‘I’ve heard it all in my game. Violence, torture, murder, rape, damage to private property. I carry it with me. It’s all up here.’
Bijou Poulet tapped her temple and sighed in a significant way. She had not chosen an easy career path. I knew for a fact that suicide among psychotherapists was uncommonly high. So was suicide among veterinarians. I was glad I had not opted for a career in veterinary science. It cannot be easy giving animals injections.
‘At least you don’t see animals suffer.’
Bijou Poulet seemed startled by my comment. ‘What does the word beaver mean to you?’
‘Dam.’
‘Ho-kay, I’ll take that as a hostile response.’ She folded her lips and wrote a lengthy paragraph on her notepad. She then reread her notes, frowned and scratched her scalp with her long fingernails. When she finally looked up, her expression was serious. ‘Your illness has a name.’
‘That’s helpful.’
‘Joan of Arc complex.’
‘But Joan of Arc was a soldier. She led armies into battle against the British. I don’t agree with fighting. I think it does more harm than good.’
‘That’s only what you think you think. What goes on inside your mind is a different kettle of fish.’ She pointed to her temple again before motioning in the general direction of my groin. ‘You’re a victim of unnatural impulses, dangerous impulses if left unchecked. They’ve got to be controlled, suppressed, suffocated, metaphorically held down and beaten with a stick. Electric shock therapy is no longer available but there are other psychological routes we can pursue.’
‘This is not very good news.’
Bijou Poulet held up a hand. ‘Describe a recent dream.’
I would have liked to pursue the Joan of Arc theme but it seemed prudent to do as instructed. ‘I dreamed this morning that I lost my job. I woke up with pins and needles in my legs. Would you like me to describe it?’
‘No.’
I was taken aback by this abrupt response but reminded myself of the ‘Psy Dram’ after Bijou Poulet’s name. ‘Earlier this week, I had another dream. It was quite strange.’
‘I’m sure it was.’
‘In the dream I was sitting in the therapy room of Mr Harrison Tanderhill, a registered hypnotherapist.’ I looked at her. She nodded for me to continue. ‘I was speaking indiscreetly.’
‘Filth, shame, childhood guilt. The hypnotist takes away your sense of responsibility. You’re under his control, free to pursue sexual fantasy.’
‘Mr Tanderhill then said, “I just love the Neapolitan lifestyle”. That’s the part I don’t understand.’
‘Suppressed sexual feelings for the maidenhead. Textbook case.’
‘He then started asking about money.’
‘Pure greed. It starts at the breast.’
‘I was bottle fed.’
She glared at me. ‘Get on with it.’
‘Then the dream seemed to jump ahead. The hypnotherapist was laughing and doing the Macarena.’
‘Release, sexual freedom, cork popping. You’re frustrated, craving sexual expression. If you dig deep into your subconscious, you’ll find that the hypnotist in your dream was actually a woman dressed as a man.’
‘I’m not sure it was a dream.’
‘The dreaming mind can be compelling but reality is reality, full stop.’ She clicked her fingers to emphasise the full stop. ‘An averagely abnormal person knows the difference. A chronically abnormal person should be put on high-quality psycho-pharmaceuticals to suppress the imagination, to kill it dead in the parlance of psychotherapeutic dramatology. I’m not licensed to prescribe but I can point you in the right direction. For a fee, naturally.’
‘The thing is, I did go to see Mr Tanderhill last week. He’s a certified hypnotics expert.’
‘Poppycock.’
‘I was mesmerised with a small medallion.’
‘In your dreams, sister.’ She raised her eyebrows and made a whistling gesture with her lips without actually whistling.
‘He said the medallion was of Hindu origin but I recognised its image. My mother’s butcher had worn the same talisman. Mr Da Silva was Roman Catholic and Portuguese. He had considerable body hair.’
Bijou Poulet frowned and shook her head at the mention of body hair. ‘We’re wasting time. Have you ever dreamed you’ve forgotten to put your underpants on?’
‘No.’
‘You dream you’re back at school and suddenly realise you’re not wearing underpants.’
‘No.’
‘You’re sitting an exam and panic when you realise you’ve forgotten your underpants.’
‘I have never dreamed about underwear, with or without.’
‘For God’s sake!’ Bijou Poulet exhaled loudly through her nose and slapped her notebook on her knee.
I did not need to be a psychological expert to recognise frustration when I saw it.
She let out a long, irritated sigh. ‘Tell me about your anxieties, worries, qualms. Give them to me in a nutshell.’
I tried to think of something to say. What I was most worried about at that moment was displeasing her but I doubted this was what she wanted to hear.
‘Hurry up!’ She tapped her wrist. ‘You’re over halfway through your session.’
I was thinking how best to describe Mr Chin and explain that my education and career plans were in jeopardy when Bijou Poulet’s words cut through my thoughts.
‘Hello, anybody home?’
I felt a jolt as if an alarm clock had gone off next to my ear and a small flash bulb had popped inside my brain. I started talking rapidly. ‘Dirty washing worries me. If I think about the way it piles up, I get an empty feeling in my chest. No matter how often I wash my clothes, there’s always more. The clothes I wear while doing the washing will be the dirty clothes I wash tomorrow. It’s endless, like infinity, the universe. It makes me feel small and meaningless.’
‘Ridiculous.’ She tilted her chin and tapped her lips with a palm to demonstrate a false yawn.
‘Could we discuss abnormality?’
‘No.’
‘I’d like to talk about how I feel disconnected from the human context, encased in Perspex.’
‘Think of a family member, a key family member with breasts.’
