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loveint-diario · 10 months

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Capitolo 31 - Il sonno della coscienza genera mostri

“… intorno a lui fu consultato il vate profetico per sapere se avrebbe visto i lunghi giorni di una matura vecchiaia: «Se non si conoscerà» egli disse. La profezia dell’augure a lungo sembrò menzognera, ma la confermarono la fine, gli avvenimenti, nonché il genere di morte e la singolarità della follia.”

Metamorfosi di Ovidio

Il lui della citazione è Narciso e come ci racconta Ovidio, era un giovane di straordinaria bellezza che dopo essersi specchiato nelle acque di un lago, s’innamora follemente della sua immagine riflessa e nel tentativo di afferrarla cade in acqua e muore annegato. La singolarità della follia è quella di amare sé stesso più di qualsiasi altro essere al mondo e come da profezia, la morte avviene nel momento in cui si conosce, si vede per la prima volta.

Il mito di Narciso è tra i più conosciuti della mitologia greca e tra i più utilizzati in psicologia come in letteratura per raccontare individui insensibili e manipolatori o descrivere società basate sull’egotismo e l’apparenza.

In Introduzione al narcisismo (1914), Sigmund Freud definisce narcisismo originario un particolare stadio dello sviluppo psichico durante il quale il bambino, o la bambina, basta a sé stesso, nel senso che il suo corpo è il punto di partenza e di arrivo delle pulsioni e del piacere. È quel momento in cui dipendiamo completamente dall’accudimento materno, il momento in cui ogni nostra necessità viene soddisfatta senza che sia necessario far nulla fuorché piangere, è il momento in cui la simbiosi con chi ci accudisce è assoluta, non siamo capaci di distinguere ciò che è io da ciò che è il corpo dell’adulto che ci accudisce. Abbiamo fame, sete, vogliamo dormire, essere coccolati oppure vogliamo giocare o essere cambiati e senza nessun altro sforzo che sia quello di agitarci scompostamente e piangere, otteniamo ciò che desideriamo, quello di cui abbiamo bisogno. Nel momento di massima dipendenza siamo quasi come degli dei, otteniamo pronta soddisfazione senza la necessità di affidare alle parole la nostra richiesta e solo con il movimento.

Crescere comporta però ripetere continuamente l’esperienza dell’essere incapaci, da soli, di soddisfare le nostre necessità, di essere fisicamente e psicologicamente inadatti a rispondere alle richieste dell’ambiente; crescendo ci scontriamo con i limiti che l’educazione pone al soddisfacimento del nostro piacere e con la frustrazione che deriva dai divieti morali e civili che la nostra società impone. Questo è il momento edipico, un momento fondamentale secondo Freud nello sviluppo psichico normale e in quello patologico dell’essere umano e per spiegarlo prende a prestito un altro mito di origine greca, quello di Edipo.

Questa volta a consultare l’indovino Tiresia sono il re Laio e sua moglie Giocasta, al quale pongono la stessa domanda che i genitori di Narciso posero all’augure: il loro primogenito vivrà sereno e abbastanza a lungo da godersi la vecchiaia? Sì, il bambino vivrà a lungo, abbastanza da invecchiare ma sarà causa di morte per il padre, è la risposta del veggente. I genitori sconvolti dalla profezia, decidono di uccidere il bambino, ma non essendo capaci di farlo affidano il neonato a un cacciatore, chiedendogli di abbandonarlo nel bosco così che muoia di fame e di freddo. Il cacciatore compassionevole non esegue però l’ordine del re, salva il bambino affidandolo alle cure di altri due genitori regali, senza figli, che lo accolgono con immensa gioia.

Una volta cresciuto, Edipo per dimostrare il suo valore di uomo e di futuro re, si mette in marcia, esercito a seguito, con l’intenzione di conquistarsi un proprio regno. Durante il cammino giunge dinnanzi ad una strettoia, all’altro capo della quale c’è Laio con il suo esercito in marcia. Nessuno dei due sa chi sia l’altro, ma entrambi sanno che il diritto di passaggio spetta a Laio in quanto re e in quanto anziano. Come sappiamo Edipo freme dalla voglia di mostrare le sue doti virili e i suoi talenti da guerriero così, invece di cedere il passo a Laio in rispetto alle leggi e agli dei, comanda al suo esercito di attaccare per imporre il suo diritto di passare per primo. Sarà proprio la sua spada ad uccidere il padre. Edipo trionfante e inconsapevole conquista il regno di Laio, sposa la madre e dall’unione dei due nascono ben quattro figli. Dei miti greci e delle leggende la cosa che più mi piace è che la verità anche se giace nascosta per anni e anni, trova sempre il modo di manifestarsi e una volta nota a tutti, la giustizia segue implacabile. Edipo venuto a conoscenza dell’orrida verità, si accecherà con le sue stesse mani e si costringerà a una vita in esilio vagando per strade sconosciute coperto di stracci.

Freud utilizza il mito di Edipo per spiegare un passaggio fondamentale della maturazione psichica durante il quale l’Io smette di trovare godimento in sé stesso e si rivolge all’ambiente, cerca di soddisfare i suoi bisogni nella relazione con i genitori, uno dei quali diventa l’oggetto del suo amore, l’altro diventa oggetto d’identificazione e d’imitazione, una sorta di ideale. Il primo atto costitutivo dell’Io come Essere in relazione con è una scelta d’amore e contemporaneamente è il desiderio di voler essere come quel modello in grado di possedere l’oggetto amato.

Il processo di identificazione è alla base del complesso edipico, il bambino s’identifica con l’oggetto amato che vuole per sé e con il quale non ammette distanza o separazione, ma s’identifica anche con il rivale in amore, l’altro genitore al quale vuole somigliare, che imita e che vorrebbe sostituire. L’identificazione è il primo legame emotivo che istauriamo con un’altra persona perché sia nell’innamoramento che nell’ammirazione tendiamo a emulare il comportamento delle persone amate e ammirate, in Psicologia delle masse e analisi dell’Io (1921) Freud dice che a volte l’Io copia la persona amata a volte quella non amata (quella ammirata) e che l’identificazione è immedesimazione, la stessa che utilizziamo per comprendere l’Io estraneo di altre persone, la stessa che sta alla base dell’empatia. L’Io dunque crea un legame emotivo identificandosi con il soggetto che ammira e dunque con ciò che vorrebbe essere oppure con l’oggetto e dunque con ciò che vorrebbe avere.

Il legame emotivo che si istaura mediante l’identificazione è ambivalente, tende all’avvicinamento e alla tenerezza con l’altro con cui ci si identifica ma allo stesso tempo tende all’allontanamento e a cercare di separarsi da questo. Le forme di relazione basate sull’identificazione sono forme primordiali di relazione, l’altro è vissuto come un oggetto, come qualcosa che si vuole avere interamente, o in parte appropriandosi dei suoi attributi, in questo aspetto predatorio e aggressivo risiede l’ambivalenza del legame.

Narciso vuole afferrarsi ed Edipo non vuole solo diventare re, vuole essere re come Laio, vuole il suo regno, il suo esercito e la sua regina.

“[L’identificazione] Si comporta come una propaggine della prima fase orale dell’organizzazione libidica nella quale l’oggetto bramato e apprezzato veniva incorporato durante il pasto e perciò distrutto in quanto tale. Come è noto il cannibale rimane fermo a tale stadio; egli ama i nemici che mangia e non mangia se non quelli che in qualche modo può amare.”

Tre saggi sulla teoria sessuale (1905)

È sempre Freud a parlare e sembra far eco al poeta che dal carcere di Reading canta:

“Troppo poco si ama, o troppo a lungo;

C’è chi vende l’amore e chi lo compra,

Chi commette il delitto lacrimando

E chi senza un sospiro:

Poiché ogni uomo uccide ciò che ama,

Ma non per questo ogni uomo muore.”

Infatti a morire sono solo le donne che vengono divorate da uomini che amano solo sé stessi. I dati circolati dopo la morte di Giulia Tramontano, la giovane donna incita di sette mesi uccisa dal suo compagno, dicevano che in Italia 3 donne al giorno sono vittime di violenza e l’85% di loro muore uccisa da compagni, mariti, padri e figli, proprio da quegli uomini che le amano di quel tipo d’amore che le considera soltanto oggetti utili al loro nutrimento e al loro piacere. Ecco che tipo di amore è quello di ogni uomo che uccide ciò che ama, lo stesso tipo di amore in nome del quale chi mi stalkerizza giustificava la sua azione abusante nei miei confronti. In questi anni mi sono chiesta come potesse una persona, che mi ossessionava con la sua presenza sempre lì dov’ero io ad ascoltare ogni mio respiro, a guardare ogni mia azione, sempre pronto a sottolineare i miei gesti, gli eventi della mia vita con poesie d’amore, canzoni, articoli, sempre lì a ripetere le mie parole, i miei argomenti, a imitare i miei gesti, i miei modi di dire, che a ogni mio tentativo di liberarmi da questa sorveglianza globale rispondeva che sarebbe rimasto per sempre perché mi amava troppo, come può questo uomo non aver mai nemmeno tentato, di avere una relazione normale con me? Non aver mai cercato d’incontrarmi o di parlarmi per comunicare, non soltanto per ripetermi come un’eco infinita. In linea con Freud ritengo che la risposta stia proprio nella fame smodata e insaziabile dell’oralità, e nella violenza dell’identificazione come esporrò nel prossimo capitolo.

Adesso, dopo aver parlato di uomini, di miti e di parole ripetute, mi piacerebbe concludere con la storia di un personaggio femminile Eco, la ninfa ripetente, così come l’ho trovata nel libro di Christoph Ransmayr, Il mondo estremo.

La storia è ambientata agli estremi confini del mondo conosciuto, nella città di Tomi, sul Mar Nero, dove Ovidio fu esiliato e dove morì. Il protagonista è Cotta, amico del poeta, che aveva assistito al suo ultimo discorso pubblico a Roma prima dell’esilio. Cotta si reca nella città selvaggia perché vuole rintracciare le ultime tracce di Ovidio e delle Metamorfosi, muovendosi in un mondo in cui il mito si trasfigura in realtà. In questo romanzo Eco è una donna straniera, povera e sola, dalla pelle così chiara e delicata che se si espone al sole inizia a squamarsi e a decomporsi, per questo vive in una caverna in cima alla montagna. Eco è capace di discorrere di molte cose, sa molto e ha vissuto a servizio di Ovidio fino alla morte di quest’ultimo, ma a Tomi generalmente quando le rivolgono la parola si limita a ripetere le ultime parole di chi le ha parlato. Essendo una straniera, povera e donna, gli uomini della città ferrigna, si presentano di notte nella sua caverna e portando polli, stoffe, grano o farina pretendono di accoppiarsi con lei, lei per sopportare quei momenti, rimane in silenzio e immagina di trovarsi a passeggiare per sentieri di montagna. Cotta è l’unico a sapere che Eco non ripete soltanto parole, ma parla in modo tale da fargli venire il sospetto che Ovidio stesso possa aver scritto le Metamorfosi ripetendo le storie ascoltate dalla donna. Nonostante questo, o forse proprio per questo, anche Cotta la violenta.

Roma, 12 giugno 2023 h 9.33 a. m. – 15 giugno 2023 h 3.05 p. m.

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finchbench · 1 year

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The Sea in the Sky

My dad and I have always had a certain understanding of each other. He never had an easy life, so I could never expect him to be the best as a father. And he wasn't. Though I suppose I had the average upbringing for a girl without a mother. I wished I could go live with her instead of this tiny place. Nothing too eventful hardly ever happened in this tiny English town. The biggest bit of gossip I knew was that my father had been coupling with his best friend's wife for quite some time now.

It never bothered me too much though, since I didn't care for the friend to begin with. I did worry about the possible condemnation of my father’s soul, though I did not blame him for his immorality. I never partook in such things, but I had shown no judgement. Sometimes I had shown enough complicity that even I found it odd how I would allow these things to take place in the same house I lived and slept in. I suppose I mostly justified it by reminding myself of how the mistress's husband was a rude guest that wouldn’t take no as an answer. He was the type of man to frighten you just by existing.

Simply being near him seemed to demand your unwavering attention. Although I would never admit it, his inappropriate affection almost instilled a sense of pride in me; I felt special for being the object of such a mature and respectable man’s desires. I was never a spectacle to any man, until he decided to don his lust on me. Having the attention of someone like that after never having a true admirer is far more intoxicating than any drink. I had never outwardly shown interest in him in any sort of way, probably because I knew, -of course- that it was forbidden by morals. I especially would not be eager to go with the married man, who was also a known associate of my father’s. It was the idea of having someone with such a demanding presence as him that attracted me, not the man himself. I never actually wanted him.

It didn't matter what I did or did not want though, I tried as hard as I could, and still could not push him away. Unfortunately, his presence was not only intimidating, but he was also genuinely terrifying. I was much smaller and weaker than the grown man towering over me, and there was nothing I could do about it. He had been out on the town with my father, when they both returned late with their minds washed away. I was completely powerless against his drunken outburst. I was pressed between the wall and that monster, - praying with all of my being to be rescued- only to be met with disappointment. My father was nowhere to be found since he had already gone to sleep off the liquor.

I never understood how someone could be frozen in fear, until he had frozen my very thoughts. There was not a moment in my life that I could reflect back to in order to free my mind of him. Not only had I lost the ability to move but I lost my ability to think. My body was being held still but my mind was trapped. I had never felt more powerless in my life. A regretful acceptance washed over me as the sullen memory of my mother flooded forwards. It was honestly less of a memory- but the feeling of her.

The same feeling I had when we last embraced, before she left. It was an unbelievably sad acceptance of the unstoppable, but it felt like her and that was all that mattered. It was the only thing of her that I had to hold onto since she was sent to live by the sea. I could not allow myself to let the feeling go, no matter what. God I missed her so much. In my times of need I would bring my eyes upwards to the heavens to ask for her help, as she has always brought a refreshing sense of peace to the crashing waves of thoughts in my head, which were plentiful enough to fill a thousand seas.

After he had put his true self-interested intentions on display during his pitiful state of drunkenness he continued to further embarrass himself by passing out on the parlour floor, as I stood lost in a trance. I felt entirely detached from my own being. I couldn't think of anything, no matter how hard I tried, not even the atrocity I just endured. My head felt like a balloon inflated with air hot enough it may burst into flames that would eventually consume it. I was an utter void of myself and anything I had been.

The only thing I could think to do was carry on with the regular motions to prepare for bed as I had been before. I would tell myself to just continue on with the same daily tasks I had always done and nothing else. I felt it was time for me to dissolve into nothing and wander the background of my own life as it passed by. It was like a switch in my brain had been waiting to be flipped so I could finally operate like a machine and never have to think about my own actions again.

I couldn’t recall the amount of days that went by until my father finally said something. He was kind with his words, “What has happened to you? You were once my sweet Ida, a social young girl with bright prospects. Only 17 years old, you have no need to be moping around. You had a bright future filled with marriage and happy children. Now you quietly sit and say nothing about anything… I’m not saying you are doomed, or that all hope is lost though, I’m simply telling you to cheer up, darling.” Darling; he would call my mother that.

It took a weary toll of exertion to simply pull my mind and tongue together in cooperation for the moment it would require to compose a single phrase. I never had anything to say anymore anyway. Concern was slowly draped over his concentrated face while he moved his lips, as if practising before he spoke, “I’ll always love you, and I do miss our daily banter about the on goings of the world around us… I miss you.”

I was polite, yet impersonal with ym response. “I miss our conversations over afternoon tea as well, father.” I had always enjoyed him and our time together, but in that instant I could not bring myself to give him the reply I knew he wanted, -that I loved him as well- I could not bring myself to lie.

I gave him the only half- truth I could bear ,“I've just been a bit more tired than usual lately.”

In his usual caring and fatherly voice he told me, “You should be resting more then. What else might you be doing for all those hours you spend locked away from the rest of the world, like a prisoner?”

A prisoner, that was it, that was exactly what it felt like. The only thing I could think to say was, “Oh sometimes I read, or sew, or even just sit.” Well that was certainly a lie, I had been sleeping more at that time than I ever had.

He had started to walk back into his study, but then stopped and without turning back to face me said, “I’m terribly sorry if I have done something to upset you in any way.”

I had been so drained by participating in the conversation that, without a second thought I replied, “It’s alright,” I immediately felt bad, my response made it seem that I believed he was to blame. It wasn't his fault that we didn't carry on about our usual conversations.

My heart ached for our old conversations of intellect, or whatever else we found interesting that day; whatever that made us feel as though we were close enough that no one on earth could come close to us. I would assume the unfortunate reason I could no longer hold a conversation was that I had completely been consumed with self- loathing. I was made to feel as though I was less than the dust I swept from the floor, so why even attempt to constitute any regards? I was entirely guilt ridden with the fact that I had allowed such a thing to happen with the best friend of my father in my own house. It wasn't my fault,- I didn't want it and I didnt ask for it- but I still felt I was the one to blame.

The thought that this was his way to exact revenge for what my father had done with his wife crossed my mind seldom, but still enough to have taken it into genuine consideration. My father’s actions very well may have been the cause of all this, and I had no choice but to carry more hate for him. I usually never wanted to think of my father poorly, so I often packed the idea into the smallest box and pushed it to the furthest corner of my mind. When I allowed myself to hate him though, I would pray for the downfall of such a horrible man for committing such great sin.

* * *

I hated the way my mind would separate itself from my life. I hated the way I would look in on my own life as if I were a stranger looking in. I wanted to be able to love my father so I could better see him. I didn't want to see him as the horrible man he is because of the things he has done, but as the man who raised me and deserved my forgiveness. After all, if it weren’t for him I would be all alone in this world.

We were the last bit of each other's family, because of that we were quite close, whether it be by choice or that he had no one else to ramble on with about his antics. I had always felt that we had a special sort of understanding of the other. It was something gained through similar experiences, rather than the time we spent in each other's company. We knew each other because we knew the things that the other felt and went through, because of that, I wanted to tell my father what happened in order to mend the fresh gap between us. I wanted his comfort now more than anything during all of the confusion and sadness.

I wanted to destroy the life of the man who did it. I wanted to tear him apart in every cruel and gruesome way possible. It wasn’t fair that he had ended me and was allowed to carry on with his life as usual. It wasn’t fair, and I wanted to exact what I believed would be justice .One windy day I had decided I had enough of him continuing to show his face and never acknowledging the destruction he caused within me, so I told my father.

He didn't believe me. The sense of betrayal spread throughout me like a sickness attacking my heart. Since he obviously held no compassion there was no way I could allow myself to show how enraged he made me. I believe I rather gracefully accepted his backstabbing behaviour with a sniffle. We stood staring at each other for a moment when I couldn't hold it in any longer, I had to laugh at him. His absolutely stupidity on the matter was nothing short of comical. His inability to wrap his head around the fact was so absurd that I couldn't stand it. He reminded me of a clown as surprise and anger were both equally painted on his face in the most animated fashion.

I never felt so instantly relieved while also being terrified as I was in the moment he said I was actually to be sent away. I felt an odd sort of mourning from within at the news. Since my father had been my only sort of friend, his abandonment was worse than I imagined. I never thought I would lose both my last bit of family and my only friend in one fell swoop. The mourning of my father felt far more difficult to ignore than that of my mother. He had not been taken from me as she was, rather he chose to abandon me. We were standing right in front of each other, yet we could not be further apart. I was reaching out to him for help with both hands and he had answered by turning his back to me.

* * *

I had always heard stories of how men were the dumb ones, because of how they could never understand even the most mundane emotions, and how easy it was to seduce and convince them. It would take a man who had lived an entire life to put into words the way a young girl feels at any given moment. They always said men couldn’t even grasp the concepts we endure, and because of that I was always led to believe that men were stupid. However, once my father abandoned me, I learned for myself they aren’t stupid. Instead, they are the most cruel and vile tyrants to ever exist.

At least I had finally gotten away from that horrible house, with that horrible room that constantly stood as a reminder to me of what he did. Leaving felt like my sentence had ended, -I was freed from prison- and I could feel myself returning. It was like watching a figure emerge from a fog filled meadow and not being entirely sure of their identity, while still being hopeful it was the same person who you had sent off earlier. It was a slow and troublesome journey with hope being the only reason not to succumb to the exhaustion.

Though the colour returned to my face, the anger I had previously assured myself that would follow never came, and I felt entirely neutral. The only bit of anger I felt was because I knew I should be upset. I had convinced myself to be angry. The uncomfortable journey away was worth it, but absolutely was not helping to improve my mood at all.

* * *

The large building of psychiatry I arrived at seemed to be consumed with a miasma of despair. The bleak umbrage cast on me upon arrival sprouted a pit in my stomach that made this suddenly seem all too real. The atmosphere that floated along with the staff was friendly, but I soon discovered where there was a lack of company there was also a lack of incentive. Perhaps I simply could not be left alone with my own thoughts. I suppose my thoughts are the ones that have led me to be here after all.

The room I was led to was the same as that of a hospital, but far more empty and much less inviting. The thin metal bed frame had the most beautiful differently coloured paint layers peeling off, making each one pleasantly visible. The variety appeared so brightly against the white tile covering everything else, it felt as though their colours shone only for me. It made me happy, for the first time since it happened I was happy again. Even if it was because of the peeling paint colours on my bed frame in the physciatric ward, I was still happy to be happy again. I couldn’t believe the first thing to make me happy since then was simply the colours of old paint.

* * *

I had to only take eight short steps to reach the illuminating window across the room. Unfortunately there were no other light sources in the room, which I knew meant it would be completely dark in here at night. The glass was clouded by old layers of dirt and from a lack of cleaning prevented by the bars encasing the exterior. It was hot to stand in the sun, and father always said the sunlight would ruin my complexion anyway, so I went to sit on my beautiful bed. The fabric of thin linen sheets reminded me of a dress my mother would always wear to the beach, and for another blissfully brief moment I could feel her again. Her memory had never been so prevalent in everything as it was after the incident, and I hated that I would then always associate her memory with his.

Who knows how long I had been lost in my own thoughts before I was startled by a man with a white coat who unexpectedly came to stand before me with a doleful expression. He had something about him that reminded me of my father in the worst way. The cunning and deceiving part that always got him whatever he wanted. I didn’t want to assume he had malicious intent though, after all he was to be my doctor. It was also partially because men like him give attention to girls like me, and since I had seen the way he carried himself I made up my mind. I was here to get better and return home, but oh well.

He fashioned a nervous smile across his face and gestured towards the empty spot on the bed next to me. We both knew that he was completely in control of this situation, but he had still asked my permission to sit- a right afforded to anyone. He had given me power over something I didn't even know was a decision, it wasn't much to allow a stranger to sit next to me, but he made me feel powerful. “My name is Sigismund Freud and I am the doctor here to help your hysterical situation. I dont want you to feel unfortunate for it though, as your contraction of hysteria was completely out of your control and rather a neurological response.”

He used all of these complicated words to describe daedalean matters I did not care to understand, or even listen to. I wanted him to listen to me. I wanted him to love me. I just wanted him to dote on my every whim. I wanted to tell him everything and for him to simply stare at me as his muse of physcology.

“How are you going to cure me then, doctor?” I questioned in a sarcastic tone as I believed there was nothing wrong with me to begin with.

His demeanour seemed to gain confidence as he responded, “We are going to intrude on your subconscious mind to find the object of your condition and then work to unknot the tangle of thoughts I'm sure consume your mind.”

He lifted his hand and placed his hand on the side of my head, then brushed his thumb over my forehead, as if wiping away my thoughts. His simple actions gave me authority over him, and the delicate touch between us had me entirely fixated with him.

In an attempt to bait more conversation I asked, “What exactly must I do in order to fix myself?”

“We will have to work together on this, but I’m sure that right now you are in need of rest after your long trip all the way to London. We will have to begin tomorrow.”

I was shocked that he wasn’t going to stay, and it made me angry enough to nearly shout, “Get out.” I meant every ounce of harshness put into my words this time. I had been so strongly enamoured with him in such a short time, and now he was taking himself away from me. It wasn’t fair

He looked almost satisfied by my reaction, as if I had proven a point of his, and with a quick smile responded, “Very well ma’am,” then stood to leave.

The flash of evil that shone on his face during that charming smile was more than enough to remind me that there was a high possibility of him being horrendous. I couldn’t allow myself to chase him, because after all, it wasn't even him that I wanted. I just wanted to be powerful and respected, like a king sitting high on the throne, ordering his subjects around. The doctor made me feel as though I had at least one royal subject to order around, and for that I will always be grateful. He gave back a grain of the power that had been taken from me by his kind to begin with.

* * *

My hopes began to fade away, until it became a struggle to remember what they were to begin with. I was so bored out of my mind, and I didn't know what to do as I lay wide awake in my beautiful bed. I should have just gone to sleep, but I felt almost excited for my treatment tomorrow. I missed being able to look at my bed, even though there were a million tasks I would've normally rather been doing. I couldn’t see anything in the blackout, and the darkness scared me less than usual. I was given some sort of medication upon my arrival that caused unnatural waves of dreary tiredness, but now that I was also genuinely exhausted I began to drift in and out of consciousness.

In my restless boredom I felt my way to the bottom of the bed, and began to run my fingers along the paint chips. The small pieces of chalky pigment felt like soft flakes of glass on my fingertips. The soft crumbling of the paint was nearly silent, despite the harsh destruction I was bringing. The repeated hypnotic contact with the surface put me in a trance-like state of mind and I became much more exhausted than I had been earlier. I felt as though I had been hypnotised, but luckily was able to convince myself to just sleep it off.

* * *

The sun was much brighter when I woke up than it had been at any point the previous day. I couldn’t believe I was going to have to suffer every morning with an east facing window that would always wake me at dawn. In order to save my eyes, I turned from the sun. I missed my own room, with the wonderful drapes I had covering my windows from the same bitter morning sun. I happened to glance upon my poor bedframe and what I had done to it when I couldn't sleep the previous night. All of the beautiful flakes colours were still clinging to my hands or scattering across the floor like sand.

I had betrayed myself by destroying the only thing I had enjoyed there. The evidence of it still stuck to my palms, and as I tried to wipe it away the pieces would only splinter in my skin and crack into more shards. After my desperate attempt to rid my hands of the colours on my skin, my eyes fell back to the bed frame which was now the same colourless white as the rest of the room's contents. Why had I so willingly ruined my own happiness?

I turned back to the same door I had walked through just hours ago, but now kept me encased in this small corner of the world. It was a heavy metal thing that looked as if it was made to keep an entire ocean out. The small square window near the top danced with the shadows of the people that were passing by. I wondered what they were doing, and then decided I didn’t care, I just wanted to be out there, to be out of this place. The tears began to collect in my eyes for the first time since my arrival when someone burst through the door without warning.

My gaze had been so intently fixed on the door for such a time that the moment it first began to move without a warning, such an overwhelming feeling of panic overcame me, and I was instantly pulled back to that night. However, all I could find myself thinking about once I shut my eyes in fright was my mother, and she was enough to bring me back to reality before Dr. Freud had noticed I was taken in the first place. He opened the floodgates and stepped through. His arrival seemed to change the air around us back to the waves of mixing emotions that filled my head since that night. I abruptly turned away, as if it would’ve helped to drive him away. Looking at the warm sun and feeling it fall against my skin was much more bearable then, since I had at last adjusted to the brightness of the morning. Between finally being able to enjoy the sun as usual and the blankets I was still clutching I finally felt a bit of balance in my thoughts and the racing of my mind seemed to slow to a stroll.

My peace was shortly interrupted by his inquisition,“How have you been since we last spoke?” he questioned in a flat voice.

Without even caring to look at him I responded, “I’ve been fine, now how are you going to fix me so that I can return home?” All I wanted was to go back home.

“Well I have spoken with your father about what you believe happened that night, and it has been decided the best course of treatment for you begins with a type of selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors”

“What do you mean when you say the events I believed took place? It doesn’t matter what I believe or not, it did happen, there's no question about it.” I felt as though humanity as a whole had failed me in that moment, as no one seemed to believe me.

“Since you have been a young woman for quite some time now, it is sure that you are to have certain desires, and that when they were not met, -likely because you had repressed them- you subconsciously reflected your wants onto the friend of your father.”

It was my fault.

“Here are the pills I mentioned,” he took his hand from his pocket and placed two small light azure coloured circles in my palm. Seeing their dusty exterior reminded me of the paint I had ruined and suddenly I had brought my own emotions crashing down again and I remembered what I had done. At least his annoyingness was there to break the silence I had created, “You will be taking six of them everyday until you improve or another treatment is advised, I must be off to see the other patients now.”

“Thank you,” I truly meant it this time, after all he was helping me. I did not want to mean it, I wanted to continue hating him for siding with my father in the belief that I wanted all this to happen.

Once he finally pulled the door shut behind him I quickly glanced out the window before I tilted my head back and dryly swallowed the medicine. It tasted how it looked- like chalk. When I decided to stand from my bed it let out a pitiable groan as though it had been waiting for the strain to be lifted from its old bones. I didn’t like how confined the area of my room was, but at least it wasn’t a journey to the window. I could have stood there and gazed into the trees surrounding this hellish place for all of eternity.

* * *

The next morning came and filled my room with the same irritating and disturbing sunlight as the day before. There was no point in fighting the way of the sun, so I tried to turn away from the glare and go back to sleep. Instead of resting, I caught a glimpse of someone quickly hiding from my sight through the puny window on the enormous door. I was probably delusional from a lack of rest and simply saw a reflection of the morning sun. Even if someone were to enter while I rested, the door was loud enough it could wake an army. It didn't matter to me who they were or what they wanted, I wanted sleep.

Only moments later, the door screeched open carefully, but that did not stop me from immediately waking up and forcing myself to become aware of my surroundings. Dr. Freud walked in with a slightly startled expression.

“I had not quite expected you to be awake yet, but you are, so I might as well ask you these questions. Of course only if you are awake enough to answer right now,” his humble tone was the least I deserved from him since he had just nearly caused me to die of fright.

“Why would you just walk in without knocking or even saying anything while I was asleep? I just nearly passed away from the fear you caused me by barging in here.” I was upset that he scared me so much by doing so little, and so I made sure to show it in my tone.

Even though I just spoke rather crossly with him, he remained calm and kindly replied, “I apologise for the intrusion, I could always come back later for the questions about your medication if you would rather me go.”

In an attempt to save myself from my previous rudeness I allowed him to continue by saying, “Well we are already speaking and you’ve made my heart race so quickly I shouldn't be able to rest for another thousand years anyway, get on with your interrogation.”

He replied, “It isn’t an interrogation, and more so simply me trying to help you by understanding how certain treatments and substances affect you,” his tone staying patient and understanding.

In a much kinder and playful way I argued, “Whatever you would like to call it, it's still unnecessary questioning.”

As if he had no care at all for what I was actually saying to him, he plainly said, “I’m sorry you feel that way. My first question would be; how did your medication make you feel, better, worse, or no change at all”

Since I had barely been awake for a few seconds before being so terribly scared and not having any time at all to myself to think about anything, I realised that moments after I consumed the medication my recollection simply ended. “I don’t think anything happened, I ate the medicine you gave me yesterday, then went to look at the sky from my window shortly after and… then that’s all I can remember.” I imagine the look on my face was that of a drunk idiot after a night out trying to recall the events that took place.

His eyes widened with unbridled excitement for a few moments, but then the expression was cleanly wiped from his face. I could tell he had a million other things to ask at that moment, but he showed restraint by simply peering back at the papers in his hand and asking the next question, “Would you feel that the treatment was helpful with the disease in which you have?”

Startled, I responded,“I wasn’t aware I had a diagnosis of any disease, but I suppose the effects were much better than how I have been going through life recently.”

With what seemed to be regret in his voice, he told me, “Your father and I discussed your diagnosis of hysteria once he told me your story. I also believe we are done with our interrogation,as you put it. Here is your medication for the day, I must be off now, as there are other patients for me to visit,” he gave me the same balled up bit of chalk I had yesterday and I closed my fingers around them.

Dr. Freud left without another word and I was left alone again to take the medication. What if I had decided not to take them, and simply went back to bed and ignored this entire ordeal? Before I accepted my fate to forget the rest of the day yet again, I decided to continue the new ritual of standing before the window. I placed the pills in my mouth and gave them a hard swallow. I wish the doctor would have left me with some sort of refreshment to wash it all down, I could feel the blue powder coating the inside of my throat like thick paint. The sky was far more beautiful that morning than the previous, I only wish I had remembered it in greater detail.

When I rose the next morning there was no sun out, nor a doctor watching me through the window, only clouds dropping their rain behind a deafening silence. My peace was split open by that same grating door that was to be the bane of my mornings. The usual Dr. Freud, who usually came to visit, wasn't waiting there. Instead of him standing at the door waiting to say something irritating as usual, it was the doctor my mother had gone to see, Dr. Breuer. He said nothing and only extended his arm to give me the pills. I wanted to knock them out of his hand so hard they would go flying across the room, never to be seen or consumed by me again. Instead, out of respect for her memory, I took them from his cold hand and kept thinking back to my mother.

I paced back and forth in frustration with the fact that the best course of treatment they found is for me to simply take my ability to remember. These moonstone pills that had been prescribed for my apparently unwell mind made me feel the nothingness I had craved for my overcrowded mind for so long. They made me feel as if I had died. I finally wanted to live again, but they kept trying to take my life from me. I went back to the window to carry out this unfortunate task. Looking at the sky now only made me lament for the sun’s rays that had so irritated me earlier.

* * *

The sun had gloriously returned to its rightful place in my window to wake me the next morning. Immediately I donned my blankets and ran to the sill that was coated in several heavy layers of pale paint. I was so happy the sun had decided to return. Deep down I had hoped the sky heard my mourning, and that I had been the reason for the bright rays streaming past the bars of this new prison. I wanted to remember that moment always, the moment the sun had shown just for me.

The glee I was filled with immediately drained from me when the door was opened again. The doctor had returned himself that day, him and three other men I had never seen before. I was terrified of what they were to do, but I kept trying to focus on the sun I had just convinced to return. Dr. Freud came to stand before me with the same excitement I had seen plastered across his face earlier. A man like him experiencing this much joy can never be a good sign to those around him. “You have been here for several months now, yet your answers have not wavered, therefore we will be improving the course of your treatment from here on out as much as possible.”

There was no tone in his voice no matter how hard I strained to hear it, how could he look so happy yet sound so monotone?

“Are you sure you have been taking your own medication? I have only been trapped here for less than a single week, how could you ever possibly perceive such a short time as seven whole months?” The medicine. I can’t remember. He tricked me.

In a quite sarcastic way he responded, “I suppose I have no real definitive proof, though I could show you the newspaper for today, it would have the date printed there. You could also take a moment to realise how grown out your hair has become in this time, or even my own for that matter.”

Everything I thought to have been true was all revealed to be a lie, I thought I would leave soon, but as it turns out I have been trapped here longer than I could imagine. I quickly asked him, “Then what is my new treatment going to be?”

“Our next recommended step in treatment would be hypnosis. However, since there is enough reason to believe you may become violent or otherwise generally difficult I have brought these men to be of assistance. We will also be slightly restraining you for your own safety as well, but there’s no need for you to worry, you can quickly be removed if you begin having a seizure” His subtle allusion to my mother’s death was by far the most unnerving thing he said to me, and my blood ran cold because of it.

The men behind the doctor had an almost military bearing about them, which only made me feel much more uneasy about this. Dr. Freud tightly grabbed my arm and practically dragged me towards them. As soon as one of his henchmen had me in his grasp, the doctor released me. I had never put up an argument against any other treatment, so why was he now letting me be treated like an old dog? The burly man who was gripping my arms turned me about to face out of the room, and I was finally able to catch my first sight of the hall outside since I first entered that cell. There was nothing new or special about it though. There was a minimal lighting filtering through more bars that also entrapped the high windows, the white tiles that covered everything here as well helped to illuminate the lower portions of the hall in a rather smart way.

The doctor who swore to help me stood right outside the doorway to my accommodation and watched as I was dragged away. Yet again another man who was there to help me, only able to meet me with deception. I had no perception as to what was happening or where I was being taken off to. It wouldn’t be as unpleasant if these men would simply let me go so I could tell them that I am perfectly fine to walk on my own without being hauled around like a mule.

* * *

The new room I was shoved into only contained a smaller wooden chair to the side, and a rather uncomfortable seeming chair draped with ribbons of leather, which stood in the middle of the room as if on display. One of the men grabbed me and carried me to the chair as if I had completely lost my ability to do anything for myself. He at least allowed me to sit down on my own, but as soon as my back was against the cold metal I was swarmed by the other men. They immediately went to work holding my arms against the rests and restricting my legs to not leave the chair’s. They used those most uncomfortable pale straps to keep me in the awkward position I had been forced into. The thought of resisting them never crossed my mind, yet they were still using an unnecessarily great force when restraining me.

Once they finished fastening the straps containing me, the brutes seemed to disappear and draw back to their shadows lying just beyond my sight. I was restrained oddly, so that I could still wriggle around enough to get comfortable, but not enough to turn around. I couldn’t be sure where they had gone off to, or if they even left the room. I felt there was no point in trying to free myself, since I was certain the straps would not loosen at all anyway, simply based on how harsh the men were with the clasps. I waited for so long that I nearly gave up hope, it seemed an eternity would pass before anything would happen. In all my boredness I sat there making several attempts to recall the many months I had apparently been absent minded for with no success.

Apparently the hinges of the door to this room were much more often oiled since there was no screech that followed its opening. I had only been made aware of someone else’s presence from the sudden sound of footsteps approaching from behind me. As the sound came nearer, I saw that it was Dr. Freud who had finally arrived to begin my treatment. The anticipation on his face was more than enough to send shivers down my spine.

He remained silent, save for the sporadic shuffling of papers and occasional muttering to himself. Then, without much warning, the doctor went to the other chair and began dragging it across the tiles, he only came to a halt because he couldn’t move the chair any nearer to me. The sound reminded me of home because of how the chair legs would screech against the floor with short pauses between for the breaks in the tilework, much like the distorted version of a train whistle sounding as it made its way through my home town.

I think I was just too scared to do anything other than watch the actions of the doctor, and prepare myself to be at his mercy. He let the papers hit the ground with a sharp slap as he lowered himself to take a seat in his newly located chair. The piercing contrast to the previous deafening silence was appreciated, however, it was not enough to mask the dread I held for what might happen in the next few moments. We both sat and stared at the features on each other's face as an awful silence played around us. Dr. Freud’s voice cut through the lullaby to finally explain to me, “In a moment I will begin to hypnotise you. Your subconscious mind will be sent back to that night so that we might understand what actually happened, rather than what you think or desire to have taken place”

He began a gentle and soothing rhythmic tapping on my knee, followed by the words, “Listen to my voice, you can hear my voice. Feel my tapping you, you can feel it through your body like a ripple. I have your mind now, we must look back to tha…”

I wouldn’t allow my mind to think back to it, not after all this time, I couldn’t. He was forcing my mind into a great battle against itself. It was my will versus the control he held on my mind. The head began to split open with the most unfathomable agony, a great wash of increasingly unrelenting pain seized every muscle in my body with an extreme tightness. There was also a terrible whiteness that filled my eyes, it was so bright that I was sure my vision would never recover from it.

In the middle of all the struggle I was enduring, Dr Breuer's voice urgently shouted, “That’s too much,you have gone too far! You must let her go now! She can’t possibly endure this!”

I knew I was right, I knew this shouldn't be happening. I never should have trusted these men.

After what felt like centuries, the pain began to fade and became more and more bearable. The blinding light subsided alongside the despair until I felt deprived of every sense. The darkness that now occupied my sight was comforting, as though I shut my eyes to rest. It wasn’t that of an absence of light, rather it was the presence of darkness that intruded my sight such as in slumber. I felt like I was asleep, yet fully aware of my own idea that I was sleeping.

The tranquil moment to myself was interrupted by my mother’s sweet voice telling me, “Wake up darling, it's time to get up.”

I attempted to open my eyes to see her again but it was such a strain, feeling as though my eyelids were slabs of marble that I could never possibly lift. Her voice was as absolutely mellifluous and full of genuine love as when I was a small child. I wanted to force myself awake so urgently that I could feel the panic in me rise until my eyes were finally able to flutter open. The very first thing I caught sight of was my most beautiful mother. I maintained such a strong focus on her, for I was so afraid that if I stopped looking, she would disappear entirely. I felt a gentle pain in my heart such as that from a needle poking through fabric to mend it, it was the torment of missing her and then suddenly there she stood looking over me as the waves crashed around us. I was finally happy again, for in the end I was able to join my mother at the sea in the sky.

#historicalnarrative #emotional #sigmundfreud #historical fiction #sad #internal monologue #family relationships

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