Читать книгу Overturned - Rothilda von Rotortod - Страница 9

Alfons Heimenross, a well-known environmental politician, is in an identity crisis: he has become a stranger to himself.

Mrs Andrews, an experienced therapist, looked attentively at her client. Her consulting room looked a little like a cave from childhood. Ceiling floodlights produced a subdued light that was only weakly reflected by the terracotta-coloured walls. The smooth carpet swallowed every superfluous noise, so that the sound of the voice could spread undisturbed.

The best conditions for a journey of the soul were also offered by the various seating arrangements. Besides a computer table with guest chairs and a classic Sigmund Freud couch, there was also a seating group with blue armchairs. These were so soft that they surrounded the lost and searching souls like a mother holding a crying child in her arms. Those who sank into them got a physical impression of what was in store for their soul: the sinking into their own self.

After initial hesitation, Alfons Heimenross had made himself comfortable on the Sigmund Freud couch. The main reason for this choice was that he felt infinitely tired this morning, as he had for several weeks. Furthermore, he hated soft armchairs. They always reminded him of a very unpleasant experience from his childhood, when he almost drowned in a swamp – and he didn't want to start the journey of the soul right at the beginning of his earliest traumas.

What made things worse was that he had never been to a therapist before. He never thought he would see one either. But the events of the last few weeks had worried him so much that he just couldn't help himself any more.

After his first words Heimenross had fallen into a sullen silence. It almost seemed as if he was half asleep. So the therapist asked in a lullaby voice: "You said you have the impression of being a stranger to yourself?"

Heimenross flinched abruptly. It startled him to hear what he had said about himself from another mouth. "I know … it ... it sounds kind of ridiculous. Maybe I'm expressing myself wrong – I'm not very good at this kind of conversation."

The therapist smiled indulgently. With her rimless glasses and the notepad in her hand, she looked more like a teacher taking notes for the next report card. This was another reason why Heimenross avoided looking her in the face – although the woman, all psychologist, did everything she could to facilitate his confession.

"There is nothing ridiculous or wrong here," she encouraged her client. "Just give free rein to your feelings and thoughts. Think of a dream journey: Everything comes as it comes, nothing is forbidden. Every feeling is allowed to find a picture."

Since Heimenross nevertheless remained stubbornly silent, the therapist built him another bridge: "Just describe a situation in which you are haunted by these feelings of strangeness."

Heimenross' eyelids twitched. "Well,”, he explained haltingly, “for example in the morning, in front of the mirror, when I look into my face, I ... I often have the feeling that I am not the one looking at myself from the mirror. Those pale lips, the unkempt hair, the deep rings under my eyes ... It's not like me at all."

The therapist smiled. "These feelings sound quite familiar to me ..."

A slight redness shimmered on Heimenross' cheeks. "See what I mean? That all sounds kind of stupid. Midlife crisis, you could say, the hair is not so strong anymore, I could cut it back, half-length is not ideal for a politician anyway. And the rings under the eyes: not enough sleep, the typical problem of all workaholics. Take a break, Heimenross, I could say to myself, just go to the seaside for two weeks, then you can start off again."

The therapist scribbled something in her notebook. "Wouldn't that be a good idea? Why don't you just give in to this desire?"

"That's exactly the problem!" Heimenross exclaimed, almost like in one of his parliamentary speeches. "I've already tried to take more time for myself. I've been to the sauna again and have chilled out with friends in the evening, like I used to when I didn't have so many obligations. But none of that helps. I just can't get rid of this damned feeling of not being myself anymore! I'm already feeling all fidgety about it."

The therapist looked up from her notepad. "Could it be that you are suffering from insomnia?"

"I can't rule it out," Heimenross admitted. "But the opposite can be true as well. In any case, I rather have the feeling of sleeping too soundly. Lately I've been having very intense dreams that I can remember quite clearly in the morning. I almost have the impression that the dreams are real."

The therapist bent over slightly. Carefully, as if she feared to destroy the precious confession, she asked: "And what kind of dreams are these?"

Heimenross sighed. "Above all, there is one dream that keeps coming back. A certain image that I just can't get rid of: I wake up in the morning – I mean: I dream that I wake up – and the whole world is covered with huge reinforced concrete towers. I walk through an endless forest of concrete trees, I run and run and run, ever further I run, I run and run ..."

The therapist's ballpoint pen scurried busily over the pages of her notebook. "And in the morning you feel shattered by these nightmares?"

Heimenross shook his head violently. "That's just what is so strange about it!" he clarified. "The dreams are no nightmares to me at all. That's what I mean when I say: I am becoming a stranger to myself. The walks through the concrete forest are quite pleasant for me. I enjoy stroking with my hand over the smooth steel trunks that are not threatened by decay. I have even caught myself stopping in front of highway bridges and admiring their powerful concrete pillars. And in the past I used to chain myself to every tree that should be chopped down for a road!"

The therapist threw a worried look at Heimenross. Hectic spots glowed on his face, the corners of his mouth twitched uncontrollably. In an emphatically calm tone she suggested: "Try to admit your feelings! Steel and concrete are the building materials of our time. Perhaps you should simply not resist to that fact and acknowledge it instead."

Heimenross frowned. For a while he fell back into a brooding silence. "If it were only these dreams ... these silly dreams," he murmured monotonously, as if he was talking to himself. "What worries me most is ... Even when dealing with others, I have the impression of looking at me from the outside ..."

The therapist adjusted her glasses. "And how does that manifest itself?" she asked, lowering her voice sensitively.

Heimenross scratched first his right ear, then his left. Restlessly he slid around on the couch. "Well," he explained, "for example, I have had a constant craving for pizza for some time now. Every evening I order one from the pizza service around the corner – but the next morning I can't remember the taste of the pizza or the face of the pizza delivery boy. It's like someone else ordered the pizza."

Thoughtfully, the therapist stroked her chin. "Are you sure you're not dreaming up this pizza order?"

Heimenross laughed bitterly. "I only have to look at the empty pizza box – and at my stomach girth. No, the pizza consumption is real. Only the memory of it is suspended."

"Do you perhaps drink too much red wine with that?" asked the therapist, half joking.

Heimenross shook his head again. "I would not call one or two glasses too much. And besides, if my frequent blackouts were due to the wine, I wouldn't have my psyche examined, but my liver."

"Well," summed up the therapist as she closed her notepad. "This does indeed seem to be a rather special case with you. It would be best if you wrote down everything that preys on your mind over the next days. I, for one, will take a close look at my notes and think it all over again until the next session. Then hopefully we'll see more clearly."

Fatigued, Heimenross rose from the couch. He felt as if he had just had a failed operation.