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Breathing by Dawna Tompson I I was aware of my breathing before anything else. It was slow and deep, as if I was still in a deep sleep. I stayed perfectly still, listening to the natural rhythm. I wasn't ready to get up yet, but I didn't feel like going back to sleep. I tried to recall the dream I had just had. I had a feeling it was important but couldn't remember anything of it. Still, the feeling wouldn't go away. I tried to keep my mind blank, to think of nothing, so that I might allow the dream image to come back. I tried to turn over but found that I could not. I was more fully awake now but still could not move, turn, or even open my eyes. I started to panic, adrenaline coursed through my body, my heart beat faster and echoed in my ears. I was wide-awake now but totally paralyzed. Now I desperately focussed on trying to get up. "Why can't I move?" Terror, panic, and confused thinking reigned. Was I in a coma? Did I have a stroke? Had I taken some drug? What had I been dreaming? From somewhere in my terror I recalled something. An article on sleeping. No it was part of an anatomy class. Odd, but I'm sure that's where I picked it up. I remembered Dr. O'Brien mentioning it in a lecture and then reading more about it later. What was the term for it? Dream researchers had a name for it but I couldn't recall the term. Your body stays asleep but your mind is awake. "Sleep Paralysis Something." I thought. The sleep centers that immobilize your body during sleep continue to work while your awake. It passes in a few minutes. I tried to suppress the fear, forcing myself to think rationally. I mentally recited the names for the various lobes and structures of the brain that I knew controlled muscle movements. "This is a temporary thing, relax and try to think of the dream." I could still recall none of it. It was long and important, but I couldn't recall a thing. I felt as though I was floating above my bed. I relaxed a bit more. This was a strange experience to say the least. But with an effort I calmed down. Soon I returned to the slow deep breathing I had awoken to. I tried to focus on just my breathing. It came from far away, very soft. I was lying on my right side, still completely paralyzed. I focused on the rest of my body. Strange, from this point of view it felt different. All I could feel was my breathing, but it sounded strange and foreign to me. My chest rose less. Smaller, shallow breaths, as if I was no longer in the top physical shape I'd been in. I mentally explored my body. Something surely seemed different. But from the inside I could hardly say what. Smaller? How could I judge from this position? Lighter? Perhaps I was in an astral body, only loosely connected to my physical one? Now I was starting to gain some control. I was not totally paralyzed. I felt better about this situation. I could flutter my eyes and move my fingers. I worked both quietly, trying to expand my range of motion. My fingernails scraped oddly at the sheets as I curled them. I was slowly getting reconnected to the physical world. I was sure I would be fully awake and mobile soon. There was a rustle next to me and a hand draped across my body. It felt heavy on my side. A nuzzle against my neck and alarm bells went off. I should be alone in my bed! But clearly someone was in bed with me. I tried to open my eyes but could only part them enough to stare at the floor. All I could see was brown carpet, a streak of someone's blonde hair, and part of a pillow. But it was enough to know that I wasn't in my bed. Now the rustling grew heavier and I felt a warm body next to mine. I forced my eyes open, still full from the sandman. A heavy arm was draped across my ribs, leaving the hand just in view. It was hairy and definitely male. "I know I'm not actually in bed with a man, this must be a dream." I said to myself. But unmistakably, this was a man's hand and a man's deep breathing at my neck. This was the most realistic dream I'd ever experienced. "Honey, you feel like fucking around before I go to work?" Said a deep and unfamiliar voice. The hairs on the back of my neck bristled. His hand moved toward my chest. I was awake now and no longer physically paralyzed. But I forced myself to remain motionless, feigning sleep, trying to gain time while I thought this through. His hand moved upward toward an unfamiliar mass at my chest. My mind was reeling with confusion. What had I done? How did I get here? And who the heck was fondling me? I had control of my body but it didn't feel like mine. It was heavier, no lighter. No, I don't know, just different! He cupped his hands on that mass at my chest again. My breathing didn't feel right. I hadn't spoken, but I knew my voice wouldn't be right either. I felt him roll over off the other side of the bed. "I'm going take a shit and then we'll screw around." He mumbled. I carefully turned and glanced warily around. It was an unfamiliar setting. I was in a mobile home or trailer crowded with cheap furniture and piles of dirty clothes. Low rent. Cheap. "Dirty white trash." I thought. He stumbled toward a small door near an open closet. He was bare-ass naked although I'm not sure the effect would have been any better had he been dressed. He was short, overweight, and bowlegged. He had thinning reddish hair, almost down to his shoulders. His body was covered in wiry reddish hair. A mat of fuzz covered his shoulders, back, and legs. He had a jagged scar on his right leg. He favored the leg giving him a pronounced limp. He passed through the door and partly closed it behind him Without knowing who he was I knew all about him. I could guess at his MMPI score without even giving him the test. I had seen plenty in my practice. I could smell these types after years of seeing his twins. Rough, macho, insecure, and violent. Abused as a child, the class bully. An abuser. Insecure. Hurting inside and projecting that hurt on those near him. Even those who loved him, because hurt was the only kind of love he knew. I could feel what he was without even seeing his face. There was something, almost an aura, that I had learned to identify men like this in my line of work. These observations took only an instant. It came in a professional flash, sizing him up as if he were a prospective client, meeting him in a therapeutic setting. It was a professional interest that had no place in this dreamscape. Slipping into a practiced line of thought had given me a momentary respite from the terror and confusion. I turned back toward the question of how I gotten here and what role I had to play in this little drama. I had gone to bed in my own bedroom last night. I remember dreaming but I didn't remember moving or waking up during the night. Yet here I was in a strange room sleeping with some stranger. I closed my eyes again, wishing this scene away. "I'm Bill. Bill Fletcher. Dr. William Fletcher, M.D." This is a dream, a lucid dream which I can change with my own willpower." I said to myself, only half believing it for the moment. Nothing had changed once I opened my eyes again. This clearly wasn't my bedroom or my house. In fact I had never set foot in a place like this. It was exactly the type of place I imagined many of my patients lived in. How did I get here? Did I take up their energy and create this place of decay and poor living? I slipped into that professional rational thought again, trying to examine this as if it were one of my patient's dreams. What is the significance of dirt and decay? Is this a mental thought form materialized? One that I need to work on?" I rolled over to take a better look around. The bed smelled of tobacco and whiskey. He closed the door the rest of the way and I quickly sat up in bed. I scanned the room I was in. Dirty clothes, coke cans, trash, newspapers, bedding, and boxes strewn about. The walls were made of cheap wood paneling. Torn window curtains. An electric outlet with enough cords plugged into it to suggest that I was lucky not to have been incinerated during the night. By the feel of it I was sitting on a waterbed. It was a bedroom in a mobile home. Very small, very dirty, and very trashy. My survey didn't help at all to clear things up on what had happened. I slowly got out of bed, sloshing and rolling over the unfamiliar ledge and onto the floor. I glanced about still trying to shake this sense of unease and disorientation. I felt off balance. My eye caught another figure, a naked woman. It took a moment to realize it wasn't a real woman. It was an image that moved. No wait! I stood perfectly still and so did the figure. I raised my hand to my face and the woman's hand mimicked what I had done. It's a mirror. That must be me! I glanced at my arm. Instead of my firm muscled arm I was staring at a slender arm with soft white skin. I turned the hands inward to reveal long thin fingers and a delicate hand. Turning them back and I saw long dark-red fingernails. I was dumbfounded and even more confused. Instead of my normal six-foot muscular frame, I viewed a woman's body as if I was in it. She was about 40 or 45 years old. Unkempt bleach blonde hair with black roots, flowed all over my head. Too much black mascara on her large brown eyes. High cheekbones, a flushed complexion. She had a small chin and high arched eyebrows. She wore a very surprised, or even a shocked, look on her face. I reached upward and an arm followed my movements in the mirror. I quickly surveyed the breasts that sloped before me ending in a wide dark areola centered on thick fleshy nipples. "Who the hell is that?" I wondered. I stood motionless for a moment trying to think of what to do next. "What's Happening?" said an unfamiliar voice nearby. I gasped. I said it, but it didn't sound like me, much softer and higher pitched. "Can you just hold on for a minute?" Came the voice in the bathroom. "You know I've got to play with Little Freddie to get him hard." "Little Freddie?" My rational mind was suppressing what my emotions had already sensed. I rejected the idea outright even while the lump in my throat grew and my stomach tightened. He was going to try to have sex with me! "Shit!" I cried out. "Shut the fuck up, would ya," growled back a voice from beyond the door. "And put on that slutty black nightie with the garter belts." I'll be ready in just a minute. I was stunned by his use of a flatulent exclamation point for emphasis. "Fuck me!" Indeed. This wasn't just an expression anymore. He meant it. He was going to fuck me. I had only minutes, maybe seconds. I looked for an escape, wild with fear. I searched rapidly for some clothes, some way out. But time had run out before I could make a move. I could hear the squeal of the toilet paper roll and a grunting behind the door. The door that protected me from a nightmare. The bathroom door flew open. He was every bit as objectionable from the front as I had imagined him to be when I had only seen his back. A flattened nose, a missing incisor on a cheerless grin. An untrimmed red beard touching the upper part of his too hairy chest. He reminded me a Brother's Grimm character. The troll under the bridge, the leprechaun, a yahoo. I struggled some more and got an idea. This was a dream. It had to be. I should have taken the clue from the sleep paralysis. I knew that they often preceded lucid dreams. I had never had one before but I knew the general idea. You are totally conscious and as awake as normal, only you know that it's a dream. There were supposed to be fun and exciting. This wasn't my idea of fun. I wondered what unresolved issues I had hidden from myself that would lead to a lucid dream of this sort. I had sure come up with the makings of a nightmare. I had never encountered, one like this, not even from the dreams of my patients. But it all made sense now and I could at least deal with what I now knew to be a dream. I'd worry about the content, the symbols, and the meaning of this dream later. The negative energies and the complexes that lead to these images could be sorted out once I woke up. For now, I should just sit back and enjoy. "Enjoy" seemed a bit too optimistic a word for what was happening right now. He was semi-erect and still coming toward me. I unconsciously crossed my arms in front of me, adopting the "stay away from me" body language that I couldn't articulate from my throat. Try as I might to look some other way my eyes kept staring at Little Freddie. I crouched near the bed. "Oh Baby, let's fuck, you know I'm hot now. I want you bitch woman!" "Look this is some kind of dream, I want to deal with it on my own terms, please go away," I said in my best authoritative voice. It was the tone I reserved for my most truculent patients. An authoritative tone I had learned in medical school. I used it infrequently now, needing it only occasionally to talk a violent or obsessed patient into co- operating with the staff. It was the tone I thought would work in dealing with the subconscious creation standing in front of me. But it was only the tone I could muster, for the sound that came from my mouth was weak and feminine, not authoritative. "You bet it is baby, it's a Wet Dream!" He said, opening his arms to embrace me. I didn't move or uncross my arms. "No, I can't now, besides you're not ready anyway," I knew I had to confront this subconscious creation, perhaps I could change this dream if I could get him to see I was in command. "You sorry bitch, Fuck You!" With that I spun away with the stinging sensation of blood in my nose and the impact on my face of a clenched fist. I spun wildly and fell to the bed. In an instant I was up looking around for him, ready to defend myself. But all was calm. I was back my bedroom, awake, with no one around. "Jeez, what a dream! It was so real." I felt my body and grabbed for my manhood. It was there, everything seemed okay. I stood up and nearly fell back over. My head was still spinning. I drifted for a moment, safe, out of the dream, and relieved. Now I was frightened again. I swept the bedroom searching for my assailant. The large room looked normal in every way. The door was locked and the windows secure. No one could have gotten in here. The king sized bed, the 35 inch TV, my large dresser, the framed paintings, the elegant carpet, the white divan, the fabric wall coverings, the long flowing white drapes across the 30 foot wall of glass that overlooked the bay. All as it should be. Everything just as I had left them last night. The lump in my throat receded and my heart slowed approaching a normal beat. Each object before me was a dizzying contrast to the nightmare bedroom from a moment ago. Sharp and clean versus trashy. Large and elegant versus small and, well, trashy again. I couldn't go any further with my compare and contrast exercise. This was no college essay. I opened the bathroom door warily, but again, all was quiet. No one was in this room Something warm and sticky dripped from my face. I glanced at the mirror, secure in my own reflection staring back. The square jaw, the dark eyes, the muscular chest, all in contrast to that small feminine reflection a moment ago. Someone had punched me in the face. My eye was swollen and blood was dripping from my nose. II The dream hung with me like a newborn monkey clinging to its mother. I couldn't shake the feelings it had dredged up. The contrast of my outer physical world with this low-life view of my inner space was difficult for me to grasp. What issues did I need to resolve to clear this dream? I had trouble thinking rationally about it. A visceral reaction in my stomach shouted that I didn't want to end up in that nightmare again. I only knew that it was a horrible dream and I needed to rid myself of it. I cleaned up my face as best as possible. My nose was tender and my cheek swollen. But I could go to work. I searched the rest of the house, but was already certain of the outcome. Everything normal. All 4500 square feet. My new custom built home, my personal design, sat quietly on the cliff face overlooking the ocean. The great room with its vista of the bay, the library, the guest quarters, the formal dining room, and the atrium. All just as I left it last night. The only disturbance it seemed was in my head. I must have somehow punched myself in the throes of this nightmare. "Is that possible?" I asked aloud. My head was disturbed in more than one sense. I was swelling and hurting. I could see the barest hint of blue forming around my eye. It was dark enough to show in the imperfect reflection of the finish on the stainless steel refrigerator. I dug through my bag and found a bottle of painkillers. I sloshed down a couple of pills with my orange juice. The phone was ringing now. It was Betty. "Doctor, I'm so glad I reached you, where were you? I called earlier. What should I do about your 9:00 appointment?" she asked. I'll be there in twenty minutes, who is it, Mrs. Obbrey?" "Yes, I think I can get her to wait and I'll shuffle the rest of the day's schedule, but you better get here before I go nuts!" Well, I had to move. Dream or no dream I had patients, or rather clients, to see. In my specialty we always referred to them as "clients" instead of patients. What did she mean about calling earlier? I should have heard the phone if she had rung earlier. At least there should have been a phone appearing in my dream. Wouldn't it? Dream inclusion they called it, when a sound from the physical world enters your dream state. But there had been no phone. I arrived at 9:27. I hadn't even taken the time to shower. That was a mistake because the image of that dirty trailer stayed in my mind all day. A shower might have helped. The day was busy, as any psychiatrist in a busy practice can attest to. I had a partner, but the workload was heavy. It was worth it though. I was helping people and making a lot of money at it. Between patients I had to consult with Clint, my partner. I walked into his office. "Jeez Bill, someone take a swipe at you?" "I ran into my closet door this morning in my rush to get here." I lied. I wasn't sure if he knew it or not. We were pretty close, at least professionally. We'd worked together since we formed the partnership after residency. Clint, of anyone I knew, would be most likely to pick up on a lie. He was awesome at destroying the delusions of some of our patients and he could smell deception from across a room. I guessed that he knew, but he said nothing. After we finished our discussion I went to the bathroom. My face was puffy and there was a deeper hint of purple under my left eye. Exactly where that red headed man in my dreams had hit me. Odd. I had read about disturbed people who physically manifested their problems onto themselves. Hell, half my business was dealing with people who had projected their anger inward on themselves and somehow harmed themselves. But I had never heard of an acute contusion cause directly from a dream. I'd better search the journals and see if what I experienced made any sense. I worked late that evening in our medical library. It was more of a conference room with most of our journals and medical books lined up along one wall. Still, it provided a comfortable place to sit alone to contemplate my dream. I was doing what we like to call Bibliotherapy. Reading as a therapeutic exercise. I had all the tools I thought I needed to dissect this dream. It's what I did for a living. I knew it would be much harder to analyze my own dream instead of helping someone else though. I even considered consulting with Clint. But I decided against it. I didn't need him thinking that his partner was neurotic. Maybe I would later, but I wanted to try to deal with it on my own for now. I started with a Jungian approach. Perhaps the dream represented my shadow self. If so, then it was a classic case. Everything I experienced in the dream seemed opposite my own life. I was 35 years old, well educated, professional, and male. She was a mid-40's and occupied a place in the petite bourgeoisie socio-economic strata. I lived alone in a large well- appointed house. She lived with a blue-collar abuser in a trashy trailer. Everything about her was alien. I was everything she was not. So, she must be everything that I was not. Perhaps I needed to look more closely at her life. I imagined how her life contrasted with mine. The easy years in luxury. A single child's life. Toys, nannies, piano lessons, high school valedictorian, college, fraternity brother, medical school, a partnership, a fine practice, more money than I needed or wanted. It all came easy to me. She, I guessed, had a more difficult upbringing. Abuse? Perhaps. Wants? Needs? Struggling? Most likely. She hardly looked as if she had much of an education. I wondered if she had graduated from high school. Single? If she was I doubted that she was enjoying it. I was. I enjoyed being single. I compensated for the lack of steady sex with the variety that came with being able to pick and choose. The last woman I had in bed had played the viola with the London Philharmonic the week before. Who did she have? The red headed man? How could I have created this total and complete world with such a contrast from my own? It was so real and seemingly alive. I was in her body. I felt her arms move when I willed them. I felt the cold chill on her spine when his hand had draped across my ribs. I felt the pain of the smack across the face. Hell, I felt that even now. But why had it surfaced at this point in my life? My stress level was low. My life was unfolding exactly as it should. I was reaching my professional peak. I had published several major journal articles. I'd worked sporadically on a book. A radio talk show program was in the works. What triggered this? Why did it come about now? And what about the bruise? Jung had dealt with some occult areas in his investigations of the mind. I had his complete works translated before me but could find nothing to explain that. I searched for a better explanation. A medical condition? There were many syndromes and conditions that could contribute to what I experienced. Disassociative disorder, multiple personality disorder, somatic delusions, or just plain disorientation. Even some forms of narcoplepsy could yield similar symptoms. But none of my speculations seemed to fit. I was familiar with these disorders and I had treated most of them at one time or another. None exactly fit the experience I had. My other texts and journals were useless. It couldn't have been a dream and it didn't seem like any disorder or physiological condition that I could find. On the other hand, I was well aware of the problem with self-diagnosis: "The patient is never aware of what he isn't aware of." What was it I could not see? Maybe I should go see someone. But who would I trust enough to share this with? I got home late and finally had my shower and warmed up a frozen dinner in the microwave. The feelings the dream had evoked were still with me at bedtime. I was apprehensive about going to sleep, but it had been a difficult day. I lay exhausted on the bed, unable to sleep. Then the paralysis set in again. I couldn't move. III "Get up you lazy bitch. You gonna lay there all day. Sorry sack of shit. If you ever talk to me that way again I'll fuckin knock your teeth out." I was back in the same dream. Apparently I was picking up where I left off. I got up slowly as he stomped off down the hall. In a minute I heard the door slam and the roar of an engine, perhaps a motorcycle, I couldn't tell. I didn't care. He was gone. I checked my thinking process. Everything was consistent. I was Dr. Bill Fletcher. I was 35 years old. I was 6 foot tall and 195 pounds. That was me! But that wasn't the body I was in right now. I was in her's again. I didn't even have a name to put to her. It was an uncomfortable feeling. I tried to image how to describe it. Like wearing someone else's dirty underwear. No, that wasn't personal enough. I had her body. I knew this had to be a dream, but I was becoming less convinced. I tried some of LeBerge's lucid dream techniques to see if any of the normal rules of physics were different in this dream. I jumped up. It felt like a strange body, but the laws of gravity were the same. I tried spinning to see if I could change the scene, but I was still in the trailer. I walked through the bedroom door. Nothing changed. It was still morning, and I was still in this woman's body, standing naked in the hallway. If this were a lucid dream I should have more control over it. It couldn't be a dream. I tried meditation. Perhaps I could alter my surroundings. As I relaxed I became aware of a low smooth humming in my ear. But all that came of it was that I fell asleep. That is, if you can really fall asleep from within a dream. I woke up at 9:30 a.m. according to the bedside clock. It seemed consistent with me sleeping for a couple of hours or so. I was still in the same body. Since I was here I might as well investigate my surroundings. Perhaps I'd get a clue as to what triggered this dream or whatever it was. I wanted to start with this body. Now in the quite of the trailer with my head calm I could think about the concept objectively. I had dealt with several cases of gender confusion, autogynephila and transsexualism. I knew that some of my clients were excited by the thought of becoming a woman. Some so much so that they tried to con people like me into believing that they were born into the wrong body so they could get the endorsement they needed to get SRS. So this is what they aspired to be? Perhaps I had found the cure. Being in another's body, especially of the opposite sex, was disorienting, confusing, and plain weird. I didn't think of it as sexually exciting. That seemed to rule out autogynephilia. Could I have a latent case of transsexualism? I doubted that even the most severe form would lead to this sort of delusion. I looked at her face in the mirror. It was the face of a woman who had seen too much life. When I stared into the mirror I saw my own eyes in the reflection. That at least felt reassuring. It was the only part of me that was recognizable. Crows feet around the eyes and a dry patchiness of her skin suggested a physically abused body. Heavy makeup seemed to make her look older than she might be. Perhaps I was wrong on my. Maybe she was younger. I spotted two brands of cigarette packages on the dresser. His and hers? So she smoked. Drinking? Drugs? Sexual or food obsessions? Relationship problems? I went through the normal initial interview checklist. I couldn't answer any of the questions. I didn't even know which pack of cigarettes was hers. One thing, she needed to get away from the abusive guy she lived with. I was apparently trapped in a dream or some alternate reality. Perhaps someone else's reality, or perhaps an unusually realistic creation of my own. It didn't have the look or feel of an ordinary dream. For one thing I was fully awake and conscious. Everything remained stable and consistent, not the shifting images of a dreamscape. For another, there didn't seem to be any way to wake up. Apparently I would have to deal with this Procrustean bed until I woke up spontaneously or found a way to regain ordinary reality. I still had no evidence to prove this was a dream. This had to be some new layer of consciousness lying undiscovered until I had stumbled upon it. Like the New World before Columbus. But even Columbus had an idea of what he was doing. He had set out with a purpose. I had merely stumbled upon this land. Did this land exist waiting to be discovered like a New World, or did I create it, like Lewis Carroll did in " Through the Looking Glass?" I just wished I could find some natives that could guide me through this strange land. Even a Cheshire cat would be preferable to the loneliness and confusion I felt. I spun into a mental fantasy. I was already thinking of writing a journal article. Perhaps I had discovered a new conscious state. But how would I tell others how to get here? How would I describe this situation? Would anyone believe it? How do I get out so I can get back to being Bill Fletcher and start the article? I stood up to examine this body critically. I still could not think of it as my own, although it seemed to function as mine in every sense. It was physically strange but it responded as if it were mine. I stood perfectly still with my eyes closed. It still felt different, even without any visual clues. My center of balance was higher. I took a step with my eyes still closed. The mass at my chest swayed and my hips rotated in an unfamiliar movement. It left an odd sensation. My breathing was different. I wondered if she was a heavy smoker. My arms were slender and moved with a grace that I'd never experienced before. It was slightly erotic. No it was highly erotic. I compared this body to "mine." My own body was muscular and strong. Hers was small, delicate, and much weaker. I was in near perfect shape. I ran three times a week and still lifted weights when I could. She was slightly overweight and flabby. Yet there was a delicateness that I had never experienced before. It was a sense of fragility and vulnerability that went unnoticed in my masculine self. Yet it was so evident in this form. I could only relate the feeling to being a small child in the company of strangers. It engendered a need for comfort, familiarity and human warmth. Once in an acting class in college we had an exercise to try to "get inside" someone else. I couldn't quite do it. We had to choose someone of the opposite sex. I tried Joan of Arc. I tried my best, but never felt I was more than play-acting. Here I was inside this body and it wasn't hard at all to feel how much different a woman's body is than a man's. It was as if the body itself had a direct effect on my emotions and perceptions of my surroundings. My very senses were altered. "Well of course it is silly." I said to myself. "She has different senses, a different hormone makeup, a different chemical balance point, of course she is going to sense the world differently." Still it surprised me how much the changes in my physical body affected the way I perceived and thought about this new reality. Direct experience, what a teacher! I had been wrapped up for the past couple of minutes in this mental exercise. I turned my attention to "my" body. I laughed at myself when I said "my body" to myself. It wasn't my body, but I seemed to have full use of it for now. I wanted to see what this body was all about. My curiosity was not driven solely by professional interest. My limited time and this new view of my sensory functions had made me consider the new, erotic, and sensual experiences it might afford me. I was eager explore it. I explored my body with my hands, stroking the smooth skin and exploring the unfamiliar curves. There were the obvious physiological differences. I had patients with castration complexes before. But this was the real thing. I had no penis. I stared at just a smooth mound. I grabbed where my penis should be and came up with only a handful of pubic hair. Weird. I also had finely shaped breasts. They were not overly large, about right for the body. They sloped downward, with the areola bent slightly back, pointing my nipples slightly above the horizontal. I cupped my hands and slid them over the mass, squeezing them and feeling the heft of the additional weight on my breastbone. I also had a curved butt. I could place my hands on them and the mass of it stuck out behind me in a strange new way. In my ordinary body I could hold my hands on my hips and slid them down toward my legs while keeping them the exact same distance apart. When I tried the same with this body, my hands moved and spread as they traced the outline of my hips. If she lost 20 pounds, her body would make most any woman proud. Her skin, although not healthy, was still much smoother than mine. Her hairless legs and smooth abdomen aroused me. I laughed as I thought of the hard on I would have if I had a penis. I reached out mechanically to stroke it, but found my hand caressing a smooth triangular patch of hair growing like a meadow on the smooth round mound of the uterine hill. Her hair fell into my eyes as I leaned over to looked at my crotch. I found that erotic too. Perhaps this experience was a figment of my own sexual desires. I chuckled at the thought of the times I had wanted to "get into" a woman before. Well, I really had now. It was different, but exciting just the same. I next wanted to explore the heart of my femininity. I started in a critical fashion from a professional viewpoint. I gave myself a medical examination. Or rather as much of one as I could, given that I could find nothing but a broken makeup mirror to examine myself with. I had spent one cycle of my residency with an Ob-Gyn, so I knew how to perform a pelvic exam. I had just never performed one from the viewpoint of the patient before. I started with the vulva. An unfamiliar color of pink reflected in the small mirror. I turned the mirror and pressed. Nicely formed symmetric Ischiocavernasos muscles. I spread the Labium major. Clean and clear fluid. Nice color. No signs of STD. Perfectly formed Labium minus. I moved forward to the clitoris. I slipped back the prepuce and touched the glans. A flood of pleasure surged forward, reminding me of the intimate coupling between the medical examiner and the patient. I paused before inserting my finger into the vagina. Broken hymen, to be expected for a woman of this age. Twisting and pressing I felt for a cervix. Nicely formed and symmetrical. The size of the cervix and the exaggerated uterine hump suggested a prior pregnancy. I pulled my fingers out and probed for the pudendal nerve. Another wave of pleasure swept over me. It was about here that I dropped my professional attitude. The enormity of what I had just done slammed me. I had just given myself a vaginal exam. This was unreal. I slipped another finger into the slit, sliding both in and out several times. This was a fully functional woman's vagina, there was no doubt about that. I tugged again on the prepuce and slid an open hand over the symphysis pubis. I was flooded with a pleasant sensation, similar to my male pleasure centers, but spread over a wider and altogether different location. Maybe I wouldn't be experiencing the penis envy I had expected. The words "Who needs one?" actually started to form in my mind before being cut off by the remaining vestiges of masculine ego. Apparently I had a fully functional woman's body. Still it was an odd sensation. Not unpleasant, quite the opposite. But the unfamiliarity of the sensations and the strangeness of the view in the little mirror unsettled me. Strange, being without my manhood seemed less frightening than I would have guessed it to be. It seemed right for the body anyway. If I was going to have a woman's body, then I supposed it wouldn't look right to have a penis. But it left me with no lapis to connect with my original maleness. How could I relate to myself without a penis? Does a penis make a man? In a general sense I suppose, but here I stood without one feeling not too much different than if I had that familiar organ swaying between my legs. I tried looking at her objectively, as a man might in seeing what there was to admire in her. But that didn't feel right. I tried looking at myself in the mirror as if this was my own body. I tried a technique I had used with my patients. I spoke as her into the mirror, what I thought she might say to herself. "If I lost some weight, gave up cigarettes, and started eating right, I could be beautiful again." I spoke the words aloud to myself while looking into my eyes in the mirror. It seemed to work. I was flushed with a confidence. I tried Joan of Arc. "To Conquer Lands in the Name of the Lord Almighty, Creator of all things!" I said aloud. It was so easy to be her. Perhaps this experience wouldn't be so bad. But how do I get out? How did I get in to start with? I occupied myself for almost a quarter hour, pirouetting, piling my hair upon my head, stretching, posing and examining myself in the mirror. I was in every sense a woman physically. I felt different inside too. I still thought in the same fashion. I had continuity of thought. I was still Bill Fletcher, even as I appreciated the new body he seemed to be in. But there was a different feeling to my approach in perceiving. It wasn't an obvious difference. It was subtle. Like a lark cooing in a meadow that you cannot hear until your stop, open your ears, and listen to its soft chirp. I still thought the same way, but my feeling self had been altered. I curled my arms around my body and stroked from my thighs to top of my torso, shaking my head and delighting in the feminine form as the soft hair swooshed around my head. God, it felt sensual to be a woman! It was the fingernails that brought me back. I glanced at the red nails and they seemed to crystallize my awareness, jolting me back into seeing again what an alien landscape this was. The examine was over. I knew more about her body but very little else. A wave of panic swept through my body, ending with a pit in my stomach. I was suddenly aware of my nakedness. I felt vulnerable, cold, and apprehensive. I had to dress. I had to find out about this world. I found some cotton panties in a drawer, apparently the last clean ones in this house. There was a black motorcycle T-shirt and a pair of jeans on the floor that I took to be her clothes from last night. The jeans fit but the T-shirt had blood on it. I found another almost identical one draped across the dresser and pulled it over my head. I was only marginally aware of how natural it felt to flip my long hair out of the neck of the T-shirt after I had slid it down my torso. I found her bra lying beside the bed, but I couldn't put it on. I wasn't ready for that. I tried to make myself feel as comfortable as I could in this body. But this it was unreal. The blood reminded me of something. He had smacked me hard. I had physical evidence of that when I woke up, but her body seemed untouched. I saw no sign of swelling or bruising. I pulled the hair back into a rough ponytail, examining the face and eyes. I could find no evidence of contusions or abrasions. I paused for an extra second to marvel at the change. She must have been beautiful once. I slipped a band I found on the dresser over the handful of hair. That kept it out of my eyes. It felt a little more normal that way. I was in a mobile home, a filthy one at that. I stood in the bedroom. A waterbed, a dresser and a few scattered items surrounded me. There was room for little else. I was in wretched surroundings. I gave myself a quick tour of the rest of the house. About as I expected. Filthy bathroom, the wall around the sink smeared with grease. The toilet bowl stained. The kitchen was stacked with dishes. The smell of stale cigarette smoke pervaded the house. A trash can full of empty Budweiser cans sat by the door. The refrigerator had precious little food in it. The small living room had what appeared to be the guts of a motorcycle engine strewn about. The pieces lay on the floor and a toolbox, acting as the master of ceremonies at this event, sat squarely on top of the couch. I looked out the window for a clue. Nothing. I could see just another trailer practically on top of this one. An old Camero was parked outside. It had one red door and the rest of it was painted with gray primer. Lovely! The surroundings reflected perfectly what I pictured this woman's life to be. Trailer trash. Tears welled up in my eyes. Who I was crying for? Me? Or the life of this woman? Perhaps it didn't matter. Our lives were now inextricably woven together, at least for the moment. I turned on the TV. Kathy and Regis. Everything seemed normal there. I flipped the channels. Again, everything seemed normal. The channels were the same as those set in my TV at home. I turned to the TV guide channel to check the date. It was Wednesday the fifteenth. I had gone to bed on Tuesday night, so time the time was pretty consistent. At least since I went to bed last night. Of course, I had jumped from the original dream, woken up, and then returned. All of that didn't help much either. I found the local news. Kitty What's-Her-Name reading the A.M. news. That felt comfortable at least, so I must still be in the same city. Or at least a respectable version of it. I searched for some other indication of who and where I was. I found her purse on a chair in the kitchen. Opening it eagerly I fumbled for her wallet. Her driver's license showed her as Margaret Burnford. She was 36 years old. And her license had expired last week. Great. At least I had a name. She was younger than she looked too. At least if I could believe this license. The address was a local P.O. box. I searched the rest of her wallet. A single department store card, an expired library card, and pictures of the asshole who had smacked me and another of a young man. Perhaps seventeen. Very handsome. Maybe a graduation picture? Precious little else to go on. The rest of the purse yielded very little either. Car keys, mascara, lipstick, a pocket mirror in better shape than the one I had examined myself with, and some other women's trinkets. I found a total of $1.32 in change and seven dollars in cash, rolled up in a side pocket of the purse. Hidden, I supposed, from the asshole. I turned my attention to the rest of the house. In a minute I had a name for the asshole. "Curry Glenwood." I'd never heard of the name Curry before. Apparently, he was in some trouble with the law. I found a court summons, and several letters from a lawyer and a bailbondsman referring to pending assault charges. The careless way the letters had been strewn about suggested he wasn't particularly concerned about them. I stood looking out the window. The panic swelled again. I could stand this condition for a few minutes, especially if I was occupied, but then when I paused I got a terrible feeling in my stomach. What was going on? Who was Margaret Burnford and why the heck was she living with Curry Glenwood? And what was my role in this? I stood staring out the window. A beat up white pickup truck was speeding down the dirt road. That gave me an idea. Perhaps that old Camero still runs. I should be able to find out where in the city this place is and find my way back to my house. If it exists in this reality. I'd still be in this body, but at least I'd be on familiar ground. The truck stopped outside. "Now what?" I wondered. As in any good nightmare events seemed to focus on the dreamer. The truck couldn't just drive by. The perception of a symbol in the dream causes it to focus on the dreamer. It had to stop in front of my house. If I perceived it, then it had to be coming my way. The truck door flew open and a short wiry man dressed in a baseball cap, denim shirt and jeans stomped toward my door. Bam, then BAM BAM!. Where the fuck are you Curry, you owe me and I'm going to collect! I rushed for the doorlock but could see the knob already turning. The door flew open. "Where's your old man Margie? He hooked up with me last night and he promised to pay me. I told him he better be at my house by 8:00. Were is he?" He stood in the door, his fist to his red face. The black pistol stuffed in his belt loomed larger in his loose pants. The threat of it made it seem larger I guessed. I couldn't take my eyes off of it. I stood dumbfounded, unable to speak. I wondered if the gun would be pointed my way momentarily. Finally I stammered, "What are you talking about?" I sounded convincingly incredulous without even trying to. "Stupid shit. Where is he?" He sputtered. "I don't know. He took off this morning and I haven't seen him. Look, what's this about, maybe I can help" I said truthfully. "Why don't you sit down and tell me what bothering you." I had gone too far, I had slipped into Fletcher speak. This was not my office and he wasn't a patient. He wasn't going for it anyway. "Don't play stupid with me. He's got it here somewhere. He's either got the money or the white lady." He looked around, took a step toward me, then backed off. He turned and wheeled for the bedroom. I should have been incensed at his lack of respect for my privacy. I should have followed him into the bedroom. I should have tried to throw him out. But that was Bill thinking. Here as Marge I was aware of my tiny physical presence. I stood still. He was armed. He was small but clearly stronger than me. And he was mad. I'd be safer if I stayed put. Better to let him have the run of the house. Besides, it wasn't mine anyway. I saw him turn toward the closet, then rummage in the bathroom. I heard him lift the lid on the toilet. "Once a con always a con!" He came out holding a bag with a white powder up to his face. He opened it and tasted it. For a moment the anger left him. "Yeesss!" he said in glee. "It doesn't even look like he copped any. His anger returned, flashing from cool to warm to hot with each step down the hallway. Apparently he'd thought of something else. "You'd better hope he hasn't cut it. Tell that fuckin idiot of yours that if he tries this again I'll kill him. I almost got my balls blown off this morning over this. And you know what? Your fuckin rent is overdue too. I'm telling you, I gave him a break lettin him live here but you better fuckin straighten up. I'll throw your asses out in the dirt you worthless drunken lumps of shit. Bring me the rent by 4:00 or I'll have the sheriff here. Why the hell doesn't he put your ass to work instead of lettin you watch the frikin tube and pour beer down your gut all day? You probably won't be able to stand up in a couple of hours. I'll never understand it. If you were my bitch I'd throw you out, you pissant drunk. I don't even think you're a good piece of ass for him anymore. Just a fuckin fat ass. Fuckin just tell him that Beedy ain't gonna take any shit from him." He stomped off leaving the door wide open. I grabbed for the door and closed and locked it. Through the window I could see him grab a crowbar from the back of his truck. My heart began to race. He was in a rage. I tried to think of how I would deal with this aggression in the hospital. I couldn't think. His anger was called acute something syndrome. When they come into the hospital like this I always call for the attendants to strap them down. There were no attendants around here. But the crowbar wasn't meant for me. I could hear him hitting something. I heard the sound of glass breaking and a metal-on-metal thumping. I walked to the kitchen window. It was the Camero taking the brunt of his anger. He smashed out the headlights and the smacked the wieldshield before stomping off to the truck. I heard the spinning of tires on the gravel and saw the trail of smoke as he sped up the dirt road. I had been calm while he was here but now I felt weak. What kind of world was I in? I'm going crazy. This is some kind of hallucination. I dropped my professional calmness. I was angry and afraid. I could feel tears welling up and I was shaking badly. I sat at the kitchen table. How do I deal with this? I began to sob uncontrollably. Not only over the fear I had, the helplessness, the confusion, but my whole situation. What the heck is going on? Am I ill? I had a measure of stability back in a few minutes. I got my breathing under control and dabbed at my eyes. Mascara blackened my fingertips. I wiped it away with a napkin from the table. Okay. I knew a little more. My "old man" was involved in drugs. I was a drunk. Our rent was overdue and my car was trashed. "I can deal with that can't I?" I waited a few more minutes to be sure this Beedy character was gone. I unlocked the door and stepped out. The car sat in the drive leaning to one side. The headlights were gone, the side mirror off, the shattered windshield leaving a spider's web across most of the driver's side. All in all, the damage seemed to fit this car perfectly. It was almost as if an artist had decided that headlights and a window did not fit this car. Beedy had sculptured it into the perfect jalopy now. Everything he did to it was in concert with the gray primer, the loose hood, the red passenger side door, the hanging tailpipe. "In another world he could have been paid for doing such work." I thought. "Margie, are you okay? Called a voice. A young man walked from the trailer across the street. "Is that how Beedy takes care of late rent?" He was trying to be lighthearted, but I could sense concern "Thanks for asking. Everything is alright." I called back as I walked around to the side. There was a screwdriver stuck in the left front tire. It was still hissing and nearly flat. He had been watching me examine my car from his front yard. He came over now. He was about thirty and well built. Handsome, I guess. Dark hair, rather long, but not unkempt. "You've been crying." It was a statement, not a question. "Yes, what do you think? My voice still high and tight, and barely in control. It was filled with sarcasm that wasn't meant for him. "I'm sorry, I'm a little upset is all." "It's alright, he's gone now. I'll help you. I think we can get it running again." I walked to the trunk and searched for the key. I knew what I was about to find. Or rather not find. A good spare. Sure enough. There was some fishing tackle, three empty Budweiser cans, jumper cables with no alligator clips and a rim with no wheel. "Please, I need to get it driveable." I pleaded. He was the first person to treat me like a human since I came here, wherever I was. I was unaccustomed to the idea of a man changing a tire for me. I wanted to be independent. I wanted to take care of this myself. To be truthful, I didn't want this young man seeing me like this. But I was never in a predicament like this. So helpless, so lacking in resources. I wanted to change my own tire. But to tell the truth, I wasn't sure if she had the strength to do it. I was exhausted. I was caught up in an emotional experience and it was draining me physically. In ten minutes he had rolled a tire from across the street and changed it. I stood by feeling like a helpless female, but thankful just the same for being spared this problem. Besides. He was a nice guy. "I'm Jimmy" he offered a dirty hand, then pulled it back and wiped it on his jeans before offering again. I held out my hand, automatically adopting the slightly bent wrist a woman presents. He took my fingers in his hand, pressing lightly around them. He had a warm and firm hand. Masculine, I suppose was the word for it. His arm was tanned and hairy. "I wasn't sure that you remembered my name, I introduced myself when we met last week but I know I sometimes forget names of new faces." "Of course not Jimmy, I didn't forget." I lied. "Can I give you anything for the help?" "Oh no, of course not Marge. It was my pleasure. I hope Curry will understand. I know how he is. I'm sorry I can't help with the headlights or the windshield, but you should be able to drive it. "Thanks again I called." He turned back and smiled. Nice man. IV I had a plan, I had mobility. I had conviction, and a need to know what this new reality was made of. I was certain that I was in my city. I recognized the outline of the mountains. I was on the East Side of them. I just needed to take the Camero and head west toward the sea. I should be able to find my house once I got over the mountains. Once at home maybe I could resolve what was going on. Maybe call Clint and see if someone I knew could verify the reality of my situation. I jumped in and started it up. It sounded as if the muffler had a hole in it. "Fitting." I thought. It just wouldn't be right without it. I pulled out into the gravel and slipped the car in gear. It was a standard. I wasn't used to one. My BMW was automatic and so was the Explorer. In fact I'd never driven a standard before. I managed to stall it twice before getting to the stop sign at the end of the gravel road. I didn't see anything I recognized. I must be at the outskirts of town. I turned right down a farm road, came to a dead end, and had to turn around. I got a puzzled look from the old man on the corner as I sped down to the next crossroad. I was going to find out where I was and nothing was going to stop me. Red Lights. As soon as I turned out on the main road they were behind me. Shit. I pulled off the road. "Can I see your license ma'am?" I reached for my pocket. Shit women don't carry their wallets there. It's in her purse. Where is it? I know. It's got to be on the kitchen table back at the trailer. "Sorry officer, I don't have it with me. I can go get it. I left it on the table at home. It's just back a mile or so down the road." I stammered, sounding very weak and uncertain. Besides, I was remembering that the license had expired last week anyway. This wasn't going to be easy. I thought about telling him who I really was, but figured that wouldn't get me far. That will be alright ma'am. Will you step out of the car, Margie?" We'll that was good. He knew me. Perhaps I could persuade him. I'd have to swallow my male pride and pretend to be a flustered lady in distress. That wouldn't be too hard. I was in distress. I wasn't sure if I was a lady or not. I hoped my one college acting class could help me fake that part of it. "Why officer," I said in my smoothest, most flirtatious voice, "Is that really necessary?" I was surprised at how effective it sounded. "Get out of the car." He demanded. I opened the door and he pulled me by the arm and twisted me around with my hands behind my back. In a blink I was handcuffed. "I told you last week I didn't want to see you or that asshole Curry around here no more." Said a rough voice in my ear. "Come here." He dragged me into the back seat of the car. "Let's see, no license, no registration, no headlights, no seatbelt, broken windshield. I don't think that car is safe on a public road. I'd say you were in for some trouble unless you start to co-operate." He must have seen the quizzical look I gave him. "Come on Margie, you know the drill. Steve told me all about you." We took off in the car barely getting back onto the road before turning onto a dirt road, the entrance nearly hidden by shrubs and a wide arch of trees forming a canopy over the top "I wonder who Steve is? He stopped 100 yards off the main road, well away from the traffic and completely isolated and alone. He opened the back door and pulled me out of the car and onto my knees in the road. I knew what was coming, but I didn't believe it. "Co-operate Margie, and I'll forget the tickets." "You know you can get in serious trouble for this" I said. Hoping he'd come to his senses. He pulled at my hair and twisted my head so that I was looking upward at him "So can you Margie. I could search your car. I'm sure I could find coke or grass in it and you'd be up the river before you could blink an eye." He said it in such a way as to leave no doubt that he would find something. I supposed that he carried such "evidence" in his car for just these occasions. I looked to the dirt at my knees. His shiny black shoes and tan pants just at the edge of my vision. I resigned myself to it. I'm dirty white trash. I'm a woman in trouble. And there is an easy way out. Besides, this isn't real is it? I can do what I please in a dream can't I?" I pleaded with myself. His pants were already unbuckled as I lifted my head. V I was still on my knees retching. I had tried to get up twice but each time I had to stoop to vomit again. My clinical mind was telling me that I was going into shock, but the rest of me, the part that had just been violated, the part that the pig of a police officer had mistaken for Margie, was in desperate need. I leaned against a tree, staving off another wave of nausea. I walked vacantly toward the main road, stopping to wipe the vomit and something white and sticky from my face. I tried to recall the events of the last few minutes. I knew the mechanism of repression. I had seen it in my patients. But it was odd to experience it. It was a complete blackout. The last thing I remember was his belt buckle falling away from his pants. I couldn't remember anything until I was puking in the weeds on the side of the road. My rational mind knew what had happened, but the perception of the event was missing. I mused about the area of the brain responsible for this, but couldn't focus well enough to zero in on it. It didn't matter anyway. I wasn't going to overcome this by clinical objectivity. I was too far gone to think straight or to even experience emotions. I was mentally numb. I staggered to the end of the row of trees. My cadence steadied. The clip- clop of my strapless sandals as they flipped against the bottoms of my feet provided a metronome to keep time with. I reached the entrance and peered out. I was wary that he might still be around. I reached to steady myself on a tree and noticed the marks from the handcuffs still showing on my wrists. A quarter mile down the road I could see blinking lights. His police cruiser and a wrecker, right about where I had pulled over. In a moment they both flew past me, the black wrecker ahead of a gray streak. It was the red door that provided the certainty. They had impounded my car. I was stuck, with no way to get home. I sat and buried my face in my hands, shaking uncontrollably. I sat there half-awake for a long time. I vowed then and there that I was not going to live this kind of life. I didn't care how she was born, what her circumstances were, or who I was. I couldn't live like this. I didn't really want to acknowledge to myself what had happened. I had performed fellatio on a police officer. No say it! I managed a whisper: "A blow job." I repeated it to myself again, shaking my head. I had been forcibly violated. It was something I wanted to share with no one. I was ashamed. Ashamed to think that a medical doctor, an educated man, a board certified psychiatrist, could do nothing to change the outcome of the situation. He had his way with me. I couldn't even muster the courage to tell myself that it could have been worse. I just wanted to get back and clean myself up. I needed to rid myself of him. This life had to change. There was nothing to do but head back to the trailer. It was probably less than a mile but it took me the better part of an hour. The sandals were useless for walking along the side of a road. I felt each gravel stone on the bottom of my feet. She was not in very good shape. I stumbled and fell twice. I got thirsty. By the time I reached the trailer I was exhausted. But I didn't head for the trailer. I looked around. I was afraid that I might be seen by someone, especially by Jimmy. I didn't want him to see me this way. I knew he'd know something was wrong. I didn't want to explain. I circled around through the sticker patch in the back of the trailer, pricking myself with a sticker on my wrist, just above my thumb. Thank god I hadn't locked the door. I rushed to the couch and collapsed in a teary-eyed heap, to tired and exhausted to sob. I knew this was an asthenic reaction to the emotional trauma, but putting a name to it didn't change a thing. In a moment I was asleep, free for the moment from this insane world I had stumbled into. The sun was lower when I woke. It must be late afternoon. I had hoped that I would return to my bedroom at home, amid my familiar surrounding, now that this crazy dream had reached a climax. But I was still trapped. I no longer felt erotic in this body. I was a prisoner of it. It's small delicate shell, no match for a policeman with a gun, or Beedy, or Curry for that matter. I was a defenseless woman trapped in a man's world. My own world had disappeared as speedily as the body that I once had. I was a prisoner, in body, mind, spirit, and physical surroundings. I wandered aimlessly up and down the hall, wondering what to do and how to cope. Thinking that my training should be of help. My training. My reliance on the medical community. My trust in the establishment. My anchor. None of it applied. None of it was going to help me. I would have to pioneer my own way out of this. There was going to be no nanny to make it all better, no father figure to buy my way out of trouble, no simple cruising and loafing through this life. This was real and I was going to have to deal with it. I would have to do it on my own, without the family connections, wealth, power and authority graced upon me in my previous life. As evening settled I began to pull myself together. What happened had happened. I would try to deal with the images when I got back. If I got back. "Sure" I started sarcastically, I'll just tell Clint I was inside a woman's body for a day and that I'm suffering from the emotional effects of a forcible rape." He'll know exactly what to do. Lock me up probably. I felt it rather than heard it. It was the sound from this morning. In a moment the bike was in the driveway. "Oh boy, it's our little friend Curry." I thought to myself. He walked with and odd swaying motion exacerbated by his limp. He was out of my view for a couple of seconds and then stood standing, framed by the door. "Hmmm, Hi, ugh" and he staggered toward the couch. I rose and got out of his way. He was clearly drunk or high, or both. He sat vacantly on the couch. I wondered for a second whether he needed medical attention. I checked his pulse; slow and weak. His eyes looked vacant. "Curry! Can you hear me?" I shouted. "Sure, sure honey, I'm ajust a little spssmmmm." He sat quietly for several minutes and then staggered to the r