She loves her work, values her clients, and looks forward to discussing their issues with Robert. She loves sitting in his beautiful office (the rug on the floor, the paintings on the walls). And loves gaining insight into more effective ways to help those who come to consult her. She – yes she freely acknowledges it – is half in love with her supervisor.
And yet it is still hard to come to him for support and suggestions. Hard to sit in his presence- even while wanting to be there and even as their sessions are so valuable to her- with the medley of feelings she experiences. How much more difficult is it for a client in therapy, whose life wounds are potentially on display? For although `her own stuff’ inevitably comes up in supervision, it is in the context of her practice as a counsellor. Primary focus is on her clients.
She has been in therapy herself (that experience, too, part of good professional practice). She `knows’ what it is like to be a client. But somehow, in her supervisory sessions with Robert (as different as they are from therapy sessions per se) she never fails to re-appreciate the challenges faced by her clients, notwithstanding the galvanizing hope of healing, in presenting for therapy at all.
And in the case of someone like Ryan – whose ambivalence is like a force field – the challenge is tangible.
`Did the session go to time?’
Robert’s question pierces her (over?)empathy with her client. It takes her aback. And she takes a moment to rally.
`I think so – yes, it did’.
`Well that’s a good sign! Ambivalence notwithstanding, he made it through the first session. And so did you’.
A feeling of lightness, of relief. And of hope for next time. A firming of confidence that there might indeed be a second session with Ryan. More than that, a subtle underlining of the human threads which, despite their differences and the power disparities inherent in their relationship, bind client and therapist alike.
A couple of brief sentences and reassurance coheres. Rapidly and miraculously, her equilibrium is restored. She had been focusing on the difficulties (which are considerable, and which remain). By contrast, her supervisor - her skilled, inspiring supervisor - has immediately highlighted the positives. And it feels that he is right to do so.
He has also implied that she will be able to handle what might follow (how can she not love her supervisor?!) Robert has underlined that despite his apparent reluctance, her client had mastered his ambivalence about attending therapy. Had not only made the necessary appointment but sustained the first session. And notwithstanding her doubts about her conducting of it, she has helped him to do that.
How, at this particular point with respect to this particular client, could things be better than they are?
Smiling at Robert (it feels like a grin) she proceeds to discuss her other clients. And her hour of supervision passes as quickly for her as his initial hour of therapy had passed for Ryan.
5
But her sleep is far from tranquil. And this comes as a shock.
She knows she is dreaming. It’s one of those lucid dreams she has often had in the past. And she knows this particular one well. But unlike some lucid dreams which are susceptible to influence, this one she is powerless to shape. The recurring images haven’t bothered her in a long time. But are now assailing her with a vengeance.
It starts benignly enough, as has always been the case. Things are pleasant and reassuring.
Before becoming intense, exciting, and finally suffused with horror.
The pattern is the same, and it hasn’t deviated. The dream itself spans the full spectrum of feeling, from delight to nightmare.
Why is she (re)experiencing it now?
When she had been feeling good after a characteristically affirming session with Robert?
But re-experience it she does.
I am standing in a garden. It is a deep, shady garden, with beautiful blooms and large ferns. Beyond it are hills and valleys as far as the eye can see. I feel protected and safe in this garden, which has a canopy of leaves.
Sunlight sifts through the lattice work of the overhead branches. The hum of insects induces an almost hypnotic state.
A sense of relaxation gives way to excitement and wonder as everything around me becomes more vivid. Initially traditional in style and pastel coloured (rose, honeysuckle, lavender) the flowers begin to change their hue. And even their species.
From looking as if they could grace a wedding bouquet, they mutate before my eyes into outsize exotic blooms which would not be out of place in a jungle. Narrow stems, delicate leaves and sugary shades of pink, lemon, and white give way to huge petals, cactus-like centres, and brilliant shades of indigo, orange and magenta.
She feels like Alice in Wonderland.
Is charmed and spell-bound by what is transpiring around her. Feels magical and powerful; as if it is her presence which has catalyzed such luxuriant transformation.
But then - and these sensations are very familiar - the feelings become less pleasurable.
The garden keeps growing to the point of grotesqueness. It threatens to ensnare and overpower her. At this point it has indeed become a jungle.
A vine-like plant laces itself around her limbs; to her shock and rising panic she realizes her hands and feet are now tightly bound. Attempting in vain to extricate herself, she only succeeds in trapping herself more securely.
And senses the watchful eye of someone – or something – that seems to observe all that is happening. But chooses not to intervene.
She wakes in the way she has always woken from this dream- dripping with sweat, heart pounding.
A finger of moonlight dances on her doona. At another time that might have seemed serendipitous. Now it is strange and surreal.
The luminous dial of the clock shows 4.05 am. She is too alert to anticipate sleep. And too disturbed even to welcome it.
I know this dream well. But it only comes when I’m already uneasy. So why now?
Slipping into a bath robe, she goes to the kitchen for water. Pauses by the half-open door of her sleeping son. His left arm flung above his head, Matt looks as if he has been intercepted mid-movement.
His breathing is rhythmic and regular; she can observe the rise and fall of his chest without entering the room.
My little warrior.
He looks as if he could slay the dragons of his own dreams.
It’s a weird inversion to suspect that her child could probably comfort her from her night-terrors better than she can comfort him from his.
Moving to the kitchen, she pours some water and sips it meditatively. Her heart gradually slows its hectic pace. But her thoughts do not.
`It is pizza night tonight!’
The triumph in her son’s voice is unmistakable. She ruffles his hair while catching a `soldier’ of toast that has slid from the egg cup and is about to hit the floor.
`Is that right! Is it really Friday already?’
She always feigns surprise, and he always loves the charade. Festooned with traces of breakfast, his face splits into a toothy smile. She resists the temptation to tickle him (not a good idea when he is eating).
Images of the dream are receding in the sunny kitchen. Although she knows she will need to ponder them later on. Always attuned to the yields of the unconscious (that trait only partly