with phrases. We are edged with mist.
We make an unsubstantial territory.
― Virginia Woolf
Being a psychiatrist can be a challenge, unless, like me, you have an edge—in my case, it’s seeing spirits.
I’ve always had this ability to see into the spirit realm, however, I find it’s generally not a good idea to tell patients how I go about my trade.
Take Monica Jensen, for instance.
She’s been my colleague for over five years and she’s stumped.
“I just don’t understand this patient, Mark. I’ve been seeing him for months and I’m no further along than when we first began.
She frowns and begins fidgeting with the paper doily underneath her now empty whiskey sour. Her chestnut hair falls over her eyes and I find myself slipping into that reverie I reserve for the wee hours of the night—the times I stare at the ceiling and visualize her face.
“His name is Tom Connors and he’s a Roman Catholic priest—a Monsignor. He came to me complaining about panic attacks. At first, I thought it’d be the usual thing—get him on Clonazepam, try some talk therapy and alleviate the cause of his distress.”
“So, what happened?”
“Nothing. He continued having symptoms—tachycardia, sweating, even feelings of impending death. I suspected bipolar disorder, even PTSD, but everything was a dead end. I even referred him to the mood disorder clinic for a second opinion and got him assessed, but they’re as stymied as I am.”
“It does seem strange,” I conceded. “Sounds like you’ve exhausted the usual approaches.”
“Not quite. I did try hypnotherapy.”
“Really?” My eyebrow arches, only because Monica is probably the most conservative colleague I know.
She colours slightly, as the waiter fortuitously drops two more drinks and rescues her from embarrassment.
“I know this sounds a bit exotic and I suppose it is, but I was at my wit’s end.”
“Nonsense,” I reassure her, “it’s not exotic at all and face it—sometimes we have to be part Magus and part Felix the Cat and pull something from our bag of tricks.”
“You’re a dear.” She touches my hand.
“Famous for it,” I smile and secretly cherish the soft touch of her hand on mine.
Her hand remains a little longer than laws of polite gesture would dictate and I see a far-off look in her eyes that makes me want to parachute into her world dressed in Ninja attire and rescue her from all adversaries. Instead, I take her hand in both of mine and squeeze gently.
“It’ll be all right,” I encourage her. “If you want, I’d be willing to consult.”
“Oh would you, Mark? I’d be ever so grateful.” Her huge brown eyes sparkle and I feel my stomach flip.
“Sure, I’d be glad to see him. Anything else I should know?”
She hesitates a fraction of a second—hardly long enough to be noticeable, but my antenna is up.
“There was an odd thing that happened under hypnosis—I’m not really sure what to make of it.”
“What was it?” I croak.
She sips at her drink, maddeningly slow, and my imagination takes over. He’s a pedophile—a serial rapist—a sadistic torturer like the BTK Killer. I begin regretting letting down my defences.
“He was speaking in a foreign language.”
“Really?” I’m suddenly intrigued. “Which one?”
“That’s the weird part. I taped the session and took the tape to a friend of mine who’s a language specialist—he’s even worked for the FBI—he didn’t recognize it.”
“That is odd.”
“I don’t know why, but I feel this is crucial—It may be some form of Glossolalia.”
“That’s not uncommon under hypnosis. It could also be xenoglossy.”
She looked puzzled. “You mean he’s speaking in a natural language previously unknown to him?”
“Exactly. But to be fair, I should wait until I see him.”
“How about next Thursday at four? —That’s when he’s scheduled.”
“I’ll fit him in and by the way, do you have a copy of the tape?”
“I brought it along, “ she smiled, reaching into her purse and retrieving a black cassette tape.
Her response indicates only too well that she’s aware of her ability to charm me. Obviously, she came with the tape because she was certain I’d accept.
It was at that moment that a shadow fell across my mind. I shivered despite the warmth of the room.
Outside I could see rain. A heavy fog had rolled in. I felt in my bones I had taken a turn in the road and longed to see what lay ahead— but experience taught me, I’d find out all too soon.