Collaboration with Crystal Rose
I lay on a couch, facing the cream ceiling and focusing on the sunlight hits it.
"Just relax," my therapist tells me. "Take a deep breath and shut your eyes."
I do as he says, inhale deeply, but before I shut my eyes I relish the light for a moment. Then all is darkness.
"Now, tell me about your dream last night?"
"It was dark and cold. I was hungry. We were hiding."
"We?" I imagine his eyebrows to be raised like the intonation in his question.
"Them. The people who are always in my dreams."
"Ah, I see." A pause for him to push his glasses back up the slope of his nose and scribble some notes down in his leather book. I wonder what he writes? Bridget Sinclair, freak. The psychological term for it. "You may open your eyes."
The room seems brighter. I blink. Were the blinds open before?
He scratches his chin and then glances at his notes. As if the explanation for why I've been having these dreams were there all along. He asks me if I've been taking the sleeping pills my GP prescribed me.
"Yes, but they don't work."
"Have you been taking them for six months?"
"Followed the instructions on the box accordingly?"
"Yes." I stifle a sigh. We've been through this. It's always the same, for the five years he's been my therapist. I try a new treatment. It doesn't work. He indirectly accuses me of not taking my medication properly.
"And you've been writing all your dreams down in your diary?"
I nod. He doesn't ask to see it. I think he's given up on me.