‘OH MY GOD,’ said Violet, falling abruptly out of her trance.
‘Very interesting,’ said Dr Blumenthal. Violet noticed that the therapist’s notepad was covered with copious scribbles. She wondered how long she’d been out. ‘The introduction of archetypes into your dreams helps us to clarify many things.’
‘It does?’ said Violet, who was feeling more confused than ever.
‘Absolutely,’ said Dr Blumenthal. ‘Zeus, Ares, Amazons…it’s fascinating stuff. Greek Mythology resonates profoundly on an unconscious level. It’s why the myths have survived through the millennia. Why versions of them have appeared across countless cultures and religious traditions. Archetypal dreams can be profoundly transformative.’
Violet bit her lip. Of course, she was familiar with the theory of archetypes; with Jung and Joseph Campbell and Walt Disney and Star Wars and even Aaron’s awful war movies. The problem was, it hadn’t felt like an ‘archetypal’ dream. In fact it hadn’t felt like a dream at all. ‘It felt more like a memory,’ she said, staring at the floor. ‘Like it really happened to me.’
‘Of course it did,’ said Dr Blumenthal. ‘That’s a characteristic of hypnosis. We feel as if we are totally emerged in the trace world. To the subconscious, there is no difference between the dream world and “real life”.’
Violet frowned. Aside from a profound dislike of the expression ‘real life’, she was becoming slightly suspicious of Dr Blumenthal’s reliance on hand gestures to create imaginary inverted commas. As far as she was aware, that style of speaking had gone out in the 90s. And although that didn’t necessarily make Dr. Blumenthal a bad therapist, it did make Violet question the “currency” of her “methods”. ‘But this was different,’ said Violet, shaking her head. ‘To the last time I mean.’
‘How so?’
Violet closed her eyes, trying to conjure up the sensation that had abruptly come to an end, only minutes before. But like a long forgotten language, it eluded her. Disappointed, she opened her eyes. ‘Last time, I was watching from the outside. I wasn’t in the dream.’
Dr Blumenthal nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘We talked about that. How it was different from your childhood dreams.’
‘This time,’ said Violet, suddenly feeling like her throat was swelling up, ‘I was that little girl. I mean, I didn’t feel like a little girl at all. I just felt like me. Only, I guess, younger.’
Dr Blumenthal smiled. ‘This is great progress,’ she said.
In an attempt to counteract her rapidly swelling throat, Violet tried swallow. It didn’t help. ‘It is?’ she croaked.
‘Of course,’ said the therapist. ‘Observing the dream ‘once removed’ is like a safety net. As an observer, you don’t directly experience the feelings of the participants. Stepping into the dream as a participant, you experience all the emotions at full strength. And that’s a very brave thing to do.’
Violet shifted on the lounge. Too late, she realized that her left hip and buttock had gone to sleep. Waking it, she knew from experience, was going to be excruciating, not to mention comical. ‘That sounds plausible,’ she said.
Dr Blumenthal laughed. ‘I’m glad you think so,’ she said. ‘And I hope you agree that the introduction of Hunter into this landscape is a wonderful insight, communicating with your “inner child”.’
Violet shook her head. ‘It wasn’t Hunter.’
‘But you said you recognized your husband…’
‘I did,’ said Violet. ‘But it wasn’t Hunter.’
‘Then who was it?’ asked Dr Blumenthal, sitting a little straighter in her chair.
Violet couldn’t help it. Like the fairest maiden in the land upon hearing the name of her betrothed, she blushed. ‘It was an intern,’ she said.
‘I’m not sure I follow,’ said Dr Blumenthal. ‘Was it someone you know?’
Violet nodded slowly. ‘He was an intern at the studio. His name is Leo.’ She looked down at her knees, suddenly fascinated by a couple of freckles she’d never noticed before. ‘I never knew him that well in “real life”,’ she said, inadvertently mirroring her therapist, but at a loss for a less annoying way of putting it. ‘But in the dream, I knew he was my husband.’
Dr Blumenthal chewed on the end of her pencil; something she only did when very hungry, or genuinely surprised. ‘Now that really is interesting,’ she said.