Telepathy: Nonlocal Languaging

Donald E. Watson, MD

Driven by a passionate curiosity about the nature of consciousness and life itself, I followed a path of formal training in medicine, neurophysiology, and psychiatry. I was not only indoctrinated with the knowledge—and ignorance—of these disciplines, I was enculturated in their dogmas, taboos, customs, rituals, language, and superstitions. Beyond this, in my two academic careers, I contributed to indoctrinating and enculturating medical students, interns and residents in materialistic science.

My multi-disciplinary training was no accident. Since I was a child, I always wanted to know what was beyond the horizon. Not satisfied with the views of any of the disciplines I had experienced, I was compelled to find my own path. In particular, since telepathy is beyond the horizon of the materialistic world-view, I had to rely on my own explorations to discover its reality. I'm glad I did, because it proved to be life-saving for one of my patients.

During the first two or three years of my psychiatric practice, several patients insisted that I was reading their minds. Still faithful to the materialistic culture, I told them I couldn't read minds, that I was simply listening carefully to them. But as time passed, I learned they had been right.

My mind-change occurred after experiences with family, friends, and patients over a period of about twenty-five years. During that time, I took notice of certain types of "prehensions"—a term Alfred North Whitehead used to mean an "apprehension which may or may not be cognitive."

One of my earlier prehensions occurred in a dream. After awakening, I knew that I'd dreamed about James, but nothing in the dream suggested why. He and I had been friends growing up, but we had been out of touch for many years, and I rarely thought of him consciously. After the dream, prodded by curiosity, I tracked down his address and wrote to him. He phoned back and said my letter was postmarked the day he told his wife he wanted a divorce—a major life crisis for both of them. I remarked that my dream must have been telepathic, but we both dismissed that notion with a laugh.

Many years later, I would experience two other prehensions about James, but by those times, I had learned much. I had taken note of prehensions such as the first one with James, but I wasn't convinced they were telepathic. Instead, I explained them away as meaningless coincidences as I had been taught to do. Yet over the years, the "coincidence hypothesis" was losing validity through the sheer number of such incidents.

Even more cogently, I'd observed that I could identify prehensions by specific types of associated cognitive signals. They were alien, intrusive, and compelling.

For example, a life crisis of another out-of-touch friend signaled itself while I was awake. Hugo's wife, Mary, had suddenly died of a congenital heart condition several years before. Since Hugo and I had communicated only rarely since that time, I was perplexed one day. For several hours, an intrusive question kept prodding me: "Will Hugo get married again?" I was tempted to contact him, but as it turned out, I didn't need to. I received an invitation to his wedding the next day.

I still wasn't convinced that I was telepathically communicating with others until I unknowingly acted on a prehension during the initial session with a new patient. She was grieving because a degenerative neuromuscular disease was gradually paralyzing her legs. In discussing disabilities, I remarked that disabilities disrupt our lives only if we concentrate on them to the exclusion of our abilities. I cited the example of the absence of the sense of smell—anosmia—as one such disability. She smiled and told me that I knew just what to say. I was mystified until she explained that she had never had a sense of smell.

This incident captured my attention for three reasons. First, I had never before used anosmia as an example of a disability. Second, I hadn't previously thought of it as a disability. And third, it was a poor analogy; anosmia is trivial compared with paralysis. Still, for my patient, it was probably the best example I could have used, and I couldn't have known this without telepathic communication.

I experienced the second prehension concerning my friend, James, last year. After our conversation about my dream and his divorce, he and I had lost touch again, this time for twenty-two years. During that period, I'd developed confidence in recognizing the signals of my prehensions, and I was routinely characterizing them as telepathic. So when I experienced a dream in which James was prominent, I phoned him immediately. After we shared a few highlights of our lives, he told me he was starting chemotherapy the next day for a malignancy. I mentioned my earlier phone call, which he hadn't forgotten. This time, we talked seriously about telepathy, nonlocal communication, and life crises. He said we must be "soul mates."

Two weeks ago, James was on my mind while I was awake. I hadn't dreamed the night before because I had a sleepless night. This time, I didn't phone him, but I wouldn't have reached him if I had. A friend called me three days later and read James' obituary to me. I was saddened, but not surprised.

As for my practice, from which I'm now retired, I'm confident that I frequently relied on telepathic prehensions. As a rule, my patients progressed well in therapy, and it's likely that telepathy had been a strong contributor to our therapeutic relationships. These connections were usually subtle, but one was exceptionally compelling.

Joan (pseudonym) was a young woman with a borderline personality disorder. She was originally referred to me after she had overdosed on tranquilizers in a suicide gesture. Though she was extremely intelligent and exceptionally articulate, she was mute with respect to her emotions, especially anger. In the course of therapy, we established that her suicide gestures and periods of depression were nonverbal expressions of her anger and sense of helplessness.

Joan knew that, compared with barbiturates, tranquilizers are relatively non-lethal. A pattern developed in which she would overdose on a tranquilizer, then phone me and tell what she had done. I would tell her to take ipecac, which she kept in her medicine cabinet, and assure her that we would work on giving words to her feelings during our next session. That she invariably phoned me and didn't overdose with lethal drugs made it clear to both of us that she wanted to understand her feelings, not to die.

These episodes occurred on average about every six weeks early in her therapy, but as she learned to verbalize, their frequency decreased substantially. I was becoming comfortable with her progress.

Then, early one evening, I felt an alien, intrusive, compelling impulse to phone Joan. Though I identified this compulsion as a prehension, the idea of phoning her was bizarre because I never did so without a clear reason. Nevertheless, I dialed her home number. She didn't answer. When I hung up the phone, I felt relieved, wondering how I'd have explained the call to her if she had answered.

The relief was transient, though. Instead of disappearing, the compelling impulse strengthened. This time, I phoned the police, explained that I was her psychiatrist, and told them she had attempted suicide. I even told them to break into her apartment if she didn't answer the door. As soon as I hung up, I felt chagrined. If the dispatcher had asked how I knew Joan was in trouble, I couldn't have told her.

I waited anxiously for the consequences of my call to the police. After an hour or so, the phone rang. It was the emergency room physician, who said, "We got her just in time. Another few minutes and she'd have been dead. Barbiturates."

That last word chilled me. Joan had told me that she hidden a large number of nembutal capsules in what she called her "dead box." She explained that she kept this cache as her final way out of her miserable life. This time, I surmised, she was determined to die.

Joan confirmed this after she recovered from the effects of the overdose. She also told me that, after swallowing the nembutal she changed her mind. By then, however, she was rapidly losing consciousness and fell to the floor. She couldn't get to the phone.

It's clear to me now that she found another way to call me. But if I hadn't learned to pay attention to my telepathic prehensions, she couldn't have reached me.

I don't expect my experience with telepathy to convince anyone else of its reality. Nor would I expect my experience in seeing the planets and stars to convince a blind person of their existence. But for their value to many persons in my life, including my patients, I'm happy that I have been convinced.