Tim hated the idea of hypnosis. In his mind, there were visions of making chicken calls whilst roaming a stage while an audience roared at the unwitting subject.
Dolores had just finished explaining how hypnosis might be worth a shot – provide enough relaxation and meditation to look inward, then to plough through blockages repressing past memories. Ideally, they would work backward, one by one by one, until the meat of the issues haunting Tim’s sleep were found.
In point of fact, Tim’s issues ran far deeper, and would not be peeled away through such normal even if still unorthodox methodology. In point of fact, Delores had never seen a case quite as complex and resistant to usual therapy methodology. They had to try something. Except Tim wished no part of the next possibility Dolores had spent 10 days excitedly piecing together. Psssftt went the balloon she had waited days to spring upon Tim.
Without Tim’s willing acquiescence, there was no point in pursuing the issue. And so Dolores was back to where she was at the end of their last session. Frustrated.
“How have things been the last two weeks, Tim?” Dolores was nonetheless ready to hear the usual update.
“Still dreaming. Still being ripped to shreds by this yearning inside. It overwhelms everything at times, but then dreams come along at random times and scare me and everyone else silly.” About what Dolores expected to hear after her one hopeful possibility had been unceremoniously dismissed out of hand.
She was not prepared for the curve thrown her way in the next statement, this was new.
“Music is a huge part of my life. I can’t sing. I can’t play any instruments. I cannot read music… but sometimes music talks to me, or more specifically… there are stories in the music. Not just the lyrics, sometimes it is the melody or the individual elements. I heard Layla the other day – the original version and not that unplugged stuff. Here I am driving along in my car, the song comes on – I’ve heard it a million times if I’ve heard it once, even though it was a hit just before I was born, and I’ve always loved it – when it gets to the second half, where it is just instrumental… this time I could feel a message, my body could understand a message that was pure emotion. I knew the language, in the moment… but to say here and what it is, explain it to you… I can’t do that.
It is as if there was this wholly different way of communicating that we can understand through feeling via our own emotions, but cannot understand in order to convey that meaning to another. Does any of this make sense?” Tim paused for reassurance.
Dolores once again knew not what to say, this was a new element, and perhaps a different form of empathy, perhaps music was a mirror Tim’s mind might use it to kick around how it felt by way of transposing it into music, then sending it back through a part of Tim it knew could be reached. Damn if she knew, but it sure was fascinating.
In the end, Dolores gave a shit about Tim, for she too was empathetic – it was why she was in this field to begin with, to try and help people because she gave a shit – and she was willing to work this case to her exhaustion.
For his part, Tim looked on hopefully, awaiting words Dolores could not use. Tim saved her from thinking out loud.
“I have been playing with the MIDI synthesiser programme that came with my computer” Tim was now elaborating. “I set there and try to make a song. I have no idea how to do this, and just end up frustrated. It sounds so wonderful when played by professionals, and here I am, able to sometimes get that feeling of understanding… yet when I try to put music together, it sounds like something any 4 year old could make.” Tim was done, but oh was he frustrated.
Dolores took it all in, but she found this session was an important crossroads, so she took her sweet time in making certain she had good notes.
