-barry-
Member
On Monday I underwent a past-life regression with a hypnotherapist. It was eye-opening in more ways than one.
By way of background, I have been suffering from various ailments over recent years. I have a rare and incurable condition affecting my respiratory tract which requires regular surgery, otherwise I would slowly choke to death. For some months I have also had post-viral fatigue — a debilitating state of weakness, severe aches and pains, and a constant ‘flat battery’. I have also been getting headaches and my eyesight has been going blurry. Oh, I also have a weird blotchiness on my skin, like reddish leopard spots. (I sound like a right old mess!)
Psychologically, I am dealing with a certain conflict around my work. I also have a lifelong problem with excessive shyness. This has been debilitating at times, but these days I am learning to handle it well enough. I do, however, often find normal conversation stressful and will generally try to avoid it.
My intention with the regression therapy was to see if we could get to the bottom of any of these issues.
The regression
After an hour-long introductory chat and exploration of my issues and symptoms, we began with the therapist, Hazel, taking me directly to the source of my throat problem.
I immediately found myself writhing with discomfort. I seemed to be in a toxic environment. I had no visual imagery as yet, but when asked where I was, I got the impression that I was in a factory — more precisely, one of the classic ‘dark, Satanic mills’ of the Industrial Revolution (from a poem by William Blake). Possibly in Yorkshire (Northern England).
It was a dark, noisy, bad-smelling place, and I knew that I was slowly being poisoned by it. The word ʻmercuryʼ occurred to me.
I was wearing something like a top hat, an open jacket, waistcoat and checkered trousers, and I carried a pocket watch. I appeared to be a factory floor supervisor, keeping an eye on the workers. I hated my job. For some reason, though, I had no way out. I was stuck in something I loathed.
When asked for the name of the place, the first word that came to me was ʻGrimsbyʼ, and then I said with a smile, ʻbut thatʼs just because itʼs grimʼ. The next place name I got was ʻShelbyʼ or possibly ‘Selby’. Both Grimsby and Selby are in Yorkshire.
Asked how I died, I started choking and writhing in agony. I was dying on a stretcher on the floor of a very dingy little room. I think I was 24 years old.
We went back to an earlier time. I had been a child on a farm when I first saw this vast building springing up nearby: the new mill (i.e., factory). I was awestruck. I thought, ʻThis is the way of the futureʼ. I was so impressed by its grandeur, and by what we would now call the cutting edge technology, that I wanted to be part of it. I thought it would be so marvelous to join the Industrial Revolution.
I recall now that I (Barry) was struck by the contrast between the smells of the countryside and farmyard I knew as a child and the disgusting smells of the factory in my adulthood.
We moved to the next significant event, which looked like my wedding. I was standing outside a church on a sunny day; petals were being thrown over my bride and me. I could see myself through others’ eyes: I was very cheerful, in top hat and tails. I had soft whiskers. I think I was 22 years old.
I could not get a clear image of my new wife — mostly just the shape of a figure in a wedding dress. I did, however, sense that it could have been a certain cousin in my present life (we were close as children).
I appeared to be under the thumb of my wifeʼs father. His name, apparently, was Arbuthnot. His first name may have been Reginald, but everyone referred to him as ʻOld Arbuthnotʼ. He was a round, unpleasant, domineering fellow, a loathsome Dickensian character. Perhaps he hadnʼt wanted his daughter to marry me, but she had become pregnant so marriage was unavoidable. I had the impression of him telling me, ʻI own you nowʼ. I was obligated. So I had to work in his factory.
I was the shop floor supervisor. My job was to keep an eye on the workersʼ productivity, and I was under constant pressure from the owner to make sure the workers did more than a fair dayʼs work for their meagre pay. He wanted me to ensure we squeezed every last drop out of them. He treated them like machines.
I was also feeling increasingly weak, sick. I knew that I could not physically survive in this environment. My body was poisoned. I could taste metal inside me.
I found myself in a horribly awkward position. I did not share the owner’s view of the workers; I felt sorry for them, sympathetic, compassionate. In fact, in some ways I was secretly protecting them from Arbuthnotʼs worst demands, though they were not aware of it. I hated my role. But what could I do? I felt powerless.
I also suspected that the workers all despised me for being on the bossʼs side. And I could well understand why. So I kept away from the workers themselves. I watched them but did not interact with them as far as possible.
My feelings were also complicated by the fact that although Arbuthnotʼs actions and attitudes were despicable, I could nevertheless see him as a human being with ordinary human flaws. I understood him much better than he understood himself. But again, what could I do?
I seemed to end up playing a mediating role, serving the factory owner honourably but without letting him cause too much damage to others.
Then, one day, old Arbuthnot was upset about more local factories springing up, providing too much competition. He required even more out of his workforce, and it was my job to see to it. I knew it would be impossible, and it also felt absolutely wrong. I was in too much conflict, more stress than I could handle. I could see no way out.
I resigned myself to suicide, took hold of a flask of mercury, and drank from it.
A short while later I was dying on that stretcher, wheezing to death, my body clenched in agony. Breathing was too much effort and I let go.
[continues in part 2...]
By way of background, I have been suffering from various ailments over recent years. I have a rare and incurable condition affecting my respiratory tract which requires regular surgery, otherwise I would slowly choke to death. For some months I have also had post-viral fatigue — a debilitating state of weakness, severe aches and pains, and a constant ‘flat battery’. I have also been getting headaches and my eyesight has been going blurry. Oh, I also have a weird blotchiness on my skin, like reddish leopard spots. (I sound like a right old mess!)
Psychologically, I am dealing with a certain conflict around my work. I also have a lifelong problem with excessive shyness. This has been debilitating at times, but these days I am learning to handle it well enough. I do, however, often find normal conversation stressful and will generally try to avoid it.
My intention with the regression therapy was to see if we could get to the bottom of any of these issues.
The regression
After an hour-long introductory chat and exploration of my issues and symptoms, we began with the therapist, Hazel, taking me directly to the source of my throat problem.
I immediately found myself writhing with discomfort. I seemed to be in a toxic environment. I had no visual imagery as yet, but when asked where I was, I got the impression that I was in a factory — more precisely, one of the classic ‘dark, Satanic mills’ of the Industrial Revolution (from a poem by William Blake). Possibly in Yorkshire (Northern England).
It was a dark, noisy, bad-smelling place, and I knew that I was slowly being poisoned by it. The word ʻmercuryʼ occurred to me.
I was wearing something like a top hat, an open jacket, waistcoat and checkered trousers, and I carried a pocket watch. I appeared to be a factory floor supervisor, keeping an eye on the workers. I hated my job. For some reason, though, I had no way out. I was stuck in something I loathed.
When asked for the name of the place, the first word that came to me was ʻGrimsbyʼ, and then I said with a smile, ʻbut thatʼs just because itʼs grimʼ. The next place name I got was ʻShelbyʼ or possibly ‘Selby’. Both Grimsby and Selby are in Yorkshire.
Asked how I died, I started choking and writhing in agony. I was dying on a stretcher on the floor of a very dingy little room. I think I was 24 years old.
We went back to an earlier time. I had been a child on a farm when I first saw this vast building springing up nearby: the new mill (i.e., factory). I was awestruck. I thought, ʻThis is the way of the futureʼ. I was so impressed by its grandeur, and by what we would now call the cutting edge technology, that I wanted to be part of it. I thought it would be so marvelous to join the Industrial Revolution.
I recall now that I (Barry) was struck by the contrast between the smells of the countryside and farmyard I knew as a child and the disgusting smells of the factory in my adulthood.
We moved to the next significant event, which looked like my wedding. I was standing outside a church on a sunny day; petals were being thrown over my bride and me. I could see myself through others’ eyes: I was very cheerful, in top hat and tails. I had soft whiskers. I think I was 22 years old.
I could not get a clear image of my new wife — mostly just the shape of a figure in a wedding dress. I did, however, sense that it could have been a certain cousin in my present life (we were close as children).
I appeared to be under the thumb of my wifeʼs father. His name, apparently, was Arbuthnot. His first name may have been Reginald, but everyone referred to him as ʻOld Arbuthnotʼ. He was a round, unpleasant, domineering fellow, a loathsome Dickensian character. Perhaps he hadnʼt wanted his daughter to marry me, but she had become pregnant so marriage was unavoidable. I had the impression of him telling me, ʻI own you nowʼ. I was obligated. So I had to work in his factory.
I was the shop floor supervisor. My job was to keep an eye on the workersʼ productivity, and I was under constant pressure from the owner to make sure the workers did more than a fair dayʼs work for their meagre pay. He wanted me to ensure we squeezed every last drop out of them. He treated them like machines.
I was also feeling increasingly weak, sick. I knew that I could not physically survive in this environment. My body was poisoned. I could taste metal inside me.
I found myself in a horribly awkward position. I did not share the owner’s view of the workers; I felt sorry for them, sympathetic, compassionate. In fact, in some ways I was secretly protecting them from Arbuthnotʼs worst demands, though they were not aware of it. I hated my role. But what could I do? I felt powerless.
I also suspected that the workers all despised me for being on the bossʼs side. And I could well understand why. So I kept away from the workers themselves. I watched them but did not interact with them as far as possible.
My feelings were also complicated by the fact that although Arbuthnotʼs actions and attitudes were despicable, I could nevertheless see him as a human being with ordinary human flaws. I understood him much better than he understood himself. But again, what could I do?
I seemed to end up playing a mediating role, serving the factory owner honourably but without letting him cause too much damage to others.
Then, one day, old Arbuthnot was upset about more local factories springing up, providing too much competition. He required even more out of his workforce, and it was my job to see to it. I knew it would be impossible, and it also felt absolutely wrong. I was in too much conflict, more stress than I could handle. I could see no way out.
I resigned myself to suicide, took hold of a flask of mercury, and drank from it.
A short while later I was dying on that stretcher, wheezing to death, my body clenched in agony. Breathing was too much effort and I let go.
[continues in part 2...]
