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Abducted by Aliens. Page 29 of 50.

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it felt like that night outside, and a subsequent experience. We must have stood there a good minute or two just viewing each other before I felt my body just go weak. The next thing I recall is being back in bed."

Some might instantly jump to the opinion Paula had been abducted, snatched by aliens and taken away to their spaceship. I don't know, I was not there and most certainly didn't witness any of those said events; but Paula had mentioned to me in her emotional letter she was undergoing psychotherapy.

I broached the subject delicately, as I have spent time analysing the subject of dreams paralysis. This is a condition where a person truly believes events have happened to them.

The dreams become so overwhelmingly real they usually believe a dream state to be genuine. Sometimes it can take a lot of convincing to prove otherwise. To actually show a patient it is really only dreams can often include hidden cameras, a good VCR and a very brave explanation.

Yet besides dreams syndrome, patients can also suffer mental breakdown with what might be termed: Visual contributory factors. That basically equates to the fact a subject may be coherent, yet still believe what they see to be true. A touch like alcoholics or drug addicts hallucinating; not that I am for one minute suggesting Paula in that vein.

However, it is necessary to explore further any mental infliction Paula might have suffered. Occasionally even the most insignificant things can trigger a precipitous collapse into mental disorder.

They don't need to be life or death situations, but a move, loss of job or being rejected. I asked Paula what her psychiatrist had said? Paula retorted sharply as she snatched her cup and headed with it for the sink, that she never wanted to see a bloody psychiatrist in the first place.

"It was Mike's idea! I only went along to keep him happy." I watched her tug a cigarette nervously, and allowed her exhibition of temper to cool slightly. When she was calmer, I asked her, diplomatically what he said?

"He's a she," replied Paula, rejoining me at the table. "She listens a lot, takes even more notes, then patronises me. She asks me what I believe is happening to me?, and then suggests something entirely different when I explain."

I found Paula's display honest, frustrated even. At no time was she demonstrative or showy. She seemed to me like a woman desperately looking for the truth, regardless of what it might be.

I asked if she felt her psychiatrist was attempting to fob her off with excuses or convenient suggestions? Paula said she couldn't have put it better herself. "A bottle of pills and come back next month," is how Paula described it. She asked me what I thought was happening to her?, and looked directly to my eyes for elements of truth.

I had to admit, I didn't really have answers, just a whole load of contributory factors that didn't appear to amount to much. I did tell Paula she was not the only one experiencing such weird and strange events. She asked me for the detail of other peoples' experiences, but reluctantly I had to decline.

I explained to her there was absolutely no point in me investigating such decisive cases if I inadvertently placed false information in peoples' minds, as a lot of investigators have done in that past. I told her there had to be a precise and clinical observation of these events. Paula seemed very much like John, more intent on someone assuring her of her own sanity.

She said her marriage was now at breaking point, and did not know what the hell to do next. She said her psychiatrist suggested she try and forget about it. Paula scoffed at the thought and offered me more tea. I was only too happy to accept; it's the one real passion in my life, my tea.

I asked Paula if she could recount her dreams. Maybe walk me through them. She turned to face me, stood with her arms defensively folded and closed her eyes as the kettle hissed away behind her.

"I'm walking along a long black corridor. There's no lights, except a lit door­way at the far end. We approach it without hesitation and I duck slightly to pass through. Inside is a huge circular room, empty except for a large round table in the middle. I'm led forwards and I'm invited to climb up on top, which for some reason I do. I feel powerless, unable to stop the events surrounding me, almost as though drunk; tipsy you might say. On top of the table I'm asked to lay on my back, my arms and legs splayed, then some kind of roof

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