by Unknown
He’d rather be dirty, filthy in fact; or modify the hours when a shower can be taken, especially on the weekend, rather than to blurt out an inexplicable scream, or shout an unrecognizable noise, even with both hands covering his mouth.
Sometimes his hands were not quick enough to defend against the uncontrolled cacophony that emanated from him when his mind rejected control. At thirty-seven years old and having this unique problem for many years, he suspected that if anyone found out he would end up in a mental institution. There would also be his Father’s disgust. There had never been an episode outside the shower, and after so many years to contemplate and evaluate his flaw, his inherent weakness, he still had no answer as to why it always happened. What would his Father think, so perfect in every way?
Why only in the shower? Devoid of clothes, nowhere to run, naked in every way, perhaps? There was the uncomfortable realization that he must try to expose this personal weakness. Analysis outside the shower must continue where it is safe, rather than sweep it under the proverbial mat.
Dillon thought, Is it because the shower is so small? Or is it mentally more complex?
No, he knew his father too well to reach out. He had to do this on his own. The episodes lasted a half-minute or sometimes longer, but the terror for a type ‘A’ personality losing control was nearly more than he could bear. He could act cavalier and say witty, self-serving things, but not anymore. Why can’t I talk myself down off the ledge when it counts?
He had obsessed thousands of times on far-reaching or plausible excuses. Maybe when he is naked he remembers back to the most vulnerable time in his life, but he couldn’t see through the muddle anymore. Or perhaps it was something seedy from his past that his mind put a mental Band-Aid over. Hidden thoughts to protect his weakling mental state. Yes, he rationalized again; it was for protection, self-preservation, a defense mechanism to help pacify. But it must stop.
Dillon dried off outside the shower, wanting to remove himself quickly from the place that had proven to best his limits of control. He wrapped the towel around his well-developed physique.
“Is this the day you seek out professional help?” Dillon said out loud in a servile tone. He looked sheepishly at his eyes in the mirror. The eyes looking back did not look like the eyes of a confident young CEO working for a Fortune 500 company. The eyes in the mirror were soft, and without confidence. They say the eyes are a mirror to the soul, he thought. Could this be true?
Was his soul so weak and tormented like that of a baby who cannot communicate the simplest of frustrations? His eyes were red, as if he had just finished crying, but that was silly, young Dillon Bradford II would never cry. He thought himself weak due to this unexplained episodic quirk. Was today after the board meeting the day he would finally reach out to discover if this abnormal behavior had a rhyme or reason?
As morning went on, Dillon’s adroit mind along with his double-breasted suit considered ways of seeking professional help. He pondered options ranging from a standard visitation with a psychologist to perhaps someone less conspicuous, but closer to the never-ending possible topic; perhaps a pastor or maybe a priest. There was a decadent Catholic Church only a few blocks from his 48th floor office.
Dillon strongly suspected now this was a religious neural engram that could possibly unravel into a frenetic mental take-over. This mental trespassing has to stop, he thought. It’s been too long with the same creative excuses. Yes, it is time to repudiate this invasive host that cannot be controlled or remembered.
Who in the hell created this unfriendly narcissist rebellion of self-destruction that controls me? Dillon demanded a self-awakening of his own parameters. He had once heard a clinician talk about something similar on the television one night when he couldn’t sleep. All he could remember was that serotonin was artificially introduced and made that individual able to work through his problem similar to astral projection but more conscious and deliberate. Dillon was hard wired to think that mental counseling was a weakness, and that real men worked through their problems – like his father did – a man who believed in resolution and proper discipline.
However, Dillon recognized the difference between many of these people who were helped, and his own problem. Many of them recognized what their problem was, while he did not. Or the psychoanalysis they participated in eventually unlocked the hidden problem that manifested the individual’s mental illness. Dillon’s drawback was that there was no transparency, not even degrees of opaque. He had absolutely no understanding of what happened during the time he was out of control and screaming, which was always accompanied by feelings of total worthlessness.
While enjoying dinner with his beloved wife at their favorite restaurant, Dillon was looking and nodding to her every statement, paying close attention to her tone and tenor. Simultaneously he was also listening to the people behind them talk about a man’s mental salvation through the mental vehicle of a psychologists ability to make the man’s body to go limp as he was put in a state of unconsciousness.
Dillon was contently listening to Shanna yet not missing a word of the other conversation. But he never caught what was the main problem other than this man was healed of whatever malady had afflicted him. By this time had already forgotten the essence of what his father had ingrained in him, and a simple thought crossed his mind.
Suicide.
Dillon’s plush office made him feel in control. He had just finished a meeting with men and women twice his age as the chairman of the board. The board meeting went flawlessly. He thought it was late in the day but the sun was abnormally high for that time of year. Regardless of the planetary position, he had to get home to his wife as negotiating traffic between Century City and Malibu would take hours. He was apprehensive as he did the math on his fingers calling out the rest of the night’s priorities; “Get through traffic, stop at the corner wine shop, have dinner with Shanna, watch a little television, talk about her day, go to bed – and then wake up and take a shower.” Dillon’s face tightened, his hands immediately turned clammy. This was not the man who hopped over the ottoman as he came into his office after the board meeting.
Dillon was a visible mess as he shot a look at himself in his office mirror on the way out of his comfort palace. He decided to take the stairs just in case someone might see him looking mentally and physically disheveled.
He manually opened the door to his Porsche Turbo 991 Cabriolet rather than doing his usual jump landing into the driver’s seat. Before he started up his personality extension he looked in the rearview mirror and saw his eyes welling up with tears. He activated the Porsche’s Bluetooth, punched in three numbers, and the car spoke to him. ‘Say a city and state... or say other services.’
Shanna was already home making dinner. She had recorded last week’s cooking show and now watched the host from the kitchen television with the volume up. Shanna was petite, but loved to cook and eat. The dish she made before was good, but she had left something out. This second try should turn out perfect, she thought. Once Dillon came home the entrée would be ready to flash-fire with a little vermouth. He was into the fire and fresh seafood fettuccini at their favorite restaurant in Malibu.
Shanna lived life large. She loved Dillon very much as his exuberant personality and witty ability to tell the right joke at the right time kept her happy and in-love with her man. They had tied the knot three years ago after a long engagement. Dillon had kept saying he just wanted to make sure they were doing the best thing, after growing up as an only child with parents who were seasonally dysfunctional, four times a year, but proper beyond belief.
She kept teasing Dillon over all the excuses he gave her to keep putting off the wedding. She loved to tell all the stories to their good friends about how Dillon had an excuse for almost any possible contingency a man could have for not getting married. Shanna was so impressed with Dillon’s chivalrous behavior when it came to intimacy and staying over at his house. Shanna would always go on about how he was the perfect gent
leman and treating her like a prized trophy. He had been different from any other man she dated. He said he wanted the relationship to blossom first before he would let her spend the night. Shanna was impressed with his discipline. He made sure that even when things got hot and heavy in front of the gas fire, or lying on the blanket on the beach, essentially in Dillon’s back yard, that he always ended up driving her home. Or if they had a little too much wine, he would call a town car. He was always the perfect gentleman.
As the white antiseptic door opened, a nurse walked into the waiting room and looked around at the waiting patients. “Mr Bradford?”
Dillon stood up quickly and raised his arm. “That’s me.”
“The doctor will see you now.”
As he grabbed his leather gym bag, he retorted, “I am Dillon Bradford,” in a voice that screamed nervousness.
The nurse stayed about three feet in front of Dillon as they walked down the hallway. “Mr Bradford, we’ll be going to the end of the corridor to room seven. That’s our Aqua Room. I see you brought your bag, an extra set of clothes and miscellaneous effects per the instructions you were given?” Her soothing voice took Dillon’s racing mind off the procedure as they faced each other.
“Yes, I brought everything. I’m sorry, what’s your name again? I am usually more personable, but considering…”
“No worries, my name is Katie. I am the head nurse. I read the charts and notes regarding which procedure will be implemented. I am so sorry that you have been struggling with this mental distress for so long. You really have been through it.”
They both entered the Aqua Room and Nurse Katie began prepping a few things for the procedure. Dillon took a seat.
Nurse Katie walked back over to Dillon and took his hand. “I want you to inhale and exhale normally and change out of your street clothes. Then put the aqua gear on and I’ll be back in about fifteen minutes, okay?”
Dillon was embarrassed now as he had used the same calming tactics with his own people especially before either admonishing them for something or terminating their employment. He put on an upbeat tone with a forced smile and said, “Sure, and thank you for everything.”
As Dillon began removing his pinstriped, double-breasted Armani, his tormented visage was focused on one thing – the tank of water on the opposite side of the room. Was it going to happen again? Would he be reduced to a state of infantile screaming when introduced to that aqueous environment? His mind was racing now. At least he knew he was safe from Shanna witnessing an ‘event’ if one should take place, but he was not safe from the onslaught of imagery he knew would erupt. If his father could see him now, so weak, so afraid, so mortal. His perfect omnipresent father – he couldn't bear the thought of his disappointment.
He folded the suit carefully and laid it over the back of a steel chair, while fluorescent lights hummed in the background. The sun shone through the vertical blinds and carelessly danced on the surface of the water. His inner eye now fascinated with the refracting light, Dillon edged ever closer to the tank. He stood over it gazing into the pool and wondered what would happen. Perhaps nothing, perhaps mental Armageddon. He was afraid.
He reached out and skimmed his index finger across the surface, watching the small ripples that flickered across the water. A sudden flash of misery and angst flooded his mind. He withdrew his finger as if it were being scalded. It was happening again. His mind raced with a sudden horror he hadn't yet contemplated. The shower had only been streams of water glancing off his body, not much different than a warm California downpour. That exposure alone had sent him into fits many times before. His heartbeat quickened. What would happen when he was fully submerged in a pool of water? He wanted to run. As he turned to pluck his Armani suit from the back of the chair, the door opened. Katie had returned with the doctor.
The doctor shot a look at Dillon and then said, "Good afternoon Dillon. I'm Dr Samms and I will be taking you through your test today.” Dr Samms was a specialist in the field of para-mental psychology and the psycho-semantic auditory and oral repercussions that were typically associated with cases such as Dillon’s.
Dillon replaced the suit on the chair and tried to regain his composure. He managed to utter a scratchy, “Hello.”
Dr Samms pointed to a steel gurney that had been set up just below the surface of the water. “I want you to enter the tank and lay down on the gurney. I apologize if the water is a little cold, EPA mandates you see.” Dillon turned back toward the tank. Katie was now seated nearby in a steel chair, notepad and pen at the ready.
He climbed up the steps, noting each individual grain of sand that was embedded in the non-slip surface as his weight fully compressed his feet. He wished those grains could now keep his mind from slipping out of control. It was not possible, he knew it was not. He was jolted out of his thought by Dr Samms’ voice.
“Dillon, please situate yourself on the gurney so we can get started.” It was now apparent he had dawdled on the side of the tank for much longer than he thought. He lowered his foot into the water. An exasperated hiss emanated from his gaping mouth. Was it the water? Was it just simply cold? Or am I spiralling to the place I do not want to go again?
Step by slow step he made his way to the gurney. His mind flooded with the horrors and atrocities of the world that he knew. It was like several news channels were all reporting world events simultaneously. Nuclear fallout from yet another failed plant in Iran, genocide in Ghana, total economic collapse and the installation of martial law in the United States and the list continued to grow. Some of these things had happened already, some were happening now, and others were in the future. Am I seeing the future? Preposterous!
Dillon shifted his weight to one side and slowly rolled up on the gurney. As he lay down he felt as though he was being charged up like a capacitor. The energy was building within him, yet he had no mechanism for its release. ‘It’ was definitely happening again but this time it was different; this time the feeling of consumption and loss of control was total. He could barely understand the doctor’s instructions for the test. His words were lost in the space between them as if they existed in a vacuum. He barely made out Dr Samms statement, “You will be under for thirty seconds, please take a deep breath….now!”
He reacted subconsciously and took a large breath until his lungs began to prick. Was he preparing to issue a scream as usual or was it simply the innate action of a human being staying alive? The gurney shifted underneath his still body and descended into the water-filled tank. Dillon’s eyes were fixed on the window as he submerged. The sun was setting and at a point in the sky that shone directly through the window. The warmth felt soothing, comforting, and familiar as if coming home to your parents after being away at camp for the summer. Temporarily blinded by the sun’s brilliance, Dillon went under the water. His heart raced, all was quiet, and he couldn’t even hear the hum of the small motor in the tank that kept the water circulating.
Total silence.
His mind was projecting images all of which he had never actually seen with his own eyes but he had somehow witnessed. A previous life perhaps? He thought. His mind transcended time and space both forward and back. The images were futuristic and historic at the same time. His conscious mind had not fully disengaged from his subconscious, causing his mouth to open slightly. A few small bubbles popped to the surface of the water. Katie was scribbling copious notes as the doctor looked on. Where am I? WHEN am I? What is happening to me? A few more bubbles issued to the surface. His heart raced even faster. He was bouncing across time and space, seeing things, hearing sounds; and feeling emotions. It was as if he were being consumed by every experience both physical and mental that had taken place or would ever take place.
He saw a man consoling his family after being laid off from his job. He heard the prayers at a mosque from someone asking for guidance. He felt the rush of a junkie in some alley after receiving her latest fix. He wanted to help them all, and they were screaming for it in their own
way. He saw the face of a little boy, a tear rolling down his dusty cheek. The boy appeared to be frightened yet was in no immediate danger. There was something about this boy he recognized, something very familiar.
Suddenly there was no tank anymore – no water – just the little boy sitting outside a hovel staring back at him. Another tear grew in the boy’s eye and dislodged after losing the battle to gravity, leaving a clean streak on the otherwise dirty, innocent face. He understood the boy, but he didn’t know how or why. It was like a memory of his childhood but the surroundings were foreign. The sun shone brightly on the child’s face. He seemed to be in a daydream of his own.
The scene shifted. Dillon was no longer looking at the boy, but actually seeing through the Boy’s eyes. The images were still racing through his mind but faded somehow, like tracing paper sitting on top of the original image. He could barely remember Dillon Bradford anymore. The place and time he was in now seemed more familiar than he had ever felt. He and the boy seemed to be one. A flash of logic flooded his mind like lighting on the horizon of a desert plain. He was the boy, but how?
How could one this small be subject to these types of atrocities even if they were all a terrible daydream. His four-year-old mind couldn’t justify the reason for the vision but he now understood everything he had just seen. He questioned his thoughts in his now young mind. He could still see the consoling man, hear the prayers, feel the rush of the junkie, and the millions of others. He could hear them all screaming for help and sense them receiving it in whatever way they could satiate themselves. They were all reaching out for the same thing yet not knowing what it was. He could give them what they sought, he just needed time.
Dillon had no perspective of time anymore. It was though the thread of time had folded in upon itself, creating bridges to everything without going anywhere, simultaneous, yet sequential. Everything had its own unique place, and yet existed in harmony. The possibility of all of this… knowing there was so much love in the world even if that paramount emotion was unknown to those searching, was overwhelming.