A record of the dream.
The contents are just a series of words, an incomprehensible mess that’s out of order. A diary where the things that left an impression are recorded. There’s no finesse to it, it probably won’t entertain anyone. After all, I’m not a novelist.
“There’s no need to put on the airs of an author. It’s most important to paint the scenes as you saw them. That’s why we call it a picture in words. If we’re talking about images, then it’s a rough sketch, or even just a sketch. What’s most important is the accuracy and amount. We quickly forget our dreams, so properly getting them down on paper can be quite difficult. There’s no need for finesse. I just want to be able to understand what you saw and how you felt.”
“My dreams, my heart and mind—” Again, I ask, “What will that explain?”
“I’d rather hear your opinion on that subject than mine — it’s vital.”
“......”
On hearing that, I begrudgingly begin to think.
I remember.
Everything I saw, heard, and felt in the dream.
“I...”
The dream is so far away, and remembering it here in reality is hard.
Even so, I desperately try to scrutinize it.
“In my dreams, I’m always chasing a lone girl who’s just walking around. That girl seems to be collecting something. No, it’s more like she has nothing else to do. She’s picking up these special things, things that left an impression, throughout her mind.”
I named these “Effects.”
The dream didn’t seem to have any other obvious goal besides collecting them.
Just walking around.
That’s all you did the whole time, occasionally stopping to gather Effects.
“For the mind, that’s the most important thing. I think it’s a very significant activity. I was trying to collect the pieces of my mind, trying to put them together like a jigsaw puzzle. Trying to create the completed version. That’s what I think. Collecting the shattered pieces of my heart, returning myself, that seems to be the goal—”
I can’t really put it into words. So much so that it makes me impatient.
I cannot understand your feelings.
“I want to be treated, want my illness to be cured, I think those are the feelings I’m trying to express. It’s painful, so I don’t want to stay ill. I want to return to health, to well-being. That’s why I gather the things missing, the things scattered about—”
“That might be true.”
The doctor will not reach a conclusion.
He’s cautious. With an illness of the mind, one cannot just prescribe certain medicines or certain surgery for certain symptoms. There’s no established medical or symptomatic treatment. The shape and components of each person’s mind are different. One must thoroughly search for and find the illness in the mind’s inner workings.
“It would be nice if that were the case. If this were the expression of such proactive feelings as a desire to get back on your feet and get better. That’s what you need most when treating the mind, after all.”
He’s using the sort of cheerful tone he might use to praise a student who gave the right answer.
The doctor continues.
“The mind doesn’t have a pulse. There’s no place to insert a scalpel. I’m powerless, so you’re the one who must act. There’s nothing so powerful as yourself when you’re trying to return your mind to its rightful state.”
That reaction makes me rather uneasy.
The answers I give the doctor before me are those like an honors student would submit. It’s not something menial like just observing the expression on your conversation partner’s face.
It just seems like, in order to end the discussion as soon as possible, I keep giving him the answers I think he wants to hear.
I think I really do want to return my mind to its holistic state.
Those may likely be my true feelings.
I wonder if perhaps I’ve left something big, something important, sealed away.
“I want you to open your heart,” the doctor mutters, as if he’s seen through me.
He pats my head pitifully, as if there’s no other choice, like he’s tapping the hard shell covering my heart. That’s the way it feels. I’m not exposing my heart again.
“You know, I’m not your enemy. I don’t want to hurt you, I want to heal you. That’s why I want you to let me in. I want you to let me at least get close enough to touch, to use the stethoscope. If you don’t, I won’t know anything and can’t help you.”
“I’ve shown you already.” I spit out those words.
It isn’t like me to get so irritated.
“You’ve let me see through the myriad diary entries you’ve written. Through all of these methods, I can see into your heart. You’re opening up and putting it on display.”
Modeling. Discussion. Dream interpretation.
In other words, he’s trying the symptomatic approach.
I wonder what that entails, other than my expressing a desire to be cured.
“So will you?” As if taking a step forward, the doctor asks in a quieter tone, “Will you really let me see everything?”
It’s not so much an attack as it is tinged with sadness.
“You’re still hiding something important. Protecting it, covering it up. It’s like you’re shielding an open wound with the palm of your hand. I know it must hurt. But you have to let me see it. If you don’t let me near the wound, I can’t treat it,” the doctor says gently, but also firmly.
The doctor is drawing closer to my heart and mind. It’s like he’s reaching for me, but I don’t want him to.
“You gather up the pieces of your mind. That’s something quite amazing. That’s an ideal Jung aimed for. The self is created from the combination of everything, including the conscious and unconscious mind. There’s just one complete version of each of us in this world. Not just the surface ego, but the entire extent of the mind. Jung called this individuation, the end goal of the mind, the ideal it’s trying to achieve.”
I know the terminology for that aspect of psychology.