Meet the Hypnotist

I know what you're thinking: the dangling pocket-watch, smoke and mirrors, and infinitely embarassing moments beyond your memory and control, clucking like a chicken or running around in boxer shorts.

Three years ago, my cousin Paul informed me that he gave up his ten-year career in biotech and research to become a hypnotist. Here was a man who studied marine biology, spent summers scuba diving and pulling sea urchins off undersea rocks in Belize. While biotech did not thrill him, it was a safe, stable occupation that allowed him to jam with the bands and to meditate in his leisure. Naturally curious, I asked the inevitable question.

Why?

Apparently, there is another kind of hypnosis, a guided meditation through your past that allows you to understand experiences and events with new perspective, the kind of perspective that allows healing, positive change, and ultimately transformation.

Paul believed in the intrinsic power of human consciousness to renew the spirit and to alleviate the body. So strong was his conviction that he gave up everything for this new calling: Moodstreams Hypnosis. (Asian parents would think of it as reckless.)

I was slightly skeptical, but intrigued. I had been suffering from panic attacks since early adulthood. Any innocuous trigger like missing a bus or losing keys would cause me to react catastrophically. My heart would pound incessantly and I was instantly paralyzed by fear. Panic attacks halted my career, obstructed me from making decisions, and ruined relationships because I became an "emotional basket-case."

I had tried counseling, meditation, and a plethora of self-help books, but nothing worked.

Out of desperation, I asked my cousin for a hypnosis session.

Most surprising was the amount of control I had. As we explored my past together, I was always aware and free to proceed or stop at any point in the process. I felt my arms floating as if they were weightless. We visualized the panic, a nebulous darkness that pressed down upon my chest, heavier than a boulder. He asked me to remember the first time I experienced that sensation.

I was three and outdoors at a barbeque or garden party with family friends. I had just shown everyone the aquamarine flowers on my underpants and didn't understand why they laughed. Then the sky darkened, thunder rumbled, and everyone disappeared. Lightning flashed and I grabbed the handle of the door, but it wouldn't open. I kicked it and banged it and screamed, but nothing happened.

I thought I was going to die. I thought the world was coming to an end. Then I panicked.

"Now," said my cousin in his soft, velvety voice, "tell that little girl what you know now."

And I told that little girl, three-year-old version of myself, everything was going to be okay. I asked her to breathe. I comforted her and indicated the door was not locked, merely stuck and she only had to keep trying. I told her she had a core of strength, like iron, which could survive all odds. She could withstand anything, as long as she had herself.

Then I opened my eyes. I discovered that our most traumatic truths lie buried within us, weighing us down by the sheer hurt and pain over the years. I felt strangely lightened and liberated.

Call me a believer, but it's been over a year and I haven't had an attack yet.