Copyright © 2012 Ed Brodow. All rights Reserved.
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“They were staring at me,” said the woman. “Their eyes. They kept their horrible eyes fixed on me. It was as if their eyes went right into my head.”
“What did they look like?” asked Dr. Robert Elgar.
“I don’t know. They were horrible creatures with big heads. The one who seemed to be in charge had a blinding light beam coming out of its forehead.”
“Did they speak to you?”
“No. They just stared at me. I was naked.” The woman began to cry. “I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t move. I was helpless. I was naked. They had me spread out on an examining table. I was completely at their mercy.”
“Did they touch you?”
“Yes.” The crying continued. “They kept probing me with cold metal instruments. I was naked!”
“And you said one of them had a light in its forehead?” He handed her a box of Kleenex.
“Yes. A glaring light. It practically blinded me.”
“Susan,” said Dr. Elgar. “When you were a child, did you have any operations?”
“Yes. I had a large growth removed when I was about five.”
“What can you tell me about that operation?”
“Nothing. Only what my parents told me. They told me I had an operation. I don’t remember anything.”
“Surgeons often have a reflector on their forehead that concentrates light onto the area they are working on,” said Dr. Elgar. “Did you know that?”
“No I didn’t,” said Susan. Her eyes were red and she was sniffling.
“What you are describing to me could be repressed memories from that early surgery, memories that are only now coming to the surface.”
“The memory of being in that spaceship lying on the table is so vivid,” said Susan. “I can feel it. Oh God!” Susan abruptly threw up all over herself and part of Elgar’s carpet.
“That’s okay sweetheart,” said Elgar as he offered her a roll of paper towels. She tried to clean up the mess.
“Think about it for a moment,” said Elgar after a brief period of silence. “Everything you have described could have taken place in a hospital when you were five years old. Lying exposed on an operating table with strange people staring at you, doing things to you, shining lights at you. This is traumatic for a child. Sometimes these early traumas don’t go away.”
“Where do they go?” She was making an effort to stay focused.
“They remain in your subconscious. When the feelings decide to break out into the daylight, they place a burden on your conscious mind. The traumatic event is remembered from a child’s perspective. It’s completely unrelated to how you view the world as an adult, so your subconscious takes over again and creates a story to explain the pre-adult memories.”
“Oh my God. So perhaps I was never abducted after all?”
“Precisely. The aliens are a metaphor in the same way that your dreams are told in metaphors. Have you ever had a dream that seemed so real to you that you thought it actually might have happened in fact?”
“Yes. Many times.”
“Think of the alien abduction story as a metaphor for what you experienced at the age of five. You were alienated from your home, from your parents, from everything that made you feel safe. Alienated. Aliens. Get it?”
“Yes,” Susan realized. “I see what you mean. I know that I have always had a vibrant imagination. Oh my God, I can’t believe it. I think you may be right.”
“Sleep on it, sweetheart, and we’ll talk about it some more next time.”
“Thanks Dr. Bob!”
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