Pillow Talk

      “You can’t get to sleep, can you?”

I stiffened. The hairs rose on the back of my neck. The voice was right beside me. Did it sound familiar? Was it my voice? Yes, but. Not quite. There was a sort of…ethereal quality. Was that the right expression? This was surreal.

      “Who are you?” My voice – my real voice – sounded querulous.

      “I’m you, of course. Well, part of you. A very important part. But I would say that, wouldn’t I?”

If I had been finding it hard to fall asleep before, now I was alert. Alpha rhythms were in the ascendancy.

      “So I’m talking  to myself?”

      “Mmm. Sort of. One part of you is talking to another part.”

As fear subsided puzzlement took its place.

      “Can you explain?”

      “I’ll try. The bit of you that is talking is your central essence. Often referred to as The Ego. The dull, boring bit. ‘I am therefore I am,’ as Descartes might have said had he been thinking of you.

      “And you? Er, I mean ‘me’. Do I? Your bit. What is it?”

      “The special part of you. Your highest functioning part. They don’t call me ‘super’ for nothing.” The voice paused, teasingly, challenging me to cotton on. Understanding was beginning to emerge.

      “So if my voice represents The Ego is your voice my Superego?”

      “Ah. I didn’t say your bit was stupid. Just boring. Well done.”

Strewth! I was being patronised by myself.

      “Think of me as your conscience, your guardian, your mentor. I keep your sense of self-worth intact, and help you to conform to rules and expectations. I make sure you don’t surrender to unchecked libidinous impulses.”

This was like being in a lecture about Freudian psychology. I had never been totally convinced by Siggy’s theories, while acknowledging that he was a remarkable, inventive original thinker.

      “Oh, for f..k’s sake, get on with it! You’re both boring the a..e off me.”

Good grief! Another voice. Again, recognisably mine, but with a rougher, gruffer, intolerant quality.

      “Well. Speak of the Devil. Here comes trouble,” said my Superego.

      “As for you, Mother Superior, you’re so up your own fundament you make me puke.”

I was beginning to embrace this highly improbable alternative reality. This newcomer must be my Id. The seat of all my passions, my darker drives, my self-serving impulsivity.

      “Look,” declared my personal underworld, “why don’t you stop talking to that wet blanket and b….r off to dreamland so we can start to have a bit of fun?”

      “True to form,” sighed my Superego. “Talk about typecasting. That reprobate part of you – of us – knows that in dreams all your repressed desires and forbidden fantasies break through and you can be the bad boy – the Evil Ego – that you would never permit yourself to be when conscious. But I won’t let that happen. Among the many protective weapons at my disposal is the Dream Censor.”

Although I recognised the term I was struggling to remember exactly what it was.

      “That Id-iot wants to encourage the release of your unhealthy destructive subconscious urges when you are asleep, and revel in the mischief thus unleashed. My Dream Censor converts those disturbing images into neutral referential symbols which facilitate some acceptable and necessary reduction of psychic tension while purging them of negative emotional investment.” The voice of my Superego paused. Did I imagine I heard a rather smug self-satisfied sigh?

      “Wow! That takes a bit of grasping. Any examples?”

      “OK. When you see towers or skyscrapers or factory chimneys in your dreams, they have been commuted by the DC from…”

      “Turgid todgers,” interrupted my Id, chuckling hoarsely. “Emphatically engorged erections. Phallic symbolism. Shameful graphic Bowdlerism if you ask me. Effete.”

      “I see,” I ventured hesitantly. “And why is that necessary?”

The Id beat the Superego to the punch. “So you don’t have to face the uncomfortable truth that you go through life wishing you could screw your – my- our, mother.” He cackled again. “Oedipus Schmoedipus, what does it matter as long as a boy loves his mom?”

That was a slap in the face. Did I want to…Then again, if I did I might not know, should my Superego be effectively performing his safeguarding function. This was becoming a nightmare. Well, no, actually. I was still frustratingly awake. That might come later. I took the opportunity to ask a question of the two experts. “A lot of my dreams find me wandering through tunnels and caverns, feeling lost and overwhelmed. Does that contain meaningful symbolism?”

They answered together: “classical. Sexual inadequacy. The enveloping, engulfing supersized vagina leaving you impotent and dysfunctional. Unable to rise to the challenge.”

I was feeling increasingly despondent and useless. I longed for sleep to overtake my consciousness. I started counting sheep.

      “Good grief, he’s getting desperate now.” It was the voice of my Superego. “Why don’t we cut him some slack, stand back, and let Morpheus clutch him in a soporific embrace?”

      “Don’t tell me you believe in gods and spiritual mumbo-jumbo,” growled my Id. “No wonder you can’t cope with the raw realities of human existence. However, I’m getting bored with this talking shop. I’ll go with your plan. We need to get him out of the Twilight Zone. Let him sink into the unconscious then you and I can have a good old battle over how he comports himself in Oneiropolis.”

I wasn’t sure how or why, but I knew I was slipping away into the world of sleep. The voices of my alter egos were becoming fainter and increasingly indistinct. Then they were gone.

*

Morning. A watery sun filtered through the blinds. I sat up in bed, feeling unusually refreshed. That was a good night’s sleep. No dreams, or, at least, none I could remember. If only every night could be as straightforward and uneventful as that one.