That’s right, I am receiving treatment.
My mind is ill.
While I’m dreaming, my hidden self, that someone else, rises to the surface. But when I’m awake, I return to myself. I get myself back. Coincidentally, when I dream, so many distant matters — memories, emotions, knowledge — are all revived.
I finally begin remembering minute details about realistic matters, like how I got here, where I am.
The baton I handed off to my unconsciousness in my dreams has been returned to me. Now it’s my turn to run with it. It seems I’ve rested a bit too long, as I can’t move like I should be able to.
I’m still sleepy, so nothing is clear yet; everything is still so vague.
My mind is ill, so I’m receiving treatment.
Because it was necessary for this process, I’ve read numerous books about psychology, written as much about my dreams as possible, and talked to doctors about it like this.
My mind is being predominantly treated through dialogue, modeling, and dream interpretation.
What I’m doing right now is having a dialogue.
Through discussions with the doctor, I reveal my heart and mind. By communicating with another, I bring my heart front and center. Through my reactions and the contents of my story — in other words, my testimony — I can venture a guess at something vague, like dreams are the mind itself. It’s like preparing a montage from witness testimony.
However, it’s a task that requires a great deal of patience. We can’t even grasp our own minds. Understanding someone else’s unconscious is even harder. Even in testimonies from a close wife or siblings, there will be inconsistencies or things missing.
Depending on how reliable you find the doctor in question, there are also many cases of stories being completely fabricated. In order to protect that hidden self, that precious other person that you’re connected to. It could simply be that type of personality, one with an ill temperament. A testimony grounded in lies or misunderstandings is always a possibility.
That’s why, over and over again, we have dialogue. He asks the same questions over and over, like a detective.
Or, we could try another approach.
“Modeling is creating something. Like a novel or a picture. Things with a great deal of usefulness, like miniature sand garden therapy. What you’re doing right now.”
I’m in a small room, like a hospital room.
Sitting up in bed, I hold the large box set on my lap with both hands.
There are lots of things lined up in that box. Haphazardly. What’s left in the box and how it’s arranged can be used to guess the state of the mind...... That seems to be how miniature sand garden therapy works. If it were just selecting and placing objects, even a small child could do it. It’s a simple form of creation, one that doesn’t require the knowledge or skill of literature or oil painting.
That’s why it can be an effective form of therapy for anyone — and an effective form of diagnosis.
Normally when you’re being examined by a doctor, you’re hooked up to some machine or the doctor interviews you face-to-face. The doctor sits right next to me, and my posture in the bed is a relaxed one. But the atmosphere doesn’t feel like one of healing.
It’s more one of relaxation. If one thinks they’re receiving treatment, they get nervous and close off their mind and heart, becoming rigid in expression and concealing their true thoughts and feelings. Thus it becomes incredibly difficult to get them to remove the mask and probe the depths of their heart.
Having me remain in bed means they’re trying to keep me as close to sleep as possible.
They’re trying to get closer to the depths of my mind, my unconscious mind.
A small girl doll is placed at the center of my miniature garden.
I take the doll in my hands, aimlessly moving her about the miniature garden. I can’t decide where to put her. A cute doll with braids...
It’s not something commonly used in miniature sand garden therapy, but rather something that I treasured in my childhood.
Though I can’t remember it well.
I’m still so drowsy, it still feels like someone else’s memories.
“That’s right, that’s it.”
The doctor’s interjection is mostly a nuisance, and I furrow my brows.
I place the doll in the center of the miniature garden and arrange several things around it. One by one, fitting them together. Things like a frog or a midget, things I referred to as Effects in the dream, all seem to fit together.
This seems the most natural.
Once I have them more or less in place, I ask the doctor, “What condition do you think this suggests?”
I want the right answer, one that makes me feel better.
The doctor gives a vague answer, like “I’m not sure,” and urges me to continue.
I’m flustered. It’s like I don’t want anyone else to see, don’t want to let anyone else know about those Effects that were so important to you — I want to wrap them up tight with a ribbon. I carefully cover them up. Like a cocoon. Like an egg. I cram them together, like the wife of President Kennedy gathering his grey matter after the back of his head was shot out by an assassin’s bullet.
“What... are you doing with that?” This time, the doctor asks me. Even though he hasn’t answered my question yet.
Unsatisfied, I remain silent.
Concealing things that were precious to you, making them into an egg, seems natural to me.
Those precious things, the Effects, match with the number of eggs that surround you.
Right.
It appears to be fitting.
“What a colorful egg. It’s pretty, almost divine. Like an Easter Egg. Easter — a festival of revival. Hmm, hmm......” The doctor stares at me with a satisfied expression.
Then he continues speaking, unperturbed.
“I’ve been listening intently to your story up to now. It’s actually very interesting.”
In the doctor’s hands lies the open diary.