Dream: Psychoanalytic office

I am in a psychoanalyst's office with a woman named Krusteva. She seemed friendly and fit my expectations of what a specialist in mental health should look like. During our first session, a man kept persistently calling my phone, which I hadn't turned off. I sensed that he wanted to obtrusively remind me about his upcoming lectures that he expected me to attend. Apparently, I was supposed to be a regular attendee of all kinds of lectures—on ornithology, the history of civilizations, creative writing, and probability theory. The phone wouldn't stop ringing—this guy was half-crazy and half-lecturer. I refused to talk to him, even though it turned out he was a colleague of Krusteva's. I knew he would ramble about all sorts of irrelevant things just to convince me how much I would miss.

I sat on a chair first to the side, then directly opposite Krusteva. I stared down—seeing the parquet floor and my dirty socks. I kept pushing them back and to the side of the chair to hide them, but they kept popping out right in front of me, and I couldn't do anything about it. Whatever we talked about, I could only think about those darn socks because they were so dirty that Krusteva probably only looked at them, just like me.

Just as I decided she was talking merely to dazzle me and get me hooked on coming to her for analysis, she asked me two stunning questions.

I forgot almost all the questions; the answers were even more scarce, most just following the arrows. But before I woke up, I managed to summarize the answers and was stunned by my psychological profile: Alive – bi-yoked – blonde hair – likes linden. I was so angry and embarrassed that these were the only things I remembered. Still, a direction emerged, there was a path, despite my dirty socks.