Second Sight (5 page)

Then, I told Jim, in 1967, my junior year of high school, I discovered drugs. Although I attended University High, affectionately known as “Uni,” in nearby West Los Angeles, most of my friends were seniors at Palisades High in the Pacific Palisades, a more prestigious part of Los Angeles some ten miles away. After school my “Pali” friends would pick me up and we'd go get stoned. I found that most drugs, with the exception of hallucinogens, dulled my psychic abilities, giving me the illusion that I fit in with my friends. My yearning to feel a sense of belonging would temporarily be satisfied. But no matter how many friends I thought I had, a part of me knew I was living a lie. Then came the night of the accident.

Was the tunnel I encountered as I plunged downward over the cliff related to my premonitions? Neither Jim nor I was sure, but he taught me to trust the authenticity of my experiences. Most important, he helped me see how irrational it was to believe I was causing the events I predicted. He conveyed how children with these gifts who were not educated about them were prone to making preposterous assumptions about themselves. Jim showed me that the real issue was not my abilities, but my misunderstanding of them.

Jim's only concern about helping me explore this aspect of myself was that I'd get so absorbed in it I'd let go of the rest of my life. He had watched people become obsessed with extrasensory experiences and lose track of reality. Even so, he felt I had enough strength to straddle both worlds.

When I first opened up to Jim about my psychic abilities, he had to accept whatever I told him on faith. For all he knew I might be fabricating grandiose stories to manipulate him. There was no proof because, out of fear, I'd suppressed my gifts, and they didn't come back right away. But Jim trusted me, in part because he believed that everybody had such sensitivities but discounted or rejected them. They just got crushed by parents, teachers, or therapists along the way. But Jim didn't think these abilities ever really disappeared—they kept trying to reemerge, and that scared people. He said it took immense energy to keep anything so powerful sealed up within, resulting in depletion and depression, but added that he'd get little support for these beliefs from his peers.

Though everything Jim told me made sense, I'd lived with isolation for many years, and still resisted his authority. It was a long time before I could really let him in. Over a year after the car wreck, I was in one of Jim's group-therapy sessions. Six of us met in his Beverly Hills office each Tuesday afternoon. I was the youngest and by far the most angry, combative, and disagreeable. It wasn't that I really wanted to pick fights; I just wanted to keep others at a distance. Everyone else in the group had been in therapy long enough to understand that I would either work through my anger and settle down, or leave. I had little doubt that most of them were hoping for the latter.

Toward the end of one of our meetings, John, a businessman in his late fifties, and our newest member, started talking about his depression. Though I was listening to him, my attention began to drift: I must have been either daydreaming or in a light trance when suddenly I saw a car catch on fire with a woman and child trapped inside. I gasped, and everyone fell silent, their attention focused on me.

When, as Jim asked, I recounted the vision, John's depression turned to anguish. Through his tears, he revealed to us for the first time that his wife and young daughter had recently been killed in a tragic explosion when their car collided on the freeway with a gasoline truck.

Even though I logically knew I couldn't have been linked to his family's fate, at that moment I felt responsible for John's sorrow. Every childhood fear I'd ever associated with my psychic abilities erupted; the self-accusatory voices in my head took over, full of blame.

After the session ended, Jim took me aside. It had been one thing for him to sit in a plush Beverly Hills office and listen to my far-out stories week after week, but it was something else to witness a living demonstration. I remembered when I was a child, my mother, in her desire for me to have a normal, happy life, had warned, “Don't tell anyone about your predictions. They'll think you're strange.” I'd believed her. Now I was really worried that Jim wouldn't want to see me anymore, that he'd decided I was too much to handle.

It turned out that my apprehensions were unwarranted. Reassuring me, Jim said I wasn't crazy; my suffering and confusion had been caused by the suppression of my “gifts.” Rather than being gotten rid of, they needed to be developed with proper guidance. He suggested I meet Dr. Thelma Moss, a psychologist and psychic researcher at the UCLA Neuropsychiatric Institute who specialized in the study of paranormal phenomena. I was astonished that such a person actually existed. In the past, she'd referred numerous people to Jim who were having difficulty coping with their psychic experiences. Jim was certain that if anyone could appreciate my experiences and support me in learning more about them, it would be Dr. Moss. For the first time, I felt a glimmer of hope.

Chapter Two

V
ALIDATING THE
V
OICE

Come to the edge. / We might fall.

Come to the edge. / It's too high!

Come to the edge. / And they came

and he pushed / and they flew…

—C
HRISTOPHER
L
OGUE

I stood in front of my closet in turmoil. I had no idea what would be appropriate to wear to the meeting. It didn't occur to me that I could just be myself, wear whatever I liked. Instead, I saw my mother's eyes checking me out from head to foot. “It's such a shame,” I could hear her saying. “You're so beautiful and you don't show it off.” I always battled with my mother over clothes. She was an impeccable dresser in her sleek silk Chanel suits and luxurious Armani coats. She always wanted me to wear dresses. But I liked jeans, especially one particular pair with a big hole in the left knee. I used to put them on day after day, and it drove her crazy. Some nights I even slept in them, as an act of rebellion.

I stared blankly at my wardrobe. I wanted to be comfortable but more important, I wanted to fit in. So a few hours later, wearing a red-and-white-plaid sleeveless dress that I'd bought with my mother at Saks, beige nylon stockings, and black Capezio pumps, I walked past a row of purple jacaranda trees into the B-floor lobby of the Neuropsychiatric Institute. Having tied my shoulder-length brown hair into a ponytail to make it seem less wild, I looked like I'd just stepped out of
Mademoiselle
magazine and couldn't have felt more awkward. Since at that time my stereotype of a psychic was a carnival Gypsy in a colorful dress reading a crystal ball, or a man dressed in white wearing a turban, I was well disguised.

When Jim first suggested I see Dr. Moss, I lay awake for hours that night, listening to the unusual downpour of summer rain against the bedroom windows. I couldn't stop thinking. Not only was Jim taking me seriously, there was actually an expert at a reputable university who studied psychic occurrences. I wondered how it would feel to get some real help. Even to contemplate such a possibility was to turn on a very bright light in a room that had been dark my entire life, a light that was now chasing away my worst fears. At last I saw the possibility of breathing easily, of finally being myself.

The following day I'd called Jim and agreed to meet with Dr. Moss, although a week passed before I actually saw her. In the interim, I rode a roller coaster of emotions. Jim sent me a copy of an article from the
Los Angeles Times
that presented Dr. Moss as a forerunner in her field, a maverick scientist willing to investigate areas that more traditional psychologists shunned. But after reading the article, I got a sinking feeling in my stomach. Why would such a respected researcher be interested in meeting with me? I became paralyzed with self-doubt. Maybe I should just forget the whole thing. But I couldn't. I was too intrigued, too curious, too hungry for guidance. Still, I felt split: excited by the prospect that she might understand me, and also desperately afraid of being let down.

I'd awakened on the day of our meeting with a sense of optimism that was new for me, but by the time I reached UCLA, my confidence once again was shaken. It was ten in the morning and already in the nineties. With the previous night's rains, the city had turned into a gigantic steam bath. The building that housed Dr. Moss's office, the Neuropsychiatric Institute (NPI), was a huge, coldly impersonal eight-story medical center surrounded by the college campus. As I wandered through the long, sterile halls feeling alone and frightened, I doubted I'd ever find the answers I needed.

Dr. Moss, who met me at the door, was a commanding presence. Looking to be in her midforties, about five foot three, with short dark hair and deep brown eyes, she conveyed a strong will and passionate belief, a capacity for being totally present in the moment, and a sense of focused attention and dedication. Dressed like a cover girl, I felt like a naive kid next to this professional in her white lab coat, but she welcomed me into her office with an inviting smile. My heart was racing and I was very much on edge as she asked me to sit and then did her best to put me at ease. She obviously recognized how self-conscious and tense I was, so we chatted for a few minutes until I began to calm down.

“Thanks for coming,” she said. “I've spoken with Jim on the phone and I'd like to test your psychic abilities with a technique known as psychometry. Do you know what that is?”

“No,” I answered.

“It's the capacity to hold a physical object and receive specific information about people, places, and events to which it's related,” she said, handing me a set of keys. “Hold on to these and relax,” she continued in a quiet, comforting voice. “Just stay open to any impressions that might enter your mind.”

I'd never done anything like this before, but I followed her directions.

“Close your eyes and concentrate on the keys,” she said. “Describe whatever comes to you, no matter how unusual it might seem. I'll be taking notes but try to think of me only as an impartial observer. I won't react or give you any feedback until the end.”

As she spoke, the stillness around Dr. Moss became more profound. My body, following her lead, relaxed, and my anxiety began to fade.

I hesitated at first, and then I heard myself say, “These are house keys. Your house keys.” Her facial expression was impossible to read. My attention wavered and I found it difficult to keep my mind on the keys. Then, gradually, a distinct image came to me. I saw a colonial-style house in a hilly neighborhood, perhaps a canyon. I was about to relate this to her when my critical mind quickly censored the image, telling me that I was just picturing a house I'd noticed somewhere in the past—there were many of this type scattered throughout L.A. What I observed could easily have been no more than a random memory.

“I'm not getting much of anything,” I told Dr. Moss, convinced it was safer to say nothing rather than to risk making a mistake.

“That's okay. Just say the first thing that comes into your awareness. Don't worry about being right.”

“I'm not sure,” I replied hesitantly, deciding to risk it. “I just see a house with pillars in front of it. Faded white or maybe beige.” While I didn't know if I was imagining the house or if it was real, my uncertainty was chipping away at my enthusiasm.

“Stay with it,” she said, in the same neutral tone. “Pretend I'm not even here.”

I desperately wanted a sign that I was on the right track, at least a little support or validation, yet none was forthcoming. I closed my eyes, about to give up, but what then came to mind was a memory I hadn't thought about for years. As a teenager, whenever life became difficult, I climbed to the top of the largest pine tree on our block. From the highest branches, I had a panoramic view of Westwood. Safely hidden from sight, I'd observe the city all the way from the high-rise Wilshire Boulevard condos in the east to the tall Bruin movie theater rower at the center of the village. Thus, when I wanted to be alone, to get away from everything, I often retreated to this protected place in my daydreams.

As I remembered this special spot, my tension seemed to disappear and my body softened. Then, slowly, the images began to shift, one flowing effortlessly into the next. Within moments I was standing once more in front of what I was sure was Dr. Moss's home. I knew I was awake, yet unlike a daydream, the scene was startlingly realistic. The strangest part was that I was acutely aware of being at both her home and her office at the same time, equally present in each. It was as though two separate realities were being superimposed one upon the other, a notion that intellectually seemed impossible yet at some deep level felt almost second nature.

As I moved closer to the entryway, I was astounded by the detail I was able to pick up. “I see a front door with a small window in it.” I focused on the façade of the house, and more images appeared, as if I were watching a slow-motion movie. With my eyes shut, the darkness provided a backdrop upon which each image was projected. But it was a very different experience from ordinary sight. A picture would appear upon the backdrop, frozen for a second or two as I viewed it. Then another would follow. I examined each of them closely, noticing subtle variations that in real life I would have missed. I was awe-struck by how rich these images were; they seemed to have a life of their own, like images in a brightly painted landscape or portrait.

Soon my senses began to get overloaded: What I was seeing became almost too much to absorb. Abruptly, my logical mind took over and I started to analyze the images self-consciously rather than letting them flow, and the more I analyzed them, the fewer new impressions I got. Finally, they all faded and I fell silent, opening my eyes and glancing around the room. Dr. Moss asked me what had happened.

“The house disappeared,” I conceded in frustration. I wanted to stop, to admit I wasn't capable of doing what she asked.

“Don't worry,” she said, gently urging me to go on. “Take a moment to relax. Breathe deeply. Quiet your thoughts and then visualize yourself back at the house again, as if you're really there. Stay aware of any smells, sights, sounds, or images you pick up. But don't force them. Notice what they are and then let them go.”