Regression

~His Story~

He was running, running as fast as he could, through a dark, empty corridor.  He could hear his own ragged breath, and the ominous footsteps from behind.  The footsteps closed in, and he fought to speed up, but his legs were like lead.  He tried to scream, but a sharp pain in his back shocked him into silence.  He felt himself falling, falling into darkness…into doom.

Chandler sat up quickly, and struggled to catch his breath.  He lay back down on his pillow, and stifled pending tears.

"Chandler…you okay?" Monica mumbled sleepily.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine sweetheart…go back to sleep," Chandler whispered, when his voice seemed to fail him.

Monica's silent response told Chandler that she had already drifted off once more.  He sighed, and pulled himself out of bed, knowing that he wouldn't be able to fall asleep again tonight.

The nightmares had started a couple months after he'd moved into Monica's apartment.  Chandler refused to believe that the two were related, but he couldn't understand why the nightmares were so dark and…disturbing.  They were always some variation on the dream he had just had—sometimes they weren't as bad, but other times, they were much, much worse.  The memories of those dreams alone made Chandler nauseous; he scrambled off of the sofa, and made it to the toilet just in time to throw up his dinner.

~*~

He stood outside the dark wooden door, and stared blankly at the brass nameplate that was nailed on the door at eye level.

Dr. Renee Kelso, Ph.D.

Clinical Psychologist

Chandler sighed, and opened the door, knowing that he needed to at least try to find out what was going on in his head. 

He checked in at the front desk, and took a seat on one of the maroon leather chairs in the corner of the room.  He picked up a magazine off of the table, and flipped through it nervously, without really looking at it.

"Mr. Bing?" the elderly redheaded receptionist called.

"Chandler, come in please," Dr. Kelso, said warmly, as though Chandler was an old friend.  Chandler walked in tentatively, and looked around the room as he crossed it to shake the doctor's hand.

The room was as warm and inviting as the woman who occupied it.  Moss green walls complemented the chocolate brown sofa and cream-colored throw.  The doctor's mahogany desk sat in the opposite side of the room, next to a set of French doors that opened up to a small terrace.  The doors were adorned with thick, buttery drapes. 

"It's, um, nice to meet you Dr. Kelso," Chandler smiled, as the doctor walked out from behind her desk.

"Please, Chandler, call me Renee," Renee smiled.

Renee was much younger than Chandler had expected her to be.  Tall and thin, she appeared to be in her mid-thirties.  Her blonde hair sat in thick, natural curls, at about shoulder length, on her head.  As Chandler shook her hand, he noted that her eyes were a striking green.

"You seem…unsettled," Renee stated plainly.

"I guess…I was expecting someone older," Chandler smiled, his cheeks flushing.

"If my age makes you uncomfortable Chandler, please tell me now, and I can arrange—"

"No, no…that's not necessary…I'm fine," Chandler smiled.

"Great," Renee grinned, and headed for the overstuffed chair that matched the sofa.

"Have a seat, and let's get started," Renee sat down on the chair, and picked up a notepad.

Chandler walked toward the sofa, and hesitated, unsure as to whether or not he should lay down on it.

"You can lay or you can sit…it's totally up to you," Renee stated, reading Chandler's thoughts.

Chandler smiled uncomfortably, and sat on the edge of the sofa.

"Tell me about yourself," Renee said, once Chandler was settled.

"Well, I am a data analyst, and—"

"That's your job," Renee interrupted.

"Um, yeah," Chandler chuckled.

"Do you feel that you are defined by what you do?"

"Not really…I don't even like my job."

"Then why are you working there?"

"I…I don't know how to do anything else."

Renee nodded, and smiled knowingly.

Chandler suddenly felt totally exposed.  And all he'd done was tell her what he did for a living.

Chandler continued the sessions, for several weeks, but never revealed to his friends, or even to Monica, what he was doing.  In his family, there had always been a stigma attached to people who were in therapy.  He was certain that his friends would react negatively to his revelation.

The sessions were, in Chandler's opinion, very helpful, but often left him mentally and emotionally drained.  He often found it useful to walk home from the sessions, but it meant that he was arriving back at the apartment very late.  Not wanting to disturb Monica, Chandler would curl up on the sofa, and fall directly to sleep.

~*~

"Chandler, I get the feeling, that despite all that we have accomplished here, there is something buried deep inside of you that just refuses to come out.  In my opinion, that is where the nightmares are rooted.

Nightmares are embedded in the subconscious.  The fact that your dream is recurring tells me that there is something there that we need to find.  I'd like to try something with you, but it's a little unorthodox," Renee stood up, and dimmed the lights in the room.

"Um, okay," Chandler, said nervously.

"It's called Regression Hypnotherapy," Renee lit several candles, and some lemongrass incense, "Hypnosis serves as a bridge to the subconscious mind, and Regression Hypnotherapy is a powerful tool for healing the wounds inflicted upon us as we grew up.  Many of your troubles and insecurities seem to be rooted in your childhood, Chandler, and I think this could help us determine where that comes from."

"Okay," Chandler said softly, his body already relaxing in the newly serene surroundings.

Two weeks later, Chandler had a breakthrough, of sorts, in the hypnotherapy session.  His memories began to clear, and Chandler was able to reach into memories that had long been repressed.  Unfortunately, the memories were more disturbing than any nightmare he'd ever had.

He walked out of the bar, and wandered through the crowded New York streets, disturbed and shocked by what the session had revealed.  He suddenly felt weak, and cold, and he felt his old insecurities magnify, as he walked aimlessly through the streets.  In his mind, everyone around him knew what he had just discovered—knew his dark secret.  Panicking, Chandler ran at full speed toward his apartment, not stopping until he was safely inside the apartment building.  Shaking and panicked, he collapsed onto the sofa, and cried himself into a fitful sleep.

"Chandler."

He was vaguely aware that morning had come, but he was not prepared to face it.

"Chandler, wake up!"

He felt the pillow being pulled from under him.  His head hit the couch cushion hard.

"Mon…please," he mumbled.

"Get up…now."

He couldn't do this…he couldn't face her.  She was going to hate him.  She was going to run away.  But he pulled himself up, deciding that the longer he laid there, the angrier Monica would get.

"Where were you last night?"

"Working," Chandler said automatically, his heart hurting each time he had to lie to her.

Monica began ranting, and Chandler swung his legs off of the sofa, when he heard something about shoes.

"Why do you smell like…lemon and…smoke?  Are you smoking again?"

"No!  No," Chandler suddenly felt stifled, and he quickly stood and shrugged out of his jacket.

"What's on your arm?"

Chandler whipped around, his head spinning.  He looked at the wine stain on his arm, and vaguely heard himself rattle off something about grape juice.

"Chandler…I know you're seeing someone.  Please at least show me enough respect to tell me the truth."

Chandler looked up at Monica, and panic set in.  He wanted to tell her that it wasn't what she thought, and that she had the wrong idea…but somehow, that seemed so clichéd.

"Mon…I…I really—" Chandler stuttered.

"I've been keeping track.  You actually have a schedule, I've figured out.  You are always very late on Mondays and Wednesdays, and you are sometimes late on Thursdays, though that only seems to be once a month or something.  I just…does she know about me?" Monica asked.

"I—I don't," Chandler started, but didn't know how to continue.  His mind was racing—she had his schedule down…did she know he was in therapy?.

"How can you do this and not tell me?"

Chandler swallowed hard, and looked at Monica, as she struggled not to cry.  He finally decided that he needed to tell her the truth…even if it cost him everything.  He could not live a lie, and she was right…she deserved better…she deserved the truth.

"Look Mon, this…this is a really private thing, and…I was planning on telling you eventually…"

Monica slapped him hard across the face, before he could continue.  He was stunned.

 "Get out!  I never want to see you again."