Wellington Street

In which we take a stroll down a very strange stretch of road.


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Session 1 "The Sanitarium"

Most of the time I do not remember my dreams. The morning comes, and all memory of those things I saw at night disappear, replaced with whatever I have to do for the day.. But I have remembered my dreams recently. Dreams of a place in the woods. Of the asylum. A building made of dark wood, and capped with sharp, cone shaped peaks of shingles. Now the memory of this place pierces my morning hours as well, like a song stuck in my head. And though I imagine my visit there contributed, I cannot explain why the thought of the place fills me with fear.

I met with the doctor...the psychiatrist yesterday. Although it was just an initial evaluation, it did not stop him from asking many questions. He wanted to know when my symptoms started, and I told him about the experience with the woman at the bus stop, about finding out that minutes before the conversation she had attacked her husband and children. I told him about her growing paranoia, and her belief that they weren't her real family, that they had been replaced with something else. I told him about how she had been hearing sounds on her roof. I told him that it was around then that it all started. That I began to get sick.

I have always assumed that my symptoms were a result of the trauma of the experience, but he disagreed. He seems to believe that I am using the experience as an excuse to become sick, that what is happening was a long time coming. He asked me if I had any major tragedies in my childhood. I admitted I don't remember much, save for my time with my parents in the hospital, and then of course their funeral. Then he asked me if I had ever been to a therapist before. I admitted to him that I hadn't. Then he asked me if I was sure about that.

He told me that this wasn't the first time we had met. I told I was aware, that we had encountered each other several times, including when I was following up on a story involving a young child. He told me that I didn't understand, and that this wasn't the first time he had seen me, doctor to patient. He had seen me years ago, when I was a child.

When I was little, I was brought to see him by one of my uncles, shortly after my parents death. I asked him what happened, and why I didn't remember, but he refused. He said that I was not yet in a position to talk about it, that if he tried to rush it that it could very well end up making things worse. I suppose he is right. Whatever I do not remember was hidden for a reason. If I were to remember it suddenly, there is no telling what the consequences would be. The only thing he would tell me was that it was for a very short amount of time, only a couple of weeks.

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