There are experiences
we would wish never happened...
memories re-experienced
again and again,
without warning,
like a knock on the door
that you wished you had ignored....
a call that you wish you missed...
a place so dark
it never leaves you....
infinity that cannot be cured -
or so it seems...
you know this will be
a part of you, forever,
Always showing up uninvited.

PS: What we know
is not always true.

I awaken to the alargm
but quickly fell back asleep...
in the dream I'm traveling home - 
wherver that was -
and something happens...
I'm alone, stranded somewhere - 
alone and scared.

The sound of knocking -
just a bad dream.

My cheeks are still burning.
Is it the fever?
Is this an illusion?
A dream?

This is that reality - that experience -
when dreams and reality overlap,
commingle and confuse. 
How do I know this
while dreaming?

There follows a sense of danger...
someone in thi sdark house -
I feel a shiver
as I look and see something....
someone in the doorway of my room.
I must wake up,clear my mind,
be certain that it is just part of a dream.

The bedroom door then 
seems to fade away -
farther and farther away.
"Get up!"
Did I say that?

Someone is coming at me...
the alarm - far away.

Finally the scene snaps back
toward clarity...
the room is empthy - quiet -
clearly no one is there...
no one is in the room.
The scene is now clear.

Still as if uncertain, as if
I had to find out for sure,
confirm that there is no danger,
that all is really safe,
I'm drawn back into that dream...
because it seems so real.

I thought for sure I had awakened,
just moments ago,
but it was just another illusion.

This is not what I wanted...
this place is not where I wanted
to be...
this city of desolation.
The land is parched...
The trees are bare -
they stand like burnt skeletns:
dead souless sentinels,
left as markers or
signs, signs of the times.
The sun no longer is seen;
each day brings only gray
flat, formless clouds above.
I cannot bear
this time, this place,
this reality.
Gone are most colors...
all that rmains are dark
shades of gray.
Some say the end is near.
They have more hope than I do.
I think this monotony,
days like this, these days,
will go on and on and on
forever.

I don't know if I"m dreaming or not,
I tell you but you answer, "You are awake."
It feels like a dream, and I declare
that you are not real!

And the people I hear, the voices,
the people I see - 
thay are no more real than
any of the other creations of my mind...
my dreaming (?) mind.

The people I see, and meet,
insist that I am awake, for if I were not awake,
then they, in fact, would not be real.

In fact, I'll declare that the way they act,
what they say, what they do,
Is an exact product of my own act of creation.

What a power!
If I can be asleep and yet
aware of this power, this creative power,
why would I ever want to awaken
from the dream,
and face a world where so much
is out of my own control?

I had the dream again.
Many years ago...
actually it
happened more than once -
the dream and the events that I relive
in the dream.

I've walked down lonely
frightening streets
in the dark,
sometimes lost
sometimes just knowing
I had a long way to go.
Telling myself all would be well...

Telling myself
that I wasn't alone
that there are people out there
that care about me
and will rescue me
before anything bad really happens,
though another part of me
feels the loneliness
a bit more oppressively
in moments like this,
when I realize
no one even knows
where I am,
much less cares,
when I'll be home.

My mind flashes back
to a time when this happened -
not sure how many years back.
I missed the last bus
and decided to walk...
thought I'd take a shortcut
but just got lost...
It got dark and very cold.
The winter streets were slick.

It's interesting what crosses your mind
in times like this...
thoughts about how close
they come to me,
the cars that come around each corner
their lights in my face...

and I think about how slippery
the street is
and how close the cars
seem to get to me
before they even notice I'm there
walking alone on this night.
Something I should not be doing,
should I?

I tell myself with each car approaching
that it will safely avoid me,
just like the car before me did...
and that the lightening
will wait
             will wait until I get home safely...
and the dogs I hear
will stay away,
not even noticing me...

These are things I tell myself
over and over
at times like this, 
trying to find comfort
in anything at all.
 

I've had this dream
more than once,
reliving real events
and I know it's a dream
this time
and I just wait
and hope
that the dawn
comes in time.

During one of the group therapy sessions,
I saw this small medium complexion
African American woman,
who appeared to hardly be alive,
she had this blank look,
expressionless.

I had asked an intern, Mary,
working under me,
to interview Karen,
for the routine social work intake.

After a short while, Mary returned
with Karen.
"Can you help Karen?"
Mary asked with a look of
desperation(?).

"I can stay," Mary added.

"No, I don't want you to see,"
answered Karen with shakiness
in her voice.

"I can help,"
I said, instinctually knowing
questions and concerns
Karen had.

Scanning the intake form,
I answered...
"You were raped,
I am so sorry this was done
to you." ...
my eyes remained,
though she looked down.

I paused adding softly,
"I can help.
We can go back
to when it happened."

"Will you come with me?"
she asked.

"My voice will go with you.
and I will be with you."

"First,
we need to create
the seemingly impossible -
relaxation
and
safety."

Slowly time passed as
empathy expanded between
us...
Until...
Karen's breathing and my own
became synchronized
with me guiding her toward
slower, deeper breathing.

I gained confirmation
that at this moment,
she knew,
she was safe.

"I am not leaving."

"Picture a movie theater,
in your mind.
You are still with me.
In your safe place.

Safe.

She nodded her understanding.

As you picture that screen,
far away,
you can remain safe
with me.

We discussed desensitization -
how her past trauma
would lose its power
to hurt her.

If it becomes too much,
we can return to your safe
and comfortable place.

She still had a look of peace.

If you are ready...

Begin to review and describe
what happened as it is
played out on that screen.

Can you see yourself?

Fear and pain gripped her
and suddenly, she grabbed my hand
squeezing it so hard.
My voice remained calm,
and softly soothing...
my words -
It's okay,
you are okay
Now.
I am not leaving you.
You are safe – now.
It's not happening – now.
It's over.
I'm not leaving you.

This went on for some time...
the unspeakable narrative -
a story witnessed by
victim
and therapist.

But it had an ending.
the trauma narrative
ended.

We re-established relaxation,
peace – serenity.
Her breathing slowed, again.

Her eyes opened.
The smile on her face
was amazing -
unexpected.

She was a different person -
alive.

"Thank you," she said.

"No, thank you,"
I answered.

I didn't need to explain,
that this was not about me,
nor did I explain,
that more healing
would be needed.

She was alive.

Some form of healing
had occurred
and it was celebrated
by both of us.

Addendum: The response by me "thank you," was a shared celebration of whatever amount of healing had occured and changed her.

The author of the book on "Emotional Intelligence, "Daniel Goleman, followed that book with a book entitled "Social Intelligence." In that second book Goleman describes research that relates the healing benefits of social attunement between the experience of client or patient and therapist. I, also, have often observed shame on the part of victims and an expectation of abandonment by their therapist if they only knew.

I wonder if this is avoided by some trauma therapy techniques that avoid any sharing of the actual narrative of the trauma with the therapist. For example, EMDR does not involve the client/patient vocalizing internal images or memories. 

I'd like to think
I'm just like
anyone else -
that we all have limits...
There's only so much
we can take...
So much -
Pain... Fear... Loss... Trauma.
There's only so much
any of us can experience
and remain sane
and remain true to
our ideals, our values,
WHO WE ARE
and
the person we have become.

When the pain,
the fear, the terror,
the trauma
exceeds this limit,
We snap
and for a while
we drift away...
away to someplace
in our mind,
someplace utterly unknown,
unexpected,
outside reality...
maybe we come back
and then again
maybe we don't...
It depends on what
might call us back.

Reflection: The above poem is inspired by the "confessional" poetry of Anne Sexton and Sylvia Plath who wrote about their inner experiences, their psyche. They both took their lives. Anne Sexton wrote, "To Bedlam and Part Way Back" which was her collection inspired by mental illness and psychiatric hospitalization. I guess she never made it all the way back since she took her life. I made it back.

It's Sunday night
and again, like other times before,
a poem seems to be echoing
through my mind
before even its been formed.
It's just a hint of a poem
wanting to come forth -
to be birthed as it where.
The words nag and repeat
over and over in my mind
and I keep thinking,
"I'll work on this later"
but
the poem keeps nagging
and repeating
and shaping itself
and in the mind mind.
I knoiw it isn't fully formed
yet
the poem isn't ready to be written (shared)....
ideas to be flused out
for something better.
But the poem
won't be quiet.
I suppose you shape a poem
or develop it within your mind
but you have to give it some kind of form
on paper
or on our computer.
Tht's how it poosessess me, now,
the formless poem,
yet to be -
the ghost of another poem.

The Voice of the hypnotist saying,
"And my voice will go with you."

When I was a hypnotherapist
I'd say those words,
guiding someone into facing something
frightening, because
that's what I wanted
back when I was scared...
and fear was something I knew,
like every other kid,
shaped by our surroundings
or the stories we heard...

Come with me,
let's go back to where I grew up...
on East Mountain Drive, Southington
a dead end road, surrounded
by woods and hills -
you are nearly living in the woods,
far from town.
You've just watched "Killer Grizzly,"
and you wonder about what appear
to be bear tracks in the woods...
or you think about "Day of the Animals"
and you think about snakes 
on a regalar hike through the woods
and the neighborhood dogs...
and every time you close your eyes,
you see snakes everywhere
or again, you're being chased by
the neighbor's dog.

Then before you know it,
your pre-teen mind thinks about killers
in the news... 
the police show up on your street,
this is new - 
police cars out here.
looking for a murder suspect,
who was heading this way.

"Were you in the words?"

"Of course."
 

The same question
asked by your mother.

Does this change you?
No, not at all.

What about the movie,
"Helter Skelter"
about the Manson family,
doing creepy crawly
through homes.
and the house -
is so big,
two stories plus a basement -
how lucky we were,
yeah right?
Without love or compassion
or safety.

What do you do?
Check under the bed?
No, that's silly, or it it?
So you do it...
and what if...
what if,
someone really is in the house...
what if...
you've become obsessed with that notion.
and you wake your sister
and before you know it,
you've come to the conclusion
that you'll have to go downstairs.
and check the house,
                 look around... 

You approach the bottom of the stairs,
frozen, feeling that child creeping up your back...
someone could be around the corner
in the dark room to the right...
somehow, you'v emade it inot the hall
avoided the room on the right,
turning on all the lights - first - going
from room to room. 

You wake up...
your walking in the woods
beyind your house.
Every neighborhood has a haunted house.
Right?

I was the only one
who truly wanted to see
something...
anything. 
something more than the eagle
whose sudden flight
startled us as we entered the woods...
 

The choice of lighting
in the "haunted house" 
was enough to suspend disbelief
for me. 

I wanted something to fear
besides the rattlesnake that I 
almost stepped on...
the dog that actually bit me. 
 

Something more satisfying
than what H. P. Lovecraft presented...
the lurking fear...

If you just looked upon it,
your terror would change you.

Looked at what?

There are so many real stories
I've heard since then.

Introduction: There can be a hypnotic pattern in poetry. Sometimes I write, those things that have altered my consciousness, in the most intense or profound ways... maybe you will feel the same.

So the question is not, can you be hypnotized. The question is, can I find the language patterns that will be most effective in altering your consciousness.

In this poem
        I'd like to alter
your consciousness
            and help   you
to begin
to find
a greater snese of
re-lax-a-tion
      and you will be able to return
to this place or state
of mind
            and this poem
whenever you need
to do so.

And each time
you repeat this
you'll go deeper
and deeper
into relaxation
if you open your mind.

Now begin
with a couple of deep breathes
and as you do,
with your eyes closed;
imagine or pretend
              you are walking
along a wooded path...

approaching a safe
and comfortable place -
                 your place.

You've reached
a clearing
in the woods
overlooking a town
 

below...

you notice
                    the sounds
here - the wind in the trees
and the sensation
of the air
against your face...

You notice
            whatever it is
that is most pleasant
and peaceful
about this experience
and whatever it is
that is most 
helpful
in creating 
a feeling
of re-lax-a-tion.

And you begin
to wonder
and imagine
what other
pleasant things
may await 
your discovery.

The poem has ended
but let the experience
continue.

To whom it may concern,

as you might have noticed,
reading my poems,
and other writing
I've revealed
a great deal 
about myself
and 
would have hoped
that I'd be better -
known
understood
by those I've met.
 

Do not be surprised
as if you didn't
see it coming -
my final act.

In this, my poem,
and other poems,
I've shared an 
understanding
of Sylvia Plath
or Anne Sexton
wanting to die
and her aweful 
rowing toward god.

Even within my own family
there are those that came 
before me.

My auntie Rosie
ended her existence
abruptly
with a shotgun in her mouth.

My first cousin 
hanged herself.

Some people believe
that the dead visit
the living
in dreams
or in some altered
sense of consciousness.

My dreaming mind
has encountered
both of them,
as if all was fine,
as if death - 
their deaths
were not real
or true...
I shape new narratives
out of memories.

Perhaps 
in this final act,
I'll find that I accomplished
something
for which others
will remember 
me. 

Introductory Note: This was an actual dream I had decades ago and in part during a hypnosis session. I was thinking about connections and friendships. When I thought about reading this poem, I saw outside a house a decorative bird that was black. I thought, "aren't most white?" 

I then thought about how we use language and the concept of racism. This thinking is after the dream that needed to be written. Psychologically, we are warmer, kinder, when we are in contact with something warm to the touch. White as a sheet is sickly. Darker skin is warmer, it seems, and so again, at some level instinctual level I was confused by racist ideology.

I am in a park somewhere.
I see a bird,
a black swan
with subtle green markings -
and I'm fascinated.

I turn away
and when I turn back
the bird is gone
and I see a beautiful black woman.

I'm drawn to her
instantly, passionately,
attracted to her.

She approaches me and says,
"You act as if you
do not know me."

"Should I?"

"I am part of you
and have always been
a part of you,
the source of your comfort,
what you have sought
to find.

"Come with me,"
she says.
And I follow,
longing to be absorbed
by her warmth,
as light itself
combines,
and joins with
leaving nothing
lost or reflected back.

Monday night, up late,
And I cannot quite find
the poem in me.
It was just there. ;
somewhere around some corner,
in my mind,
haunting me. 

I must call forth this apparition,
It is an exorcism I seek. 

Will you stay?
Will you believe in me,
and my ghosts?

I don't -
not literally - but
the more I search,
the less I'm free,
the ghost is me.

In this poem
                 I’d like to alter your
consciousness… and help
you to begin
to find
a greater sense of
re-lax-a tion
and you will be able to return
              to this place or state
of mind
              and this poem
whenever you need
to do so.

And each time
you repeat this,
you’ll go deeper
and deeper
into relaxation.
breathing in relaxation
and breathing out
tension.

Now begin with
a few deep breathes
and as you do,
with your eyes closed,
imagine or pretend that
             you are walking
along a wooded path…

Approaching a safe
and comfortable place –
your place.

You may notice
a clearing
at the top of a mountain
overlooking a town
below...
and you notice
          the sounds here
and the sensation
of the air against
your face.

You can notice
            whatever it is
that is most pleasant
about this experience
and whatever it is
that is most
helpful
in creating
a feeling
of relaxation.

And you begin to wonder
and imagine
what other
pleasant things
may await
your discovery.