time, but on and off since I was a teenager.’
This is good going for me, collectively it’s the most I have said in a single day for quite some time, I suspect. It’s exhausting but strangely enjoyable. I guess we all like to be asked questions, even weirdos like me.
I feel a mild buzzing in my stomach and am – for some strange reason– reminded of shoe-fittings as a child. I used to love the cold metal contraption they measured you with. Placing a socked foot onto it and feeling the plastic straps pulled under and around. I loved that feeling. It was way too early to be sexual. I think it just felt good to be the centre of something, yet also be normal at the same time and looked after. My Grandma was struck deaf from the age of three –measles was a bastard in those days – and when she used to speak she would echo the last word of every sentence. She would ask, ‘What do you want for your tea, Joe? And then trail a second, more whispered, Joe afterwards. That used to bring this fuzzy feeling too. I loved it.
‘Joe?’ Alex says.
‘Yeah?’ I reply, blinking.
‘You seem to have drifted off a little.’
I swallow again and blink rapidly. ‘Did you put me under?’
Alex smiles, ‘No. I won’t try and do that without your permission.’
I nod.
‘It’s a typical symptom of sleep deprivation,’ she says. ‘Do you have any idea what might be causing the insomnia?’
I stare back at her, this nice plain version of Scarlett what’s her name, and wonder what the hell to say.
‘Yeah, Scarlett. The thing is, my subconscious is like a pecking little chicken, it’s one active mother-clucker and it rules the roost! When I imagine things, I see them like you wouldn’t believe! My ninety percent decides what I watch and drags me through hours of crap every night, like a satellite T.V. channel tuned to SHITE-HD and turned up to ten.’
Instead I say, ‘Listen, I know you need to fill in the medical history stuff but really it’s pretty simple. I just need to sleep. I don’t really want four sessions. In fact, if you could just give me a pill, put me under or do some magic trick to help me out, I will be on my way,’ I glance at the clock, I’ve been in here almost ten minutes. I say, ‘How long does a session normally last?’
I am guessing my delivery was a little cold because I finally seem to have broken through her calm defences. She leans back and takes a long breath. She removes her glasses but then, to my amazement, smiles and says, ‘I understand, really I do. Can I make a suggestion?’
‘Okay.’
‘There is something we can do. I think it will really help, and the best thing is it’s potentially something you can do yourself at home.’
‘The best kind of therapy,’ I joke, ‘I pay you, but I do all the work.’
‘Win, win.’ She gestures towards the nutty chair. ‘Shall we?’
14.
She walks to the window and twists the blinds, tilting them just enough to dim the room to a mid grey. It’s raining again. I sit back in the chair, a long leather recliner. I couldn’t be more tense if I tried.
Alex pulls up a chair and smiles warmly. She has freckles around her lips that make her look younger than I’m guessing she really is. ‘Okay.’ She says, ‘We are going to work on some relaxation techniques. Something you can also do at home.’ My eyes are wide and my heart is pounding so loud that I’m fully expecting her to ask if I can hear that strange banging noise. Instead, she asks me to close my eyes. I oblige and she begins. ‘Have you ever driven somewhere, arrived and realised that you don’t remember how you got there?’ I nod, keeping my eyes closed. ‘Well, that’s time distortion,’ she explains. ‘You’ve slipped into a mild daydream, moved from Beta into Alpha.’ Her voice is calming and low.
It won’t make any difference, I assure myself
, there is no way I’m going under.
‘The brain operates at different frequencies, or states as we call them.’ She pauses for a few seconds and when she speaks again her voice is slower and quieter, ‘All we are going to do today is move from Beta to Alpha, drift into a relaxed place and quieten down your conscious mind for a little while. Does that sound okay to you, Joe?’
I open my eyes and blink a few times. ‘Do I have to agree?’ I ask, ‘Is that how it works?’
‘In a way, that’s exactly how it works.’ She nods at me and I close my eyes again, ‘Do you want to try and become more relaxed?’ She asks.
The question conjures many thoughts and images in my mind. Ironically, it probably lights up regions of my brain like a firework show. I think of my business, of Martin, of my family and Amy. I’m not good at accepting help, never have been. I cope. I’m one of life’s copers, yet for some stupid reason here I am, eyes closed in a chair. I sigh loudly.
‘I’m not sure…’
‘It’s okay,’ she somehow manages to say it in a way that isn’t condescending. ‘I want you to count slowly down from thirty.’ She says, ‘I want you to open your eyes on the odd numbers and close then again on even.’
‘Sounds like a maths test.’ I mumble.
‘Take a nice deep breath and start counting down when you’re ready.’
I pull a face. I feel silly. The whole thing is stupid really.
‘Thirty.’ I announce sarcastically, eyes pinched tight. ‘Twenty nine.’ I open my eyes.
‘Focus on the small dot on the ceiling.’
I look up and notice for the first time a black sticker above me. As I continue my countdown Alex says, ‘I want you to try and clear your mind, Joe.’
Ah, the classic clear your mind. How the hell are you supposed to do that? Ever tried it? Give it a go. Close your eyes and don’t think about bananas.
‘Twenty four.’ Eyes open. ‘Twenty three.’ Eyes closed.
Is that right? Eyes shut on the odd the numbers?
By the time I reach eight, I can’t remember and I don’t want to open my eyes anymore. They feel heavy which is a massive cliché, right?
Bananas. Ha!
‘Good.’ Alex’s voice is deeper still, she’s definitely the chocolate rabbit woman. ‘You feel very relaxed now, maybe more relaxed than you’ve ever felt before.’
I do actually. Man this chair is comfortable. I should get one. Feels as though you’re sinking right down into it. Which is something Alex just said I might feel.
She whispers, ‘Now, I want you to fill your mind with a memory. Think of a place, somewhere relaxing, safe and peaceful. Often it helps to think about somewhere in nature, a beach perhaps or a forest walk.’
‘Forests aren’t good for me.’ I say in a voice that seems a long way from here.
‘That’s fine, Joe,’ Alex says. ‘Think of a place where you felt good, where you felt happy.’
Hmmm. That’s a struggle. When you’ve spent a decade of your life in the same routine, feeling the way I do, it isn’t easy to just pick a great memory off the shelf.
Then it comes to me and I tell her I have one.
‘Good,’ she purrs. ‘Where are you?’
She asks this as though I’m already hypnotised. I’m not hypnotised. I decide to open my eyes but then change my mind. My heart rate is down and I do feel relaxed.
Weird.
‘I’m walking on a beach,’ I finally reply. This is a memory – a normal one, like the kind you might have – and it clouds and fills my mind like paint pouring into water. It was a good day, a walk with my parents. The sand is warm. There are birds and crashing surf. I’m young, maybe five. Ice-cream and donkey rides. ‘It’s just the three of us, before Amy was born,’ I say.
‘Okay,’ Alex replies, ‘tell me how you feel.’
‘Safe.’ I say softly. ‘I feel safe.’
‘That’s a good feeling.’ Alex assures me. ‘You are safe and in complete control. I want you to hold on to that. You are feeling more and more relaxed now.’
Her voice is drifting in and out like the surf and I feel the sand between my toes. I am walking between my parents, holding my father’s left hand and my Mother’s right. We are counting together, and on the count of three they lift me high into the air and laugh. My feet flail, I squeal with pleasure and then land, running. I look up at my father but his face is obscured by shadow, the sun making him a dark, shimmering silhouette. He is young and strong. He seems happy. My Dad. My Father.
That’s when I feel it. A strange sinking sensation, as though the sand has suddenly become softer, like wool. Within seconds I’m knee deep, but it’s strangely comforting, being swallowed, like sliding into a warm bath. I lean back and smile.
Then something happens. A moment. It seems small, almost inconsequential, like a blink or a sneeze, like something natural but not normal. I’ve never felt anything like it. Or have I?
My eyes flash open and although I’m fully awake I’m struggling to understand the moment.
Where am I?
I’m lying on the chair in Alexia Finch’s office. She’s smiling at me, seems calm and relaxed but I can’t breathe! My heart feels as though it’s stopped. I suck in a huge gasp of air and my ticker starts up again, banging and chugging into life like an old engine expelling oil from its innards.
‘Jesus!’ I manage, struggling to get up out of the chair. ‘What the hell did you just do to me?’
Alex doesn’t appear concerned, ‘You were nicely relaxed, Joe,’ she says, ‘but sometimes our conscious mind fights. It doesn’t want to let go. It’s completely natural, I can assure you, like falling off that imaginary step as you drift off to sleep.’
I don’t drift off to sleep but I remember that feeling. I’m sitting up now, still gasping.
‘Would you like a glass of water?’ She asks.
I stare at her for a few moments and then nod. She leaves the room. That was fucking weird, eerily similar to the way I watch my dreams. I look at the clock. Ten minutes since I sat in the nutty chair. I couldn’t have told you if it were hours or days. I was actually gone, I think, the present wasn’t here anymore and I had completely forgotten about… Well, everything, including bananas. It was pretty good initially but then bam.
Alex returns with the water. ‘Here you go.’
‘Thanks.’ I take a sip and look at her, ‘I was properly under, wasn’t I?’
She nods. ‘Yes, it’s a good start. You can use the number counting technique at home. It will help you relax.’ She begins to make notes, ‘Next week we can work on some other techniques that might help too. In the meantime, I want you to think about your routine.’
‘My routine?’
‘Yes, and how it builds towards bedtime.’
I nod as enthusiastically I can manage.
Wake. Mope. Drink coffee, mope some more, buy vinyl, drink wine, sulk, panic, stay awake all night. Repeat.
Alex continues, ‘Take a bath. Drink chamomile tea and try reading before sleep.’ She looks over the top of her glasses, ‘Oh, and no alcohol.’
‘Wow. Sounds like fun.’ I say dryly.
She ignores me, ‘Does next Tuesday work for you?’ She asks without looking up. I say yes, because it’s easier to agree and then not turn up, in my experience. ‘Okay then,’ she frowns a little, ‘but it will need to be a little later, after normal hours. 5:30 suit you?’
‘Great,’ I say, standing and stretching. ‘Thanks.’
‘And Joe,’ she says as she hands me my coat. ‘Try the bedtime routine, it can make a huge difference.’
15.
I’m not sure if I will go back to Alexia Finch or not. In a thousand ways it seems like a complete waste of time, but I do have an odd, nagging feeling it might do me some good. I don’t know if you’ve ever been depressed – anymore than I know for sure if I have – but people who are don’t actively seek out ways to make themselves feel better. I know it doesn’t make a lot of sense but that�
��s the way it is.
Seeking help, asking for advice, finding things that make you feel good? They are all positive steps and when people like me are knee deep in quicksand, the last thing we want is a rope, or one of those orange hoops you see at a pool. No, we want solitude, and perhaps some weights.
I walk and think and walk some more. She definitely put me under, which was a surprise. I lost all sense of myself for a while. I can’t tell you what a relief that was. I’ve never done drugs, but I would imagine that’s one of the benefits. Losing yourself.
I also think it’s one of the most underrated parts of love-making; that moment – one that can only be realised after the event – when you lose time for a while. It’s a beautiful thing, and something I miss when I think about it too much. For the record, I had a long-term girlfriend in my mid-twenties. Tania. She was hot, keen and just the right amount of mad. Now, with a wonderfully large dose of hindsight I realise she might have been my one shot at a relationship of worth. She left me in the end, another victim of my affliction, the one that delivers information I’m not supposed to know and then disappears back into the shadows, laughing.
Life is supposed to feel like a well constructed T.V. show with main characters, bit parts, fun, tears and drama. Mine was like that for a while. But then the studio cut the budget and the characters started to get axed and now it’s just me. A one man, canned laughter, network oddity.
“In this week’s episode of ‘Bridgeman’, Joe is reminded that hope is a dangerous thing. Will he opt to give it one last go, or crawl back to his lonely, failed life?”
I stop and frown. I’m not sure what I’m going to do, but not drinking wine is not going to happen.
The canned laughter pipes up in my head and I smile. For clarity – because I used a double negative or something – I am going to drink wine this evening. The routine Alexia Finch described is like a hippy commune’s idea of a fab night in and there’s nothing wrong with that, I guess, but honestly? Do you really think I’m going to have a bath, light some candles and read?