I can feel the apprehension within; it eats away toward my soul, a force not countered by the cold and misty conditions without.
I reach the building, and take a deep breath. I look toward the right, toward a sign, one I have seen many times, yet it calls out my purpose, and my goal. Knowing what it says, yet my eyes scroll through the simple and succinct wording: ‘Dolores O’Brien’ comprises the first line, while ‘Gender Therapist’ comprises the second.
I reach for the door, it somewhat resists my pull. With a little difficulty and increased pull, the door swings open; I walk on through the entry, turning left, stepping up onto a landing, turn right and walk up the stairs, turn once more on a landing, and begin the final climb to the second floor.
Another door lay ahead of me, this one closing off the lobby area from the main hall of the second floor. I pass through this doorway, and stop at the first door on the right: Dolores’ office. I enter, greeted by her assistant. Two people I have not met are in the lobby. I take a seat, and open the paperback brought with me for waiting-time.
Dolores appears from around the corner, moving toward me. Henry Smithson is with her; Dolores and I hug warmly, and then Henry and I shake hands. “How are you?” Dolores asks.
My expression must say it all, for Dolores adds “Oh, dear. Come on in, Tim.” We move to her office, where I take my customary seat on her burnt orange sofa, one that evokes a feeling of fall, fitting for the current season. Across from the sofa are winged back chairs that carry a fall pattern, the set tastefully if unintentionally creating a décor reflecting the weather and season, one that appeals to me in my current mood.
Henry asks us to hold our conversation, a strange feeling, as if this is some sort of televised sporting event. What roils inside of me is hardly sport.
I observe the film crew consists of three, each running two cameras mounted on one of the three tripods – each tripod pairs two video cameras, analogue film and digital. Henry explains the two modes of recording are for contrast and ‘a different feel.’
Henry calls out the film crew’s readiness, while Dolores inquires as to the new events of my life. I begin, and explain the increased intensity of the dreams, as well as the newly surfaced elements.
Dolores sees significance in my rape, as well as in the call to fashion a song. She thinks there are repressed memories here that she needs to suss out of me – and she is likely right.
“Tell me about this song you put together, Tim.”
I tell her it is the final assemblage of trial and error, trying and trying and trying again until something worked and clicked in my head.
“What do you feel when you hear this song?” Dolores is trying to draw out what is inside of me, but I feel an ocean full of answer – that lies just out of my reach. It is moving closer, like a glacier greased by melted water, steady but relentless.
“I feel a huge part of me – perhaps about all of me – is missing, stripped away from my life. I feel this is not me, that it is some shell, fabricated for unknown purpose. I feel music is the key to unlocking that door, to my reuniting with my true life, and I feel this song is the key – if only I know how to make it work the lock.”
“Can you describe what makes you feel this is a key to something significant?”
How does one explain our intuitive feelings, Dolores?” I offer, unable find the words to describe what I strongly feel is the key to it all. “I just know it is. As I wrote this music, or rather assembled this music, if a newly introduced note did not feel right, I deleted it and substituted a new choice. When a note clicked and well fit with the other notes, something inside signalled ‘that is right,’ and I would move to the next one.
This process took almost a week of me spending significant time working at finding the right combination. When a note clicked like this, a wave of satisfaction spread through my body, my mind felt this sense of exhilaration.”
Dolores does not immediately ask another question, she is mulling over my words. After thirty seconds of looking at her notes, she resumes questioning me. “Have you played through the song – by that I mean, have you listened to it start to finish?”
Of course, I have listened to the song. “Yes, I played it twice at home; once upon finishing, once this morning before leaving, and then for most of the drive up this morning.”
“And how did you feel when you listened to the song?”
“Like something was calling out to me to pay close attention, that the truth lay woven within and through this song.”
“Tell me about the rape again, Tim. Is there a correlation between the music and the rape? Was music playing during the rape?”
“No, I do not recall music playing during that moment, though it was so horrific an experience I likely would not have noticed it. When that man… pushed up against me, pushed into me…”
“You were face to face?”
“Yes.”
“Yet you say he pushed into you. Your body… was female; he pushed into your vagina?”
I stop; the words have struck a chord inside of me. I have not thought on this part, yet it is patently obvious, an integral part of my dream; it surprises me. Yes! “Yes, he pushed into my vagina.”
“Can you recall what you looked like?”
“I could not see me, Dolores; only the attacker.”
“Can you recall knowing what your body was like? We all have our assumptions, what we take for granted, of things as given, to borrow a term from geometry. Think back, Tim, what did you take for granted in that moment of attack?”
I think; stressing to force concentrate on a look backward at the dream, to the point it increases my heart rate. I struggle in the look-back, but I will the thoughts such that they crack through some invisible barrier; light seemingly shines upon a previously darkened and unknown space. Something stirs within me.
“My tooth – I just lost a tooth. My attacker knocked it out. He tried to rip my bra off, and failed, instead pulling it over my head. That was before the rape. I was… naked, and he took his clothes off.”
“The attacker took his clothes off? How unusual! That would seem to indicate he was of a place where he was comfortable; Tim was this one of your relatives?”
“No, no it was not a relative.” Another tumbler falls in my mind; I feel the imaginary click. “Leader…he was the leader.”
“He was the leader of what or whom, Tim?”
My thoughts are burning, as if my mind thinks my body a foreign intruder, and tries to burn it away with fever. Something is inside of me; the intrusion? “I do not know! I do not know!” I start to cry, my face falls into my hands. I will myself to stop this, to speak again. “He was head of a government, one with ill intent.”
“Ok, good – very good, Tim! A leader, someone in authority – confronted you and he sexually abused you. Do you recall more of the attack?” Dolores is pushing into dangerous territory, prying out my memories I have locked away for self-protection. Yet, she continues – she obviously senses we stand on the cusp of a major breakthrough. I too sense this approaching, that perhaps Delores is nigh to finding out just how close we are to this point, to a ‘major breakthrough.’
“He… he forcibly had sex with me – two others held me, though I struggled mightily to get free. After, Oh, my god, after – I remember! I told him if he was the man he thought he was, he would let me offer a defence!”
“What did he say to that, Tim?”
“He… agreed. The guards left the room.”
“What happened next?”
“He came at me, and I leveraged his weight to throw him over my shoulder – he slammed into the wall. He turned and came back, this time I ducked, and he missed me. This… the imagery is fuzzy, but I can feel his outrage. He came at me again, and again I throw him over my shoulder, against the same wall as before. My energy feels depleted, little left inside for further defence. He charges again, this time, I spin away, and stop in a place where I slam the palm of my hand into his nose, at the same time swinging my leg up and into his groin.
I knocked him out!”
I can see Dolores cannot believe what she has just heard; she is incredulous. I sense conflict between whether she wishes to follow up in pursuit of the complete truth versus her need to digest what I have just said. Her next question signals Dolores shifts to a less demanding track. “Tim, can you send me the song you made?”
“I can do better than that, Dolores – I brought it with me.”
“You have this song with you now?
“Yes.”
“I have a player by my desk. Let me get it. While I do, can you tell me if there are lyrics to this song?”
I laugh, surely Dolores does not well know me – me, sing? “No, there are no lyrics, though I could feel words welling up inside of me, and last night… there was a song with lyrics in one of my dreams.”
“Can you remember the words?”
“No, though some do try and crawl into my mind. I am no vocalist, and I draw the line at singing.”
“Why, Tim? There is nothing to be embarrassed about – we are not looking for musical talent here. What matters is what is in the lyrics.” I watch Dolores walk back to her chair, as she places the portable compact disk player on the table between the chairs. I give Dolores the disk, and she inserts it into the player.
I look at the film crewmember behind Dolores. He wears an expression that suggests his intent, something like, “I cannot wait to discuss this with the others later!”
Dolores presses play, and the music starts; no one speaks, all listen intently. As the notes begin, I feel the music grab for my soul, I am powerless to resist. Something is compelling me to sing, I fight this, but my mouth opens as my breathing changes, deepening, drawing in air. My awful sounding voice begins tentatively.
“Disconnected, my life from yours…” All eyes are upon me, what are these lyrics? “Disconnected, my body from mind…” I am as amazed as the others in the room are – and they withstand the worst of this horrid sound.
I continue to sing, but something is happening; I feel a burning sensation in my bones. “Disconnected, my thoughts from flesh…” my voice wavers; I feel a slight increase in its power, a change of tone for the better. I can carry this tune!
That burning feeling is spreading, it is beginning to hurt, yet I sing onward. “Look for me! Will you please try to see?”
My thoughts… grow weak, the pain, arrrrgh! The pain is consuming me… and still I sing on. A spark flies across me – what the fuck! No, a spark flew from me, one brilliant millisecond of incandescence; Dolores rises from her seat, the camera guy behind her simply stands there, his mouth agape.
My concentration is fading, my comprehension is tenuous, and still I sing on. My voice, my voice grows stronger even as I grow weary and weak; my voice is changing, and the fire within grows unbearable. More light-sparks fly, a brilliant display of blinding bolts of light engulfs the room, spreading outward from me; they are coming off my body! It is doubtful the others can see me throw this brightness; my eyes are closed.
“Disconnected, I see bright, bright light…” my voice is different, it is… feminine! And it is far more powerful and well trained. I rise from the chair, and though I continue to sing, I stumble forward – my eyes remain closed. How I relish this moment of voice change, it is the stuff of drea- “Disconnected? Is this the way?”
I see light; I see light! “Connected! I rub my eyes – and I can see!” Goddess of Arrhazon, I can feel – how my body burns inside! Why am I singing? Where am I?
I realise why, and after moments begin to ponder what has happened; I have reclaimed body and mind, while re-infusing both with my soul.
I lay upon the floor, the room is in disarray – a chair overturned, so too a table, a lamp, and cameras. There are others in the room now; everyone is talking excitedly, while some are pointing and describing. I try to get up, but Dolores – Dolores, oh, my – why I am here! Dolores is gently bringing me back to prone on the floor; she tucks a cushion under my head, and whispers words of encouragement that all will be all right.
I whisper a return response. “Hello, Dolores. I am llhaesa, and it is a pleasure to meet you.”
