Validating the Voice

Excerpted from
Second Sight
By Judith Orloff, M.D.

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 mc 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 pony tail 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.