Chapter One - The Sleep Terrors
Harrod
I sat in the therapist’s room, staring at the walls. The color was a soothing green. It felt like the place was filled with nature, even though the only signs of it in the room were the two plants: a bonsai tree on the coffee table and a money plant next to the door. I cracked my knuckles again. It was a nervous habit I had recently developed. My mind kept going back to last night’s dream, giving me shivers over and over again. This was unusual for me. Nothing like this had ever happened before. It was almost as if I had hit puberty all over again.
The therapist knocked on the door and entered the room. She didn’t really need permission; it was her office, after all. She sat behind the desk and focused her attention on me. Her clothes were casual, her manner formal. She pulled out a notepad from her desk, grabbed a pen and then looked at me.
“Hello,” she finally said.
“Hello,” I replied.
“Harrod, right?”
I nodded.
“Harrod, I am Dr. Parker.”
I smiled, too nervous to speak.
“So,” she began. “What brings you here?”
“Haven’t you read my file yet?” I asked. My GP had asked me all sorts of questions before sending me here.
“I have, of course,” she smiled patiently. “But I want you to tell me what’s bothering you.”
I was sweating profusely. I lifted my arms, revealing the huge spots of moisture that had seeped into my shirt, and said, “This.”
“Right,” she said. “What we have to do is to get to the root of this. I am going to ask you some questions throughout the session. They may be of a personal nature. You’re free to not answer if you feel uncomfortable, but it would help me greatly if you do. Of course, everything you say will remain between us. I am sure you know about doctor-patient confidentiality.”
I nodded in agreement.
“Now, start at the beginning,” she said.
“Well,” I began. “As far as I remember, everything was fine up until a few days before my 25th birthday. Then I started having these dreams. It was the same dream every time. They have become more frequent now. In the beginning, it was nothing, but every dream progresses a little, showing something the previous dream didn’t. When I wake up, my heart is pounding, hammering in my chest. It feels like I can’t breathe…like I’m having a heart attack.”
“Was there something unusual in the weeks before all this started?”
I shook my head, “No.”
“Were the days preceding all this of any significant to you?”
“Nope.”
“Are you in a relationship?”
“No,” I said.
“Have you ever been in one?”
“I was kind of seeing someone, but it ended. That was three or four months before this. We ended things on pleasant terms, so that has nothing to do with it.”
“What about your sex life?”
I wasn’t sure how to answer this, but I went on truthfully. “I just jerk off, or hook up with girls I meet at bars.”
She paused for a moment and cleared her throat.
“Harrod, what you are experiencing are mild sleep terrors, coupled with panic attacks.”
“But why is this happening?”
“Usually, some major change in life, something unexpected, catches your brain off guard. The defense mechanisms fail, or get bypassed, and the brain goes into an emergency mode. The result is what you are experiencing. The changes are always unanticipated, like the death of a loved one, a new job, getting fired from work, marriage, divorce, etc.”
“Trust me, none of that is the case with me. I saw my breakup coming, we both did. We talked about it, lingered for a while, then let go. Neither of us has any regrets. Plus, I am interested in someone, but it’s too soon to take that into account.”
“How do you feel about it?” she asked, scribbling something on her notepad.
“I don’t feel much about it. Like I said, there’s this girl at my university that I am interested in, and we’ll see how it goes. There’s not much to add.”
“Right,” she said. “How is your relationship with your parents?”
“Well, my dad works for the government and holds an important position, one I am not allowed to tell you about, but our relationship is pretty good. We are not particularly close, but we are close enough. We talk when he’s around and free, and play golf when we can. Other than that he’s usually busy. My mother lives at a facility. A tragic incident during my childhood sent her into a trauma she hasn’t been able to recover from.”
“What happened?”
“I was only seven, so I don’t remember much,” I lied. I didn’t want her to link my dreams to what had happened back then.
“Any siblings? How’s your relationship with them?”
“I had a brother, but he died. His lungs weren't properly formed. I think he was about two or three then.” Another lie, but I had no choice here. Father had strictly warned me against speaking the truth.
“Do you visit your mom?”
“I used to visit her every week, then twice a month, but now I visit her once every month or two. She hardly ever talks, so there’s no point really. She isn’t quite there, you know, delusions and all.”
“Okay, Harrod,” she began. “This is your first session and I don’t want to stress you out. I would like you to see me twice a week, and as we continue this, I would like you to open up slowly.” She held the pen in her fingers and pointed in the air, like a teacher in front of a whiteboard. “See, therapy takes time to work. I can’t prescribe any medications to you. My job is to get to the root of the problem and fix it. This will take time and effort, and it won’t work if you don’t try. So, are you onboard?”
“Yes,” I lied for the last time.
She got up from her desk and sat on the chair beside me, and handed me a pamphlet. She recommended some breathing exercises, meditation, yoga, workouts, all the usual stuff. I nodded my head, said ‘yes’ over and over again, pretended I was listening and waited for the session to be over.
I wasn’t going to come back to this. Therapy wasn’t for me, it wasn’t going to work. I knew what I had to do, so I thanked her and left the room.