We say a sleepwalker behaves while asleep as if he or she was awake. The sleeper gets up, walks around, opens a door, performs some action that would be considered normal in a state of wakefulness.
But what about abnormal behavior?
What about a fairly normal person becoming psychotic once dozing off?
My father who cherished his intellect above anything else had taught himself refined manners, those of an educated man, a posture befitting a distinguished professor and researcher.
Appearance-wise, he was very particular about the suits he wore, all custom fit, with expensive designer ties and the best of shoes. Elegant shirts that were a headache to clean and press, my father never satisfied of the way the collar or the cuffs had been treated. His tiepins and cufflinks made of gold. A very meticulous man, concerned about impeccability and sophistication.
He appreciated great wines and would taste them according to the strictest protocol, deeply involved in the sensory assessment of aromas, color, flavor, snobbishly discussing the bouquet, swirling the glass with dexterity, keeping the wine in his mouth to fully feel its attributes, smacking the tongue, gargling, caring for the perfect serving temperature, in details comparing fragrances, geographic origins, the years, the types of grapes, the climate.
He could also talk brilliantly of his cheeses, and of the precise characteristics of the perfectly baked baguette.
He had poise, a tall, handsome man who knew how to enter a room and get noticed without people noticing he had meant to. Never laughing too loud, impeccable speech, a gentleman. Men admiring him, women melting next to him, my father warmly attentive to the confidences made to him. Guests with an emotional issue at hand lining up during parties to obtain his wise word of advice.
But frequently at night, he would transform himself into a shocking monster, terrifying us all. How we dreaded the moment he would fall asleep...
It usually started with loud screams. Someone beaten to death would not shout any less. Vocalizations perhaps like those of a man screaming for the last time of his life when falling down a precipice, then the shrieks of an animal being butchered. Piercing cries ripping the night. Full blast, my father's lungs and vocal chords at their maximum.
He would then get up and start pushing furniture around, carrying his bed across the room. On his knees, with all his strength, moving whatever was in his way, the screams unstoppable.
Impossible to wake him, his own shouting covering my mother’s voice as she would try to calm him down. If she touched him, he would violently hit back, possessed, uncontrollable, in the midst of an aggressive trance that seemed to know no limits.
These nights were profoundly frightful. My sisters and I, each of us in our own bedroom, too scared to help, rescue my mother, afraid my father would break down our door and murder us, uselessly covering our ears with our hands, praying for that hell to stop. Reviewing in our mind escape routes in case he would get too close to us.
Even after he would grow quieter, sleepless nights, not daring close an eye. A profound sense of danger keeping us alert, watching for the next episode of nocturnal madness.
The next morning, he would not remember a thing. He would go through his methodical ritual of selecting his clothes, getting ready for work, pressing his fresh orange juice, complaining about a marmalade jar improperly closed, unaware, it appears, of the fit he had had the night before.
I do not think he suffered from somnambulism as such. The actions he perpetrated were too distant from his usual self. I see it today more like the rise of a hidden dark personality. Our very own private case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. The duality of good and evil having reached a compromise, one side for the day, the other for the night, alternating their extremes according to the calendar of sunlight and darkness, the behavioral split, the dichotomy remaining up to now a family secret. Both my parents never discussing these horrendous scenes. Silence consecrating my mother - now entirely justified to proceed with her own vodka tasting experience - as an eternal victim, in case we had not guessed.
The crises were not nightmares either, because he didn’t wake up, an intense feeling of fear or danger pulling him out of a bad dream. He would just keep on screaming, pushing, hitting, until the energy ran out, resuming eventually his initial horizontal position on the bed as if nothing had happened.
Even today, dear ones, I do not understand what people meant when telling us how lucky we were as children to have an eminent psychologist as a father. We heard that inanity so often. And never knew, not even once, how to reply. Unable to describe our nights to anyone. An insane territory belonging to the unspoken/unspeakable part of our family history.
You can never say the nice-looking successful shrink is highly tormented and acts crazy. And if you do, they’ll lock you up, believe me. Oh please, believe me. And you gradually start, as a proxy, to accept treatment on behalf of others, begging for the number of pills to increase just to keep up with your world getting sicker all the time.
Laolao
But what about abnormal behavior?
What about a fairly normal person becoming psychotic once dozing off?
My father who cherished his intellect above anything else had taught himself refined manners, those of an educated man, a posture befitting a distinguished professor and researcher.
Appearance-wise, he was very particular about the suits he wore, all custom fit, with expensive designer ties and the best of shoes. Elegant shirts that were a headache to clean and press, my father never satisfied of the way the collar or the cuffs had been treated. His tiepins and cufflinks made of gold. A very meticulous man, concerned about impeccability and sophistication.
He appreciated great wines and would taste them according to the strictest protocol, deeply involved in the sensory assessment of aromas, color, flavor, snobbishly discussing the bouquet, swirling the glass with dexterity, keeping the wine in his mouth to fully feel its attributes, smacking the tongue, gargling, caring for the perfect serving temperature, in details comparing fragrances, geographic origins, the years, the types of grapes, the climate.
He could also talk brilliantly of his cheeses, and of the precise characteristics of the perfectly baked baguette.
He had poise, a tall, handsome man who knew how to enter a room and get noticed without people noticing he had meant to. Never laughing too loud, impeccable speech, a gentleman. Men admiring him, women melting next to him, my father warmly attentive to the confidences made to him. Guests with an emotional issue at hand lining up during parties to obtain his wise word of advice.
But frequently at night, he would transform himself into a shocking monster, terrifying us all. How we dreaded the moment he would fall asleep...
It usually started with loud screams. Someone beaten to death would not shout any less. Vocalizations perhaps like those of a man screaming for the last time of his life when falling down a precipice, then the shrieks of an animal being butchered. Piercing cries ripping the night. Full blast, my father's lungs and vocal chords at their maximum.
He would then get up and start pushing furniture around, carrying his bed across the room. On his knees, with all his strength, moving whatever was in his way, the screams unstoppable.
Impossible to wake him, his own shouting covering my mother’s voice as she would try to calm him down. If she touched him, he would violently hit back, possessed, uncontrollable, in the midst of an aggressive trance that seemed to know no limits.
These nights were profoundly frightful. My sisters and I, each of us in our own bedroom, too scared to help, rescue my mother, afraid my father would break down our door and murder us, uselessly covering our ears with our hands, praying for that hell to stop. Reviewing in our mind escape routes in case he would get too close to us.
Even after he would grow quieter, sleepless nights, not daring close an eye. A profound sense of danger keeping us alert, watching for the next episode of nocturnal madness.
The next morning, he would not remember a thing. He would go through his methodical ritual of selecting his clothes, getting ready for work, pressing his fresh orange juice, complaining about a marmalade jar improperly closed, unaware, it appears, of the fit he had had the night before.
I do not think he suffered from somnambulism as such. The actions he perpetrated were too distant from his usual self. I see it today more like the rise of a hidden dark personality. Our very own private case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. The duality of good and evil having reached a compromise, one side for the day, the other for the night, alternating their extremes according to the calendar of sunlight and darkness, the behavioral split, the dichotomy remaining up to now a family secret. Both my parents never discussing these horrendous scenes. Silence consecrating my mother - now entirely justified to proceed with her own vodka tasting experience - as an eternal victim, in case we had not guessed.
The crises were not nightmares either, because he didn’t wake up, an intense feeling of fear or danger pulling him out of a bad dream. He would just keep on screaming, pushing, hitting, until the energy ran out, resuming eventually his initial horizontal position on the bed as if nothing had happened.
Even today, dear ones, I do not understand what people meant when telling us how lucky we were as children to have an eminent psychologist as a father. We heard that inanity so often. And never knew, not even once, how to reply. Unable to describe our nights to anyone. An insane territory belonging to the unspoken/unspeakable part of our family history.
You can never say the nice-looking successful shrink is highly tormented and acts crazy. And if you do, they’ll lock you up, believe me. Oh please, believe me. And you gradually start, as a proxy, to accept treatment on behalf of others, begging for the number of pills to increase just to keep up with your world getting sicker all the time.
Laolao
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