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Authors: Sam Vaknin

Tags: #abuse, #abuser, #ptsd, #recovery, #stress, #torture, #trauma, #victim

Abuse, Trauma, and Torture - Their Consequences and Effects (24 page)

BOOK: Abuse, Trauma, and Torture - Their Consequences and Effects

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The dream dragged on with none of the signs that hitherto heralded
the transition to wakefulness. I tried every trick I knew to emerge
from this interminable nether-state: I shut and opened my eyes in
rapid succession; I pinched my forearm blue; I splashed water from
the crumbling sink on my face; I iterated the names of all the
states of the Union ... In vain. I was unable to extricate
myself!

In my overpowering anxiety, I came with this idea: ensnared as I
was in my nightmare, if I were to go to sleep and dream again,
surely I would find my way back to reality! For what a dream is to
reality, surely reality is to the dream? Reality, in other words,
is merely a dreamer's reverie!

And so I did. Enmeshed in my nightmare, I went to sleep and dreamed
of waking up to face this court. I want to believe with all my
heart that you and I are real. But, it isn't easy. You see, your
Honor, I have been here before and I know the outcome. Had I dreamt
it? I shall soon find out, I daresay. Here I am, Your Honour,
unable to tell one from the other. Do with me as you please."
My lawyer rose and called to the stand the medical doctor that
attended to my lacerations after my latest bout of raging
incoherence. As he creaked his way across the wooden floor, the
good practitioner glanced at me and nodded. I ignored him, unsure
whether he is factual, or just a figment of my overwrought and
febrile constitution.
At the bailiff's prompt, he raised his hand, swore on a hefty Bible
and took his seat. Having responded to some perfunctory enquiries
about his qualifications and position, he settled down to reply to
my questions, put to him via my lawyer:

"I wouldn't go as far as saying that your client is medically, or
even legally insane. He suffers from a severe case of
pseudoinsomnia, though, that much is true."
Prompted as expected, the doctor elaborated:

"Your client sleeps well and regularly. All the physiological
indicators are as they ought to be during a satisfactory and
healthy somnolence. Moreover, your client has dreams, exactly like
the rest of us. The only difference is that he dreams that he is
awake."

Judge and jury jerked
their heads in astounded incomprehension. The witness continued to
enlighten the bench:

"Your honor, in his dreams, this patient fully believes that he is
awake. People afflicted with this disorder complain of recurrent
insomnia, even though our tests consistently fail to turn up a
sleep disorder. In extremis, the very boundaries between
wakefulness and napping get blurred. They find it difficult to tell
if they are merely dreaming that they are awake, or are truly not
asleep."
He rummaged among his papers until he found the transcripts of his
interviews with me:

"In this patient's case, he developed pseudoinsomnia after he
discovered his wife's liaison with another man." - The young doctor
blushed - "He then began to dream that he is awake and that he is
planning and executing the gruesome assassination of his spouse. Of
course, throughout this time, he was sound asleep. The dreams he
was having were so vivid and have processed such traumatic material
that the patient remembered them in detail. Moreover, fully
believing himself to be awake, he did not realize these were only
dreams. He convinced himself that the events he had dreamt of had
actually transpired."
The judge bent forward:

"Doctor," - he droned, evidently annoyed - "I don't understand: if
the patient believes that he had already murdered his wife, why is
he a danger either to himself or to her, let alone to society at
large? Surely, he is not going to murder her a second
time?"

The court erupted in laughter and the judge, smug on the podium,
was particularly slow to use his gable to quell the
hooting.

The doctor removed his eyeglasses and rubbed the lenses
carefully:

"The patient's sense of reality is impaired, Your Honor. For
instance, he believes that he is in prison, like in his dreams,
although he has been told numerous times that he has been committed
to a mental health facility for evaluation. As far as he is
concerned, his existence has become one big blur. Every time his
dreams are contradicted, he may turn unsettled and agitated. He may
even lose control and become violent. Next time he comes across his
estranged wife, he may truly kill her, as a re-enactment and
affirmation of his nightmares and he is bound to consider such a
deed a harmless dream."
"So," - the judge interrupted him, impatiently - "it is your view
that he should be committed?"

"I would definitely recommend it." - Concluded the doctor.
When all the formalities were over, the judge rose from his chair
and we all stood up. As he reached the entrance door to his
chambers, he turned around, puzzled:
"By the way, where is his wife? I haven't seen her even once during
these proceedings. Anyone has communicated with her? Technically,
she is his guardian, you know."

There was a long silence as everyone avoided everyone else's gaze,
shuffled feet, and ruffled papers.
That was my last chance:

"I murdered her, Your Honor. I have been telling you for months
now!" - I shouted.

The judge eyed me pityingly, sighed, shrugged his shoulders and
flung the door open, crossing into the penumbral recesses
beyond.

Return

Cutting to Existence

My little brother cuts
himself into existence.

With razor tongue I try to
shave his pain,

he wouldn't
listen.

His ears are wool
en
screams, the wrath

of heartbeats breaking to
the surface.

His own Red
Art.

When he cups his bleeding
hands

the sea of our
childhood

wells in my
eyes

wells in his
veins

like common
salt.

Return

In the concentration camp
called Home

In the concentration camp
called Home,

we report in striped
pajamas

to the barefeet
commandant,

Our Mother
orchestrating

our daily
holocaust.

Burrowing her
finger-

-nails through my
palms,

a scream frozen between
us,

a stalactite of
terror

in the green caves of her
eyes

there, sentenced to forced
labour:

to mine her veins of
hatred

to shovel her
contempt

to pile scorn upon
scorn

beating(s) a
path.

At noon, Our
Mother

leads us to the
chambers

naked, ripples of
flesh

she turns on the
gas

and watches our
hunger

as her food devours
us.

Return

Sally Ann

I wrote, Sally
Ann, I wrote:
Shot from the cannon of abuse
as unwise missiles do.
Course set.
Explosive clouds that mark
your video destination.
Experts interpret,
pricking with laser markers,
inflated dialects
of doom.
Hitting the target, you
splinter, a spectacle
of fire and of smoke.
The molten ashes,
the cold metallic remnants,
the core...
A peace accord
between you and your self.

Return

The Miracle of the
Kisses

That night, the cock denied him thrice.
His
mother and the whore downloaded him,
nails etched
into his palms,
his thorny forehead
glistening,
his body speared.
He wanted to revive unto their moisture.
But the nauseating scents of vinegar
and
Roman legionnaires,
the dampness of the
cave,
and then that final
stone...
His brain wide open,
supper digested
that was to
have been his last.
He missed so his
disciples,
the miracle of their
kisses.
He was determined not to
decompose.