The Doll's House

I must look nervous, because he explains again about how, when I regress to my younger self, my older self will be present.

‘Memory, Clodagh, is rather suspect in our conscious mind. People think they store memories in a particular way, that they don’t change, but we’re constantly updating our memory, or perception of it, creating layers, obscuring the original, until what we actually believe happened can differ dramatically from the truth.’

‘Gerard, I haven’t been completely honest with you.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘As I’ve already said, I had an estranged relationship with my mother for years. It wasn’t always like that, at least I don’t think so, but there is something else.’

‘Clodagh, you don’t need to tell me everything. Once you trust me, we can work through whatever comes up together.’

‘I feel there are secrets in my past …’

‘There usually are, Clodagh.’

‘There are things that others, including my mother, kept from me.’

‘Clodagh, if it’s okay with you, I believe the best way to begin your regression is for you to visit a happy memory. I hope you’re comfortable with that idea. We need to tread carefully. Understandably, people can feel apprehensive about being hypnotised. The process isn’t one to be rushed. It’s always better to start somewhere that you feel at ease.’

I recognise the scent from the lighted candles as vanilla, and the walls of Gerard Hayden’s office, which at first were white and sparse, feel warm in the muted light. Apart from the two comfy chairs we sit on, and his desk, there is little other furniture. By the two windows, there is a bed, like in a doctor’s surgery, and beside it, a low wooden chair, which I assume he will soon sit on. He gestures me towards the bed, the candlelight flickering on the closed blinds, saying, ‘Clodagh, have you any more questions before we begin?’

‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘Okay, we’re going to bring you back to a happier time. While you’re relaxing, I’ll ask you to remember a time when you were older than a baby, but younger than the Clodagh you remember with sadness, or with whatever barrier existed between you and your mother. All the time you will be the one in control.’

‘What if I can’t remember? What if I don’t have those memories?’

‘You will, but don’t worry. I’ll be with you every step of the way. We’ll take it gently. My hope is that today you’ll simply experience regression, become familiar and relaxed with the process. You’ve waited a long time to reach this point, Clodagh. I see little benefit in rushing things now.’

Lying on the bed, I stare up at the ceiling. I hear Gerard’s voice asking me to breathe in and out, counting backwards from ten. ‘Ten, breathe out, relax, nine, breathe out, relax.’ He tells me that during this time, if I hear sounds, cars driving by, people out on the street, any noise from outside, my mind will not be disturbed. This exercise is to relax my body. Soon he will ask me to count backwards from two hundred. I should say the numbers inside my head, breathing out between each one. When I can no longer keep track of the numbers, I should raise the index finger of my right hand.

I can feel the numbers slowing in my brain, but I can still hear his voice, talking about visualising a garden, somewhere I feel safe. I smell flowers. I think it’s spring. I see daffodils and snowdrops. I’m still counting, but the counting is more difficult. I want to touch the flowers in the garden, feel their soft petals. I hear his voice again, asking me what I see, and how I feel. The numbers are nearly gone now and, as instructed, I raise my index finger.

‘Okay, Clodagh, I’m going to take you down deeper. I want you to imagine a set of stairs that will lead you out of the garden. As you walk down them, we will count backwards from two hundred. When the numbers get muddled, you can raise your index finger again.’

He counts, the numbers gently bringing me down a staircase. At the bottom, again his voice is soft, reassuring.

‘Clodagh, I want you to imagine your eyelids are stuck down, as if with glue, glue so strong you can no longer open them.’

I remember him mentioning this beforehand, explaining that when this happens, it is his way of testing the intensity of my trance.

‘Now, Clodagh, if you can, I want you to try to open your eyelids.’

I keep listening to his voice, doing as he asks, but my eyes won’t open.

‘Good,’ I hear him say. ‘Now, Clodagh, at the count of three, you will be able to open your eyes once more. One, two, three …’

I feel loose, unburdened.

‘Clodagh, can you hear me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where are you?’

‘I’m in a corridor.’

‘What do you see?’

‘Doors.’

‘What is on the doors?’

‘Numbers.’

‘Clodagh, look at the doors, look at the numbers.’

‘Yes.’