Academic literature on the topic 'Menstrual cycle – Psychological aspects – Case studies'

This case study explores the objective and psychologically perceived effects of the menstrual cycle and the use of a combined oral contraceptive pill on the singing performance of a western classical female singer. Objective measures of vocal parameters and hormonal concentrations were assessed during her natural menstrual cycle and during the use of an oral contraceptive pill. A diary was kept throughout the six months duration of the study and one lengthy semi-structured interview was also carried out with the singer, focussing on perceptions of her singing quality over the entire study. Aural analyses of the singing recordings were also undertaken by two independently qualified judges to see whether or not vocal changes were perceptible to listeners. The results suggest that: (i) hormonal variations during the natural menstrual cycle affected physiological and psychological aspects of the singer's performance; (ii) the pattern of vibration of the vocal folds seems to be more regular, and vocal control seems to be improved during oral contraceptive pill use; (iii) the singer reported better voice control during oral contraceptive pill use; (iv) listeners perceive intonation problems and wider vibrato during the natural menstrual cycle. This study suggests that further research on the effects of female sexual hormones on the singer's voice is necessary, and that female singers should be educated regarding these matters, in order to protect their voices and careers.

Trans men are people who, based on their genitals, were assigned the status of female at birth. However, their identity and their way of living gender do not correspond to the socially established norms. In this paper, we discuss the different perspectives in relation to transgender people and their desire for parenthood. This review, and the basis of this paper, is inspired by the case of a trans man who desired gestation with his own genetic material. He began the cycle of assisted reproduction when he was a legally recognized woman, but that attempt ended with a miscarriage. From that assisted reproduction cycle, four embryos remained frozen. After the failed experience of gestation, the person completed his transition. Now legally a man, he attempted to gestate using his reproductive organs. This literature review aimed to identify relevant studies describing the relationship between transgender person and biological parenthood. This study comprehensively addresses important aspects one should know when considering a transgender pregnancy. These factors include biological, psychological, social, and legal issues. After reviewing the state-of-the-art information on trans parenthood, the main conclusion is that ‘the desire to have a child is not a male or female desire but a human desire’.

There is not a single definition/explanation about market-orientation education. Two opposite definitions/explanations of pure market-oriented education (Cato, 2010) and social-market-oriented education (Amaratunga, 2009) are provided in the paper. Integrated multiple criteria analysis at the micro-, meso- and macro-levels are needed to increase efficiency of the market-oriented higher education reforms. Market-oriented higher education reforms management involves numerous aspects that should be considered in addition to making educational, pedagogical, didactical, economic, political and legal/regulatory decisions. These must include social, culture, ethical, psychological, environmental, technological, technical, organizational and managerial aspects. This article presents a Life Cycle Process Model of a Market-Oriented and Student Centered Higher Education (developed during BELL-CURVE (Built Environment Lifelong Learning Challenging University Responses to Vocational Education) project's activities) for such considerations and discusses certain composite parts of it. To demonstrate the application of this research, two Case Studies from Lithuania are submitted for consideration.

Research into styles in psychology (from the 1950s to the 2000s) has undergone a kind of life cycle − from styles being widely studied to those falling into oblivion. Further constructive study of this problem requires creation of new R&D (research and development) programs, generalization of the experience gained in various schools of thought. The statement of the problem of business communication styles (LMS) as a model for studying styles (in general) can contribute to the further study of the phenomenon of «style» and the disclosure of a number of aspects of communication that slip away in the case of «rigid» identification of its types. The paper aims to provide a historical and theoretical analysis of the results of studies of the evolution and functioning of styles (on the model of business communication styles). Method: analysis of literary sources. Based on a critical analysis of the experience of studying the problem of communication styles and business communication styles, the following hypotheses are put forward: 1. In the general social space (activity space) there are several autonomous business communication styles (LMS). 2. The styles identified and described by the researchers (their number, composition of components, structures) are derivatives of basic scientific concepts. 3. The study of the phenomenon of «style» based on the model of business communication styles allows us to emphasize several aspects in the evolution and functioning of style that were not distinguished when studying styles on other models. The conditions for further constructive studies of the phenomenon of «styles» are discussed. Use of the model of business communication styles is believed will contribute to the disclosure of new properties of styles, further understanding of their system properties as large, open, dynamic psychological systems

OBJECTIVES/SPECIFIC AIMS: Stigma has been recognized as a major impediment to accessing mental health care among Vietnamese and Asian Americans (Leong and Lau, 2001; Sadavoy et al., 2004; Wynaden et al., 2005; Fong and Tsuang, 2007). The underutilization of mental health care, and disparities in both access and outcomes have been attributed to a large extent to stigma and cultural characteristics of this population (Wynaden et al., 2005; Jang et al., 2009; Leung et al., 2010; Spencer et al., 2010; Jimenez et al., 2013; Augsberger et al., 2015). People with neurotic or behavioral disorders may be considered “bad” as many Vietnamese people believe it is a consequence of one’s improper behavior in a previous life, for which the person is now being punished (Nguyen, 2003). Mental disorders can also been seen as a sign of weakness, which contributes to ambivalence and avoidance of help-seeking (Fong and Tsuang, 2007). Equally important is the need to protect family reputation; having emotional problems often implies that the person has “bad blood” or is being punished for the sins of his/her ancestors (Herrick and Brown, 1998; Leong and Lau, 2001), which disgraces the entire family (Wynaden et al., 2005). In these cases, public stigma (as opposed to internal stigma) is the primary reason for delays in seeking help (Leong and Lau, 2001). Other research has also highlighted the influences of culture on how a disorder may be labeled in different settings, although the presentation of symptoms might be identical (see Angel and Thoits, 1987). In Vietnamese culture, mental disorders are often labeled điên (literally translated as “madness”). A điên person and his or her family are often severely disgraced; consequently the individuals and their family become reluctant to disclose and seek help for mental health problems for fear of rejection (Sadavoy et al., 2004). Despite the critical role of stigma in accessing mental health care, there has been little work in trying to understand how stigmatizing attitudes towards mental illness among Vietnamese Americans manifest themselves and the influences of acculturation on these attitudes. Some previous work indicated a significant level of mental illness stigma among Vietnamese Americans, and experiences of living in the United States might interact with the way stigma manifests among this population (Do et al., 2014). Stigma is a complex construct that warrants a deeper and more nuanced understanding (Castro et al., 2005). Much of the development of stigma-related concepts was based on the classic work by Goffman (1963); he defined stigma as a process by which an individual internalizes stigmatizing characteristics and develops fears and anxiety about being treated differently from others. Public stigma (defined by Corrigan, 2004) includes the general public’s negative beliefs about specific groups, in this case individuals and families with mental illness concerns, that contribute to discrimination. Public stigma toward mental illness acts not only as a major barrier to care, but can also exacerbate anxiety, depression, and adherence to treatment (Link et al., 1999; Sirey et al., 2001; Britt et al., 2008; Keyes et al., 2010). Link and Phelan (2001) conceptualized public stigma through four major components. The first component, labeling, occurs when people distinguish and label human differences that are socially relevant, for example, skin color. In the second component, stereotyping, cultural beliefs link the labeled persons to undesirable characteristics either in the mind or the body of such persons, for example people who are mentally ill are violent. The third component is separating “us” (the normal people) from “them” (the mentally ill) by the public. Finally, labeled persons experience status loss and discrimination, where they are devalued, rejected and excluded. Link and Phelan (2001) emphasized that stigmatization also depends on access to social, economic, and political power that allows these components to unfold. This study aims to answer the following research questions: (1) how does public stigma related to mental illness manifest among Vietnamese Americans? and (2) in what ways does acculturation influence stigma among this population? We investigate how the 4 components of stigma according to Link and Phelan (2001) operationalized and how they depend on the level of acculturation to the host society. Vietnamese Americans is the key ethnic minority group for this study for several reasons. Vietnamese immigration, which did not start in large numbers until the 1970s, has features that allow for a natural laboratory for comparisons of degree of acculturation. Previous research has shown significant intergenerational differences in the level of acculturation and mental health outcomes (e.g., Shapiro et al., 1999; Chung et al., 2000; Ying and Han, 2007). In this study, we used age group as a proxy indicator of acculturation, assuming that those who were born and raised in the United States (the 18–35 year olds) would be more Americanized than those who were born in Vietnam but spent a significant part of their younger years in the United States (the 36–55 year olds), and those who were born and grew up in Vietnam (the 56–75 year olds) would be most traditional Vietnamese. The language used in focus group discussions (FGDs) reflected some of the acculturation, where all FGDs with the youngest groups were done in English, and all FGDs with the oldest groups were done in Vietnamese. METHODS/STUDY POPULATION: Data were collected through a set of FGDs and key informant interviews (KIIs) with experts to explore the conceptualization and manifestation of mental illness public stigma among Vietnamese Americans in New Orleans. Six FGDs with a total of 51 participants were conducted. Participants were Vietnamese American men and women ages 18–75. Stratification was used to ensure representation in the following age/immigration pattern categories: (1) individuals age 56–75 who were born and grew up in Vietnam and immigrated to the United States after age 35; (2) individuals age 36–55 who were born in Vietnam but spent a significant part of their youth in the United States; and (3) individuals age 18–35 who were born and grew up in the United States. These groups likely represent different levels of acculturation, assuming that people who migrate at a younger age are more likely to assimilate to the host society than those who do at a later age. Separate FGDs were conducted with men and women. Eleven KIIS were conducted with 6 service providers and 5 community and religious leaders. In this analysis, we focused on mental illness public stigma from the FGD participants’ perspectives. FGDs were conducted in either English or Vietnamese, whichever participants felt more comfortable with, using semistructured interview guides. All interviews were audio recorded, transcribed and translated into English if conducted in Vietnamese. Data coding and analysis was done using NVivo version 11 (QSR International, 2015). The analysis process utilized a Consensual Qualitative Research (CQR) approach, a validated and well-established approach to collecting and analyzing qualitative data. CQR involves gathering textual data through semistructured interviews or focus groups, utilizing a data analysis process that fosters multiple perspectives, a consensus process to arrive at judgments about the meaning of data, an auditor to check the work of the research team, and the development of domains, core-ideas, and cross-analysis (Hill et al., 2005). The study was reviewed and approved by Tulane University’s Internal Review Board. RESULTS/ANTICIPATED RESULTS: Components of public stigma related to mental illness. The 4 components of public stigma manifest to different extents within the Vietnamese Americans in New Orleans. Labeling was among the strongest stigma components, while the evidence of the other components was mixed. Across groups of participants, Vietnamese Americans agreed that it was a common belief that people with mental disorders were “crazy,” “acting crazy,” or “madness.” “Not normal,” “sad,” and “depressed” were among other words used to describe the mentally ill. However, there were clear differences between younger and older Vietnamese on how they viewed these conditions. The youngest groups of participants tended to recognize the “craziness” and “madness” as a health condition that one would need to seek help for, whereas the oldest groups often stated that these conditions were short term and likely caused by family or economic problems, such as a divorce, or a bankruptcy. The middle-aged groups were somewhere in between. The evidence supporting the second component, stereotyping, was not strong among Vietnamese Americans. Most FGD participants agreed that although those with mental disorders may act differently, they were not distinguishable. In a few extreme cases, mentally ill individuals were described as petty thefts or being violent towards their family members. Similarly to the lack of strong evidence of stereotyping, there was also no evidence of the public separating the mentally ill (“them”) from “us”. It was nearly uniformly reported that they felt sympathetic to those with mental disorders and their family, and that they all recognized that they needed help, although the type of help was perceived differently across groups. The older participants often saw that emotional and financial support was needed to help individuals and families to pass through a temporary phase, whereas younger participants often reported that professional help was necessary. The last component, status loss and discrimination, had mixed evidence. While nearly no participants reported any explicit discriminatory behaviors observed and practiced towards individuals with mental disorders and their families, words like “discrimination” and “stigma” were used in all FGDs to describe direct social consequences of having a mental disorder. Social exclusion was common. Our older participants said: “They see less of you, when they see a flaw in you they don’t talk to you or care about you. That’s one thing the Vietnamese people are bad at, spreading false rumors and discrimination” (Older women FGD). One’s loss of status seemed certain if their or their loved one’s mental health status was disclosed. Shame, embarrassment, and being “frowned upon” were direct consequences of one’s mental health status disclosure and subsequently gossiped about. Anyone with mental disorders was certain to experience this, and virtually everyone in the community would reportedly do this to such a family. “You get frowned upon. In the Vietnamese culture, that’s [a family identified as one with mental health problems] the big no-no right there. When everybody frowns upon your family and your family name, that’s when it becomes a problem” (Young men FGD). This is tied directly to what our participants described as Vietnamese culture, where pride and family reputation were such a high priority that those with mental disorders needed to go to a great extent to protect—“We all know what saving face means” as reported by our young participants. Even among young participants, despite their awareness of mental illness and the need for professional help, the desire to avoid embarrassment and save face was so strong that one would think twice about seeking help. “No, you just don’t want to get embarrassed. I don’t want to go to the damn doctor and be like ‘Oh yeah, my brother got an issue. You can help him?’ Why would I do that? That’s embarrassing to myself…” (Young men FGD). Our middle-aged participants also reported: “If I go to that clinic [mental health or counseling clinic], I am hoping and praying that I won’t bump into somebody that I know from the community” (Middle-aged women FGD). Vietnamese people were also described as being very competitive among themselves, which led to the fact that if a family was known for having any problem, gossips would start and spread quickly wherever they go, and pretty soon, the family would be looked down by the entire community. “I think for Vietnamese people, they don’t help those that are in need. They know of your situation and laugh about it, see less of you, and distant themselves from you” (Older women FGD). Culture and mental illness stigma, much of the described stigma and discrimination expressed, and consequently the reluctance to seek help, was attributed to the lack of awareness of mental health and of mental health disorders. Many study participants across groups also emphasized a belief that Vietnamese Americans were often known for their perseverance and resilience, overcoming wars and natural disasters on their own. Mental disorders were reportedly seen as conditions that individuals and families needed to overcome on their own, rather than asking for help from outsiders. This aspect of Vietnamese culture is intertwined with the need to protect one’s family’s reputation, being passed on from one generation to the next, reinforcing the beliefs that help for mental disorders should come from within oneself and one’s family only. Consequently persons with mental health problems would be “Keeping it to themselves. Holding it in and believing in the power of their friends” (Middle-aged FGD) instead of seeking help. Another dimension of culture that was apparent from FGDs (as well as KIIs) was the mistrust in Western medicine. Not understanding how counseling or medicines work made one worry about approaching service providers or staying in treatment. The habit of Vietnamese people to only go see a doctor if they are sick with physical symptoms was also a hindrance to acknowledging mental illness and seeking care for it. Challenges, including the lack of vocabulary to express mental illness and symptoms, in the Vietnamese language, exaggerated the problem, even among those who had some understanding of mental disorders. It was said in the young men FGD that: “when you classify depression as an illness, no one wants to be sick,… if you call it an illness, no one wants to have that sort of illness, and it’s not an illness that you can physically see…” (Young men FGD). Another young man summarized so well the influence of culture on mental illness stigma: “Us Southeast Asian, like, from my parents specifically has Vietnam War refugees. I think the reason why they don’t talk about it is because it’s a barrier that they have to overcome themselves, right? As refugees, as people who have been through the war… [omitted]They don’t want to believe that they need help, and so the trauma that they carry when they give birth to us is carried on us as well. But due to the language barrier and also the, like, they say with the whole health care, in Vietnam I know that they don’t really believe in Western and Eurocentric medicine. So, from their understanding of how, like from their experience with colonization or French people, and how medicine works, they don’t believe in it” (Young men FGD). One characteristic of the Vietnamese culture that was also often mentioned by our FGD participants (as well as KIIs) was the lack of sharing and openness between generations, even within a family. Grandparents, parents, and children do not usually share and discuss each other’s problems. Parents and grandparents do not talk about problems because they need to appear strong and good in front of their children; children do not talk about problems because they are supposed to do well in all aspects, particularly in school. The competitiveness of Vietnamese and high expectations of younger generations again come into play here and create a vicious cycle. Young people are expected to do well in school, which put pressure on them and may result in mental health problems, yet, they cannot talk about it with their parents because they are not supposed to feel bad about school, and sharing is not encouraged. The Asian model minority myth and the expectations of parents that their children would do well in school and become doctors and lawyers were cited by many as a cause of mental health problems among young people. “Our parents are refugees, they had nothing and our parents want us to achieve this American Dream…. [omitted] It set expectations and images for us…. It was expected for all the Asians to be in the top 10, and for, like a little quick minute I thought I wasn’t going to make it, I was crying” (Yong men FGD). As a result, the mental health problems get worse. “If you’re feeling bad about something, you don’t feel like you can talk about it with anyone else, especially your family, because it is not something that is encouraged to be talked about anyway, so if you are feeling poorly and you don’t feel like you could talk to anybody, I think that just perpetuates the bad feelings” (Middle-aged women FGD). Acculturation and mental illness stigma Acculturation, the degree of assimilation to the host society, has changed some of the understanding of mental illness and stigmatizing attitudes. Differences across generations expressed in different FGDs indicated differences in perceptions towards mental illness that could be attributed to acculturation. For example, the young generation understood that mental illness was a health problem that was prevalent but less recognized in the Vietnamese community, whereas a prominent theme among the older participants was that mental illness was a temporary condition due to psychological stress, that it was a condition that only Caucasians had. Some of the components of public stigma related to mental illness seemed to vary between generations, for example the youngest participants were less likely to put a label on a person with mental health problems, or to stereotype them, compared to the oldest and middle-aged participants. This was attributed to their education, exposure to the media and information, and to them “being more Americanized.” However, there was no evidence that acculturation played an important role in changing the other components of public stigma, including stereotyping, separating, and status loss and discrimination. For example, the need to protect the family reputation was so important that our young participants shared: “If you damage their image, they will disown you before you damage that image” (Young men FGD). Young people, more likely to recognize mental health problems, were also more likely to share within the family and to seek help, but no more likely than their older counterparts to share outside of the family—“maybe you would go to counseling or go to therapy, but you wouldn’t tell people you’re doing that” (Young women FGD). The youngest participants in our study were facing a dilemma, in which they recognized mental health problems and the need for care, yet were still reluctant to seek care or talk about it publicly because of fears of damaging the family reputation and not living up to the parents’ expectations. Many young participants reported that it actually made it very difficult for them to navigate mental health issues between the 2 cultures, despite the awareness of the resources available. “I think it actually makes it harder. Only because you know to your parents and the culture, and your own people, it’s taboo, and it’s something that you don’t talk about. Just knowing that you have the resources to go seek it… You want advice from your family also, but you can’t connect the appointment to your family because you’re afraid to express that to your parents, you know? So I think that plays a big part, and knowing that you are up and coming, but you don’t want to do something to disappoint your family because they are so traditional” (Young men FGD). Some participants felt more comfortable talking about mental health problems, like depression, if it was their friend who experienced it and confided in them, but they would not necessarily felt open if it was their problem. Subtle cultural differences like this are likely overlooked by Western service providers. One older participant summarized it well “They [the young generation] are more Americanized. They are more open to other things [but] I think that mental health is still a barrier.” DISCUSSION/SIGNIFICANCE OF IMPACT: This study investigated how different components of public stigma related to mental illness manifest among Vietnamese Americans, a major ethnic group in the United States, and how acculturation may influence such stigma. The findings highlighted important components of public stigma, including labeling and status loss, but did not provide strong evidence of the other components within our study population. Strong cultural beliefs underlined the understanding of mental health and mental illness in general, and how people viewed people with mental illness. Several findings have been highlighted in previous studies with Asian immigrants elsewhere; for example, a study from the perspectives of health care providers in Canada found that the unfamiliarity with Western biomedicine and spiritual beliefs and practices of immigrant women interacted with social stigma in preventing immigrants from accessing care (O’Mahony and Donnelly, 2007). Fancher et al. (2010) reported similar findings regarding stigma, traditional beliefs about medicine, and culture among Vietnamese Americans. Acculturation played a role in changing stigmatizing attitudes as evidenced in intergenerational differences. However, being more Americanized did not equate to being more open, having less stigmatizing attitudes, or being more willing to seek care for mental health issues. Consistent with previous studies (Pedersen and Paves, 2014), we still found some level of stigma among young people aged 18–35, although some components were lessened with an increased level of acculturation. There was also a conflict among the younger generation, in which the need for mental health care was recognized but accessing care was no easier for them than for their parent and grandparent generations. The study’s findings are useful to adapt existing instruments to measure stigma to this population. The findings also have important program implications. One, they can be directly translated into basic supports for local primary and behavioral health care providers. Two, they can also be used to guide and inform the development and evaluation of an intervention and an additional study to validate the findings in other immigrant ethnic groups in the United States. Finally, based on results of the study, we can develop a conceptual framework that describes pathways through which social, cultural, and ecological factors can influence stigma and the ways in which stigma acts as a barrier to accessing mental health care among Vietnamese Americans. The guiding framework then can be validated and applied in future programs aimed to improve mental health care utilization among ethnic minorities.

It is well known that some women, during their premenstrual phase, express Hostility (Ho) and Depressive symptoms (De). Various studies indicate that Ho and De correlate with circulating concentrations of cytokines. These data support the hypothesis of an inflammation-sensitive mechanism linked to certain psychological states. The aim of this study was to correlate Ho and De with selective proinflammatory cytokines during the menstrual cycle in young women. Twenty-two physically healthy medical students, mean age 22.95+2.83(SD), were studied. All reported regular menses that ranged between 27-33 days. Blood was drawn three times across a single cycle: at follicular phase (FL), at mid luteal phase (ML) and at late luteal phase (LL) corresponding to the premenstrual phase. The following proinflammatory cytokines were determined at each sample: Interleukin 8 (IL-8), Interleukin 6 (IL-6), Interleukin 1α (IL-1α), and Tumor Necrosis Factor-α (TNF-α). Immediately before blood sampling the women completed the Zung self-rating depression scale and the hostility and direction of hostility questionnaire (HDHQ), which comprises five subscales: urge to act out hostility, criticism of others, paranoid hostility, self-criticism and delusional guilt. Spearman’s rank correlation was used to determine the relation between variables at the specific time points; ρ<0.05 was considered significant. Mean values of cytokines did not change significantly throughout the menstrual cycle. Paranoid hostility was positively correlated with IL-8 (Rs=0.476, p=0.046), IL-1α (Rs=0.458, p=0.048) and TNF-α (Rs=0.518, p=0.023) in LLphase. No other significant correlation was found. Cytokines correlate with paranoid hostility and this correlation is probably related with the premenstrual hormonal changes. It is difficult to evaluate the clinical significance of our findings, nevertheless, when exploring the above association, it is necessary to take into consideration the phase of the cycle as well as the special aspects of Ho we seek to study.

As one of the more visible manifestations of the boom in new media, computer games have attracted a great deal of attention, both from the popular press, and from academics. In the case of the former, much of this coverage has focussed on the perceived danger games pose to the young mind, whether that danger be physical (in terms of bodily atrophy due to inactivity) or social (in terms of anti-social and even violent behaviour, caused by exposure to specific types of content). The massacre at Columbine High School in the United States seems to have further fuelled these fears, with several stories focusing on the fact that the killers were both players of violent video games (Dickinson 1999; Hansen 1999). These concerns have also found their way into political circles, promoting a seemingly endless cycle of inquiries and reports (for example, see Durkin 1995; Durkin and Aisbett 1999). Academic discourse on the subject has, perhaps somewhat surprisingly, tended to adopt a similar line, tracing out a return to the dark days of media effects theory. This is especially true of those studies that focus on the psychological aspects of computer game usage. For example, Scott (1995) conducted a study specifically aimed at investigating "to what extent, if any, aggressive computer game playing would have on individuals of different personality composition, and in which particular aspects of aggressiveness this might be experienced" (Scott 1995, 122). Similarly, Ballard (1999) examined the relationship between gender and violent computer games arguing that the level of violence depicted in a game directly affects the interaction between players of different genders. Almost without exception, these studies come from the experimental tradition of media research, often employing laboratory experiments in order to test their hypotheses. As the problems with this methodology have been covered extensively elsewhere (for example, see Hall 1982; Murdock and Golding 1977; Lowery and DeFleur 1983) I will not go into detail here, except to point out that most experimental research underestimates the importance of physical context in media use. Other studies have attempted to approach the subject from a more qualitative perspective, often utilising theories derived from post-structuralism to examine the construction of identity in games. For example, Alloway and Gilbert (1998) explore relationship between computer games and notions of masculinity, arguing that simplistic notions of effects dramatically underestimate the sophistication of the readers. Similarly, Beavis (1998) argues that it is necessary to more fully explore the relationship between games players and games before engaging in debates about the social benefits or dangers of the medium. According to Beavis: Other studies have attempted to approach the subject from a more qualitative perspective, often utilising theories derived from post-structuralism to examine the construction of identity in games. For example, Alloway and Gilbert (1998) explore relationship between computer games and notions of masculinity, arguing that simplistic notions of effects dramatically underestimate the sophistication of the readers. Similarly, Beavis (1998) argues that it is necessary to more fully explore the relationship between games players and games before engaging in debates about the social benefits or dangers of the medium. According to Beavis: However, while arguments like that of Beavis clearly take the debate in another direction, in many cases the writers find themselves mired in the same ideological paradigm as the effects theorists. While stressing the need for a more nuanced conceptualisation of the game-player relationship, Beavis also implies that games are potentially destructive, stating that "young people need to be helped to critique and resist the subject positions and ideologies of video games" (Beavis, 1998). In response, the games industry itself has launched several attacks on the academic community, many of which, ironically, are framed in the kind of aggressive terminology the researchers are themselves concerned about. For example, Green argues, But for a group of academics to draw sweeping conclusions about an industry they are so obviously clueless about, based on a ludicrous, half-assed experiment that sounds like something out of a Simpsons episode, adds absolutely nothing to the discussion. (136) While it could be argued that Green's "from the hip" response itself adds little to the dialogue, it does serve to highlight one of the more surprising aspects of the computer games debate. As Green asserts, it is apparent that many of the scholars conducting research into computer games seem to know very little about the subject they are studying, a situation analogous to television researchers watching only cinematic films. Indeed, given the descriptions some researchers give of particular games, it is doubtful that they have actually played the game themselves, raising questions about the extent to which they are authorities in the area. This paper is, at least in part, aimed at rectifying this situation, by providing some broad commentary on the specific characteristics of the game medium. For the sake of convenience, I will be focussing mainly on games available on home consoles such as the Sony Playstation, and will restrict my argument to single-player games. Computer games are clearly a distinct form of media; while many are played through established technology like televisions and computers, there would seem to be something intrinsically different about their mode of address. This is primarily a function of their interactivity; unlike most forms of media, computer games respond to direct input from their audience. However, at the same time, games also display characteristics that are, at least superficially, similar to existing media forms. While games are often categorised according to the type of action required of the player (eg shooting, driving, puzzle-solving etc), they can also readily be categorised into the same genres used for other entertainment media such as films and video cassettes. Games can be based on sports, action, drama, comedy and even music, although admittedly the broad category of "simulation" game has no direct counterpart in film and video, except, perhaps philosophically, for documentary. Film and television genres are traditionally defined in terms of a set of key textual characteristics, with iconography, setting and narrative being perhaps the most obvious. Applying these notions to computer games it soon becomes clear why the generic classifications used for other media have been so easily adapted to the new medium. For example, the iconography of an action film like Face Off (explosions, guns, corpses etc) can all be found in an action game such as Syphon Filter. Similarly, the settings of horror films like I Know What You Did Last Summer (old houses, dark alleys etc) are all faithfully reproduced in horror games like Resident Evil. These correlations are true of most filmic genres and computer games, to such an extent that there is a growing trend in crossover production of "game of the film" (eg. Tomorrow Never Dies, Die Hard, Independence Day) and "film of the game" (Pokémon, Mortal Kombat) texts. When we turn our attention to narrative, however, the situation becomes somewhat more complex. Like films and television programs, games usually have definite beginning and end points, but what happens between these points seems, at least superficially, to be dramatically different. Regardless of their genre, films and television programs are self-propelling entities; the actions of the characters drive the narrative forward toward some kind of resolution. In the case of a television series, this resolution might only be partial, but at the end of the program's duration there is still some kind of finality to the narrative process, albeit temporary. Games, on the other hand, are designed for extended and often repeated playing, and as such necessarily resist narrative closure, and therefore have to provide pleasure for the player in other ways. In some cases, games adopt a strategy that is similar in many ways to episodic television; the game is divided in into several "sub-games", with overall narrative resolution only being achieved through the successful completion of the sub-games. A good example of this is Dreamworks' Medal of Honor, a first-person action game set is World War Two. In order to complete the game, players must successfully carry out a series of missions, which are themselves divided into several tasks. In keeping with the action orientation of the genre, these tasks usually involve destroying some piece of military equipment, and players are rewarded based upon their proficiency in carrying them out. What is especially interesting about games like Medal of Honor is their ability to create an illusion of narrative freedom; players can effectively dictate the course the narrative takes depending on how they perform certain tasks. Resident Evil and its sequels take this concept one step further, creating a virtual gaming environment in which the player is seemingly free to go wherever they want. However, while the players are free to dictate the narrative flow at the level of what I have termed the sub-game, completion of the overall game (and therefore narrative closure) requires the player to follow a rigidly pre-established path through the game's levels. Players could in theory spend days wandering the desolate landscape of Resident Evil 2, but they just wouldn't get anywhere. Other genres of game present different problems in terms of narrative progression, and indeed some would argue that certain games progress without possessing a narrative at all. Racing games are the most obvious example of this; driving around the same track for up to 80 laps does not constitute a narrative as it is traditionally conceptualised. However, racing games are increasingly adopting narrative conventions in order to deepen the gaming experience. Formula One 99, for example, allows the player to take the place of any of the drivers from the 1999 Formula One season, accruing points depending on finishing position in the same way as the real championship. In this context, each race operates as a sub-game, and the successful completion of each race allows the game as a whole to be completed. A slightly different take on the idea of a racing narrative is taken by Gran Turismo, a game that quickly became the most successful title from Sony's Polyphony Digital. Over the traditional racing format, Polyphony superimposed a narrative based on the game's own fictional economy. Players begin the game with enough credits to purchase a low-performance vehicle, which can then be upgraded as players win races and earn enough credits to afford the necessary parts. In this way, Gran Turismo generates a narrative that is described by the player's quest to constantly purchase faster and better cars, a narrative which, given the game's 400-car menu, can take months to reach its conclusion. One aspect of computer game narratives that has surprisingly received little attention to this point is the introductory video: the short animated sequence used to set the scene for the game that follows. Typically, these sequences are created entirely from computer generated images, and in terms of genre, perform a similar function to film trailers. As well as introducing the main characters, introductory videos inform the player about the type of game they're about to play, whether it be a racing game like Gran Turismo or a sports simulation like Cricket 2000. More importantly, introductory videos also work to discursively position the player within the narrative, providing them with information about the subject positions they are permitted to assume. For fighting-based action games like Tekken and its sequels, the introductory video provides information about all the characters in the game, telling the player that they can assume any one of the multiple identities the game offers. Other games, like Medal of Honor, are much more restrictive in terms of their subject possibilities, allowing the player to adopt only one role in the single-player version. In fact, the introductory video for Medal of Honor explicitly positions the player in a very narrowly-defined role, using a first person voice over to instruct the player that they will be acting as a particular American soldier, "Jimmy Patterson". However, even games that offer very limited latitude in terms of subject positioning can still be open to radical interpretation. The very interactivity that differentiates games from other forms of audio-visual media means that players can actively "read against" the narrative provided for them, driving the game toward new (but still inherently limited) conclusions. For example, players of Medal of Honor can attempt to achieve the game's goals through stealth rather than violence, a tactic which, interestingly, always results in a lower score. Similarly, players of some racing games can usurp the game's internal logic, substituting the goal of a race win with one of vehicular destruction. The key here is that pleasure seems to be derived through a complex relationship between the player-driven narrative and the narrative imposed by the game engine. This notion of the "resistant" reading of game narratives serves to demonstrate that the relationship between the player and game text is more complex than it at first appears; certainly it is more complex than simple media effects studies imply. What is needed now is a more rigorous investigation of both the textual characteristics of the game medium, and of how players interact with those characteristics. It is only after such an investigation has been carried out that a more constructive dialogue on the socio-cultural implications of game playing can be begun. References Alloway, N., and P. Gilbert. "Video Game Culture: Playing with Masculinity, Violence and Pleasure." Wired-up: Young People and the Electronic Media. Ed. S. Howard. London: UCL Press, 1996. Ballard, M. E. "Video Game Violence and Confederate Gender: Effects on Reward and Punishment Given." Sex Roles: A Journal of Research Oct. 1999: 541. Beavis, C. "Computer Games: Youth Culture, Resistant Readers and Consuming Passions." 1998. 23 Mar. 2000 <http://www.swin.edu.au/aare/98pap/bea98139.php>. Dickinson, A. "Where Were the Parents?" Time 153.17 (1999): 40. Durkin, K., and K. Aisbett. Computer Games and Australians Today. Sydney: Office of Film and Literature Classification, 1999. Durkin, K. Computer Games: Their Effects on Young People. Sydney: Office of Film and Literature Classification, 1995. Green, J. "The Violence Problem -- And My Humble Solution: Kill the Academics." Computer Gaming World July 2000: 136. Hall, S. "The Rediscovery of Ideology; The Return of the Repressed in Media Studies." Culture, Society and The Media. Ed. M. Gurevitch et al. London: Methuen, 1982. Hansen, G. "The Violent World of Video Games." Insight on the News 15.24: 14. Lowery, S., and M. L. DeFleur. Milestones in Mass Communications Research: Media Effects. New York: Longman, 1983. Murdock, G., and P. Golding. "Capitalism, Communication and Class Relations." Mass Communication and Society. Ed. J. Curran et al. London: Edward Arnold, 1977. Scott, D. "The Effect of Video Games on Feelings of Aggression." The Journal of Psychology 129.2 (1995): 121-134. Games and Films Cited Face Off. Film. Paramount Pictures, 1997. Formula One 99. Sony Playstation Game. Psygnosis, 1999. Gran Turismo. Sony Playstation Game. Polyphony Digital, 1999. I Know What You Did Last Summer. Film. Sony Pictures, 1997. Independence Day. Sony Playstation Game. Fox Interactive, 1998. Mortal Kombat. New Line Pictures, 1995. Pokémon. Film. Warner Brothers, 1999. Resident Evil. Sony Playstation Game. Capcom, 1997. Resident Evil 2. Sony Playstation Game. Capcom, 1998. Syphon Filter. Sony Playstation Game. Sony Interactive, 1999. Tekken. Sony Playstation Game. Namco, 1997. Tomorrow Never Dies. Sony Playstation Game. Electronic Arts, 1999. Citation reference for this article MLA style: Mark Finn. "Computer Games and Narrative Progression." M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 3.5 (2000). [your date of access] <http://www.api-network.com/mc/0010/narrative.php>. Chicago style: Mark Finn, "Computer Games and Narrative Progression," M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 3, no. 5 (2000), <http://www.api-network.com/mc/0010/narrative.php> ([your date of access]). APA style: Mark Finn. (2000) Computer games and narrative progression. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 3(5). <http://www.api-network.com/mc/0010/narrative.php> ([your date of access]).

IntroductionAccording to Sigmund Freud (A General Introduction to Psychoanalysis 90), dreams can be seen as a “substitute for something else, unknown to the dreamer”. In Freud’s theory, dreams are regarded as a “depiction of the subconscious, a screen onto which the subconscious projects its suppressed desires and hallucinations about their fulfilment” (Khapaeva & Tweddle 6). It is likely due to these aspects that dreams and dreaming have become prevalent in contemporary literature, film and television, and an outlet for a greater examination of Freud’s work on the origins and nature of these "desires and hallucinations" (Eberwein). While considerable discussion exists on Freud’s psychoanalytical approach to dreams (Eberwein; Khapaeva & Tweddle; Moore Jr.), as well as the theoretical parallels between dreams and the mediums of storytelling, literature and film (Rheinschmiedt; Perlmutter; Khapeava & Tweddle), there has been limited research and representation of dreams in Gothic television. The Gothic is a “malleable notion” that is able to remould itself into various narrative forms and media (Piatti-Farnell & Brien 1), and is also “about the return of the past, of the repressed and denied, the buried secret that subverts and corrodes the present, whatever the culture does not want to know or admit” (Lloyd-Smith, 1). Given that in Freudian theory, dreams are generally regarded as a vehicle for the return of suppressed desires and the unconscious, dreams and nightmares themselves can be seen as inherently Gothic. Dreams and nightmares are often spaces where characters must confront the unfamiliar, the unknown, and the unseen future, and yet, these spaces also seem to contain aspects of the familiar, the known, and the previously seen past (Moore Jr.). Taking the inherent Gothic nature of dreams and nightmares into account, this article will critically examine the representation of dreams and nightmares in “Chapter Five: Dreams in a Witch House” in Netflix’s The Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (2018-present). At the end of the previous episode, “Chapter Four: Witch Academy”, Sabrina inadvertently frees the sleep demon, Batibat, from her prison. In Chapter five, Batibat, in an effort to force them to release her from the house, places Sabrina, Ambrose, Zelda and Hilda into a deep sleep curse where they are tortured in their dream-turned nightmares. The episode features a number of Gothic tropes and conventions, including the return of the repressed and the unconscious, the uncanny and the double, and the blurring of the boundaries between reality and fantasy. This article will primarily focus on Ambrose, whose dream sequence highlights how dreams in Gothic texts are often spaces where the boundaries between everyday reality and fantasy scenarios become blurred, producing uncanny interactions. This can be seen in Ambrose’s experience of a dream loop, where he is compelled to repeat his death over and over again; this repetition produces a blurring of the boundary between the past, present and future. Additionally, this article will discuss how the episode uses both the “aesthetics and the politics of horror and the Gothic” (Piatti-Farnell and Mercer 1), in order illustrate how the realisation of our deepest fears and anxieties in dreams and nightmares are both terrifying and horrifying. Uncanny Doubles and the Repressed Unconscious According to Royle, the uncanny is “concerned with the strange, weird, and mysterious, with a flickering sense (but not conviction) of something supernatural” (1). The uncanny is a crisis of the proper as it entails a critical disturbance of what is proper (including names, places, people), and is concerned with the familiar becoming unfamiliar. Royle argues that the uncanny is described in terms of making things uncertain and the sense that things are not as they have come to appear through habit and familiarity, which often challenges rationality or logic. According to Wheatley (3), Gothic television narratives often involve a “proclivity towards the structures and images of the uncanny” including repetitions, déjà vu, doppelgangers and the double, and severed body parts. Ambrose’s dream, in particular, support’s Wheatley’s claim that Gothic television has a proclivity towards the images of the uncanny, as it includes a number of key features of the uncanny, including repetitions, the double, and severed body parts, are used to evoke the terror of Ambrose’s pain and death. At the start of Ambrose’s dream, he is in the Spellman Mortuary with Hilda opening a body bag – upon opening the bag, the corpse is revealed to be Ambrose’s body. This revelation produces an uncanny effect, as the double operates as a figure of displacement in that it characteristically appears out of place to displace its host (Webber). This displacement of both self and time can be seen with Ambrose’s reaction, who struggles too come to terms with seeing his double on the Mortuary table. According to Babicka, the doppelganger is perceived as both self and other, and the uncanny element is the fact that they are both familiar and strange. The encounter with other selves opens up possibilities for the uncanny, as any attempt at “a reflexive grasp of this mutual imbrication of self … involves a potential for precisely those uncanny figurations that people experience from the Gothic” (Collins & Jervis 6). After the body on the Mortuary table is revealed to be Ambrose’s double, Ambrose questions his aunt Hilda about the corpse, asking “doesn’t he remind you of someone, Auntie?” Collins and Jervis’s claim that the doppelganger is perceived as both self and other is supported by this interaction, as Ambrose’s question indicates that he recognises the corpse as himself, but given that the corpse appears to be his double, he also regards it as other. Furthermore, the uncanny resemblance between Ambrose and the corpse evokes a sense of terror and awe in him. Morris (307) argues that the uncanny "derives its terror not from something external, alien, or unknown but … something that is strangely familiar and defeats our efforts to separate ourselves from it". Terror has the potential to freeze the mind and body, and derives from whatever evokes in us an apprehension of pain or death. This apprehension of pain and death can be seen with Ambrose, as open seeing the body, a close up shot of Ambrose reveals his shock and terror of his own mortality. Moreover, the existential threat of death which the double poses can be connected to a key theme within the Gothic and the uncanny – our compulsion to return to the repressed moment or act. According to Mishra (294), the double can be regarded as the uncanny harbinger of death, and "death is the always recurring or repeating presence that threatens the subject to which it compulsively returns". In Ambrose’s dream, while his double is a direct visualisation of his death, he cannot seem to remember or understand how is body came to be on the table, as its presence appears to avoid all rational logic. In his discussion of the Gothic and psychoanalysis, Punter (307) argues that we work "continuously to maintain a simulacrum of congruence between fantasy and reality". However, those boundaries frequently blur in the most routine of everyday events, such as daydreams or dissonance between what other people mean as opposed to what we want to hear. When we can’t fill in this gap in knowledge, Punter argues that this gap can call forth the uncanny which is produced when the distinction between imagination and reality is effaced. This dissonance between reality and fantasy can be seen with Ambrose’s reaction, as although his double’s corpse is right in front of him, he struggles to understand the gravity of the situation, and how he died. Unlike Ambrose’s dream, where the return of the repressed, his corpse, is a symbol of his desire to be free of house arrest, the return of the repressed in Sabrina’s dream is more literal as Harvey remembers a memory he had previously forgotten. Botting (107) argues that the uncanny is “easily produced when the distinction between imagination and reality is effaced and occurs when infantile complexes which have been repressed are once more revived by some impression”. The uncanny is the recurrence or return of the repressed – something which is familiar and old established in the mind and which has become alienated from it only through processes of repression. The return of repressed memories can be seen in Sabrina’s dream, where she reveals to her then-boyfriend, Harvey, her identity as half-witch and half-mortal. This revelation causes a moment of déjà vu for Harvey who, in the dream, remembers when Sabrina had cast a spell causing Harvey to forget about Sabrina’s identity. According to Royle (173), déjà vu can be defined as the "peculiar feeling or sensation that we have, in certain moments of situations, of having had exactly the same experience once before, or of having once before been in the same place". However, Royle argues that despite our best efforts, we never succeed in clearly remembering the previous occasion, and therefore the feeling of déjà vu corresponds to the recollection of an unconscious phantasy – we can never consciously remember it because it has never been conscious. In response to Sabrina’s revelation, Harvey asks “why am I suddenly having a strange sense of déjà vu?” Sabrina answers: “because I told you once, in the woods, and then I made you forget”. Harvey reveals that, despite Sabrina’s memory spell “a part of me remembers, even when you made me forget”. This revelation produces another uncanny moment where a repressed or ‘forgotten’ memory comes back to haunt the past. In Freud’s understanding of the uncanny, everything that was intended to remain a secret comes into the open, and the uncanny manifests itself when the repressed aspects buried in our unconscious suddenly return. By revealing her secret, the past event, the memory spell, suddenly returns and this forgotten moment causes Harvey anguish as he struggles to recollect the past experience. Repetition and Dream LoopsThe episode is segmented to focus on how the individual characters come to realise they are dreaming, before it brings them together. When first centred on Ambrose, we see him performing an autopsy on his double; after performing the operation, Ambrose is paid a visit by his coven’s High Priest, Father Blackwood, who informs him that he is no longer under house arrest. In this way, his dream initially appears to mirror the Freudian theory of dreams as simply being wish fulfilment; throughout the first season of The Chilling Adventures of Sabrina, Ambrose’s key storyline is his desire to leave the Spellman house and be free of his imprisonment. However, Ambrose’s wish is never fully actualised, as he is ultimately murdered by Batibat, and after his death, the episode jumps to the same close up shot of Ambrose and Hilda opening the body bag, like at the start of his dream. It appears that Ambrose is stuck in a time loop or a repetition of his own death, unable to leave the house forever – his greatest wish has become his greatest fear. Although it appears that Ambrose is ‘fated’ to die in his dream on a continuous loop, it is never clear when the loop actually begins, as at the beginning of the dream, we already see Ambrose’s corpse. Juranovszky argues that Gothic temporal loops play a key part in endeavours to establish sites of trauma re-enactment, and the aim of temporal confusion is to “evoke a disturbing sense of backward-pointing progress” which “allows for a reconsideration as well as a resolution of the past” (para 12). The re-enactment of Ambrose’s trauma, in this case his death, is seen in his dream, as he is stuck in an endless cycle of discovering his own corpse to only then be killed himself again. The temporality in the dream is non-linear as time flows in a circled repetition where Ambrose is at the Mortuary, is killed, and then the cycle repeats itself. Given that that dream loop begins at the Mortuary table, after Ambrose’s death, time itself in the dream is unclear as there is a blurring of the past, present, and future. Despite his awareness of being stuck in a loop of his own death, Ambrose is compelled to repeat the same action again and again until he relents and frees Batibat from the Spellman residence. This instance of repetition, where characters are compelled to act in a certain way, is a hallmark of the Gothic, and is one of the central characteristics of the uncanny (Lloyd-Smith). Lloyd-Smith argues that Gothic characters are often shown struggling in a web of repetitions caused by their unawareness of their unconscious drives and motives. However, in this case, Ambrose is shown struggling with the repetition of his own death, yet he is compelled to repeat such actions. Furthermore, the sequence highlights how dreams are a space outside of time, where the past and present are blurred. According to Perlmutter, “something happens to the narrative” when dream sequences in film and television begin, as “characters leave behind rational external reality and … cross over into a ‘between’ world where reality and imagination converge into hypothetical realms that are scrambled” and achronological” (128). Because of this blurring between reality and imagination, dreams in Gothic texts are often spaces where the past and future are highly contested, and are an extreme form of solitude outside of time. Ambrose’s home has become an unfamiliar place of torture, as although he is surrounded by familiar people and surroundings, it appears that he is stuck in solitude with little hope of escape. It is Ambrose’s awareness of being trapped in a time loop that results in his own death, and the realisation that he is trapped in existential solitude, as well as his inability to distinguish between nightmare and reality that makes his dream so terrifying. According to Piatti-Farnell and Mercer, “in our contemporary moment”, Gothic horror and terror “tend to merge and intersect, often forming hybrid visions”, that shifts between the two modes. Conventionally, terror has been “linked to fear triggered by indeterminate agents” (Cavallaro vii), and to hold characters and readers in anxious suspense about threats to life, safety, and sanity mostly out of sight or suggestions from a hidden past (Hogle). The claim that Gothic terror and horror often merge and intersect in contemporary texts can be supported by the revelation of the corpse on the Mortuary table. This revelation puts Ambrose in an anxious state, where he can only imagine the circumstances in which his double died. However, this terror of his mortality quickly shifts into horror when Ambrose realises that he is doomed to repeat his death in an endless cycle. Horror is usually triggered by “visible fear” (Cavallaro vii), and confronts characters “with the gross violence of physical or psychological dissolution, explicitly shattering the assumed norms … of everyday life with wildly shocking, and even revolting, consequences” (Hogle 3).This visualisation of fear and gross violence is explicitly shown when Ambrose performs an autopsy on his double for the second time, as he pleads “no … no … no … Auntie, please don’t leave me…” As Ambrose has encountered his death and entrapment in the Spellman residence, his fear of death has been realised as nothing remains for his imagination. The close up shot of Ambrose cutting into his own body can be considered as an instance of body horror, which Reyes argues, occurs when a “text generates fear from abnormal states of corporeality, or from an attack upon the body, we might find ourselves in front of an instance of body horror” (1). Reyes’s claim that body horror generates fear from an abnormal state of corporeality can be seen with Ambrose, as he is compelled to cut into his own body, knowing regardless of his actions, he will be killed by Batibat continuously, unless he relents and frees the demon from her trap. This compulsion to act creates a sense of horror, dread, and revulsion, which can be seen in a close up shot of Ambrose’s face, where he has an extremely visceral reaction to being stuck in his time loop, and being abandoned in solitude with no one to help him. While dreams in Freudian theory were considered as wish fulfilment, they can also be seen as a space where repressed and unconscious desires and fears manifest themselves. As seen in Ambrose’s dream, the return of these unconscious and repressed desires produced a number of uncanny and horrifying interactions. Ambrose’s growing realisation of being trapped in a nightmare loop of his death illustrate how dreams are Gothic because they disturb the boundary between the material world and fantasy. The use of Gothic horror and terror techniques and conventions in Ambrose’s dream demonstrate the horrifying nature of nightmares, not because it featured a single disturbing moment, but because Ambrose’s dream morphed from wish fulfilment to a narrative of his repressed and unconscious desires and fears. The inherent Gothic nature of dreams means they are highly effective and popularly used in literature, film, and television to evoke a sense of terror and horror because of the visceral reaction the return of the unconscious and repressed produces. ReferencesBabicka, Joanna. "Postmodern and Gothic Hybridity in Nick Cave's And the Ass Saw the Angel." The Gothic: Studies in History, Identity and Space. Ed. Katarzyna Wieckowska. Oxford: Inter-Disciplinary Press, 2012. 121-126.Botting, Fred. Limits of Horror: Technology, Bodies, Gothic. Manchester: Manchester UP, 2008.Cavallaro, Dani. The Gothic Vision: Three Centuries of Horror, Terror and Fear. London and New York: Continuum, 2002.“Chapter Four: Witch Academy.” The Chilling Adventures of Sabrina: Part One. Dir. Rob Seidenglanz. Netflix, 2018. “Chapter Five: Dreams in a Witch House.” The Chilling Adventures of Sabrina: Part One. Dir. Maggie Kiley. Netflix, 2018. Collins, Jo, and John Jervis. "Introduction." Uncanny Modernity: Cultural Theories, Modern Anxieties. Eds. Jo Collins and John Jervis. New York: Macmillan Limited, 2008.Eberwein, Robert T. Film and the Dream Screen: A Sleep and a Forgetting. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1984.Freud, Sigmund. A General Introduction to Psychoanalysis. Trans. G. Stanley Hall. New York: Boni and Liveright, 1920. Freud, Sigmund. "The Uncanny." Fantastic Literature: A Critical Reader. Ed. David Sandner. Westport, Connecticut, and London: Praeger, 2004.Hogle, Jerrold E. "Introduction: The Gothic in Western Culture." The Cambridge Companion to Gothic Fiction. Ed. Jerrold E. Hogle. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2002.Juranovszky, Andrea. "Trauma Re-Enactment in the Gothic Loop: A Study on Structures of Circularity in Gothic Fiction." Inquiries Journal 6.5 (2014).Khapaeva, Dina, and Rosie Tweddle. Nightmare: From Literary Experiments to Cultural Project. Boston: Brill, 2012.Lloyd-Smith, Allan. American Gothic Fiction: An Introduction. New York: Bloomsbury, 2004.Mishra, Vijay. "The Gothic Sublime." A New Companion to the Gothic. Ed. David Punter. Oxford: John Wiley & Sons, 2012. 288-306. Moore Jr., Richard W. "Dreaming Change, Changing Dreams in the British Gothic Novel, 1765-1818." New York: Fordham University, 2018.Morris, David B. “Gothic Sublimity.” New Literary History 12.2 (1985). 299-319. Perlmutter, Ruth. "Memories, Dreams, Screens." Quarterly Review of Film and Video (2005).Piatti-Farnell, Lorna, and Donna Lee Brien. "Introduction: The Gothic Compass." New Directions in 21st-Century Gothic: The Gothic Compass. Eds. Lorna Piatti-Farnell and Donna Lee Brien. Routledge, 2015. 1-10. Piatti-Farnell, Lorna, and Erin Mercer. "Gothic: New Directions in Media and Popular Culture." M/C Journal 17.4 (2014): 4.Punter, David. "Introduction: The Ghost of a History." A New Companion to the Gothic. Ed. David Punter. John Wiley & Sons, 2012. 1-9. Rheinschmiedt, Otto, M. The Fictions of Dreams: Dreams, Literature, and Writing. London and New York: Routledge, 2017.Royle, Nicholas. The Uncanny. Manchester and New York: Manchester UP, 2003.Webber, Andrew J. The Doppelganger: Double Visions in German Literature. Oxford: Oxford UP, 1996.Wheatley, Helen. Gothic Television. Manchester and New York: Manchester UP, 2006.

IntroductionThe common origin of the adjective “corporeal” and the noun “corpse” in the Latin root corpus points to the value of mortuary practices for investigating how the human body is objectified. In post-mortem rituals, the body—formerly the manipulator of objects—becomes itself the object that is manipulated. Thus, these funerary rituals provide a type of double reflexivity, where the object and subject of manipulation can be used to reciprocally illuminate one another. To this extent, any consideration of corporeality can only benefit from a discussion of how the body is objectified through mortuary practices. This paper offers just such a discussion with respect to a selection of two contrasting mortuary practices, in the context of the prehistoric past and the Classical Era respectively. At the most general level, we are motivated by the same intellectual impulse that has stimulated expositions on corporeality, materiality, and incarnation in areas like phenomenology (Merleau-Ponty 77–234), Marxism (Adorno 112–119), gender studies (Grosz vii–xvi), history (Laqueur 193–244), and theology (Henry 33–53). That is to say, our goal is to show that the body, far from being a transparent frame through which we encounter the world, is in fact a locus where historical, social, cultural, and psychological forces intersect. On this view, “the body vanishes as a biological entity and becomes an infinitely malleable and highly unstable culturally constructed product” (Shilling 78). However, for all that the cited paradigms offer culturally situated appreciations of corporeality; our particular intellectual framework will be provided by cognitive science. Two reasons impel us towards this methodological choice.In the first instance, the study of ritual has, after several decades of stagnation, been rewarded—even revolutionised—by the application of insights from the new sciences of the mind (Whitehouse 1–12; McCauley and Lawson 1–37). Thus, there are good reasons to think that ritual treatments of the body will refract historical and social forces through empirically attested tendencies in human cognition. In the present connection, this means that knowledge of these tendencies will reward any attempt to theorise the objectification of the body in mortuary rituals.In the second instance, because beliefs concerning the afterlife can never be definitively judged to be true or false, they give free expression to tendencies in cognition that are otherwise constrained by the need to reflect external realities accurately. To this extent, they grant direct access to the intuitive ideas and biases that shape how we think about the world. Already, this idea has been exploited to good effect in areas like the cognitive anthropology of religion, which explores how counterfactual beings like ghosts, spirits, and gods conform to (and deviate from) pre-reflective cognitive patterns (Atran 83–112; Barrett and Keil 219–224; Barrett and Reed 252–255; Boyer 876–886). Necessarily, this implies that targeting post-mortem treatments of the body will offer unmediated access to some of the conceptual schemes that inform thinking about human corporeality.At a more detailed level, the specific methodology we propose to use will be provided by conceptual blending theory—a framework developed by Gilles Fauconnier, Mark Turner, and others to describe how structures from different areas of experience are creatively blended to form a new conceptual frame. In this system, a generic space provides the ground for coordinating two or more input spaces into a blended space that synthesises them into a single output. Here this would entail using natural or technological processes to structure mortuary practices in a way that satisfies various psychological needs.Take, for instance, W.B. Yeats’s famous claim that “Too long a sacrifice / Can make a stone of the heart” (“Easter 1916” in Yeats 57-8). Here, the poet exploits a generic space—that of everyday objects and the effort involved in manipulating them—to coordinate an organic input from that taxonomy (the heart) with an inorganic input (a stone) to create the blended idea that too energetic a pursuit of an abstract ideal turns a person into an unfeeling object (the heart-as-stone). Although this particular example corresponds to a familiar rhetorical figure (the metaphor), the value of conceptual blending theory is that it cuts across distinctions of genre, media, language, and discourse level to provide a versatile framework for expressing how one area of human experience is related to another.As indicated, we will exploit this versatility to investigate two ways of objectifying the body through the examination of two contrasting mortuary practices—cremation and inhumation—against different cultural horizons. The first of these is the conceptualisation of the body as an object of a technical process, where the post-mortem cremation of the corpse is analogically correlated with the metallurgical refining of ore into base metal. Our area of focus here will be Bronze Age cremation practices. The second conceptual scheme we will investigate focuses on treatments of the body as a vegetable object; here, the relevant analogy likens the inhumation of the corpse to the planting of a seed in the soil from which future growth will come. This discussion will centre on the Classical Era. Burning: The Body as Manufactured ObjectThe Early and Middle Bronze Age in Western Europe (2500-1200 BCE) represented a period of change in funerary practices relative to the preceding Neolithic, exemplified by a move away from the use of Megalithic monuments, a proliferation of grave goods, and an increase in the use of cremation (Barrett 38-9; Cooney and Grogan 105-121; Brück, Material Metaphors 308; Waddell, Bronze Age 141-149). Moreover, the Western European Bronze Age is characterised by a shift away from communal burial towards single interment (Barrett 32; Bradley 158-168). Equally, the Bronze Age in Western Europe provides us with evidence of an increased use of cist and pit cremation burials concentrated in low-lying areas (Woodman 254; Waddell, Prehistoric 16; Cooney and Grogan 105-121; Bettencourt 103). This greater preference for lower-lying location appears to reflect a distinctive change in comparison to the distribution patterns of the Neolithic burials; these are often located on prominent, visible aspects of a landscape (Cooney and Grogan 53-61). These new Bronze Age burial practices appear to reflect a distancing in relation to the territories of the “old ancestors” typified by Megalithic monuments (Bettencourt 101-103). Crucially, the Bronze Age archaeological record provides us with evidence that indicates that cremation was becoming the dominant form of deposition of human remains throughout Central and Western Europe (Sørensen and Rebay 59-60).The activities associated with Bronze Age cremations such as the burning of the body and the fragmentation of the remains have often been considered as corporeal equivalents (or expressions) of the activities involved in metal (bronze) production (Brück, Death 84-86; Sørensen and Rebay 60–1; Rebay-Salisbury, Cremations 66-67). There are unequivocal similarities between the practices of cremation and contemporary bronze production technologies—particularly as both processes involve the transformation of material through the application of fire at temperatures between 700 ºC to 1000 ºC (Musgrove 272-276; Walker et al. 132; de Becdelievre et al. 222-223).We assert that the technologies that define the European Bronze Age—those involved in alloying copper and tin to produce bronze—offered a new conceptual frame that enabled the body to be objectified in new ways. The fundamental idea explored here is that the displacement of inhumation by cremation in the European Bronze Age was motivated by a cognitive shift, where new smelting technologies provided novel conceptual metaphors for thinking about age-old problems concerning human mortality and post-mortem survival. The increased use of cremation in the European Bronze Age contrasts with the archaeological record of the Near Eastern—where, despite the earlier emergence of metallurgy (3300–3000 BCE), we do not see a notable proliferation in the use of cremation in this region. Thus, mortuary practices (i.e. cremation) provide us with an insight into how Western European Bronze Age cultures mediated the body through changes in technological objects and processes.In the terminology of conceptual blending, the generic space in question centres on the technical manipulation of the material world. The first input space is associated with the anxiety attending mortality—specifically, the cessation of personal identity and the extinction of interpersonal relationships. The second input space represents the technical knowledge associated with bronze production; in particular, the extraction of ore from source material and its mixing with other metals to form an alloy. The blended space coordinates these inputs to objectify the human body as an object that is ritually transformed into a new but more durable substance via the cremation process. In this contention we use the archaeological record to draw a conceptual parallel between the emergence of bronze production technology—centring on transition of naturally occurring material to a new subsistence (bronze)—and the transitional nature of the cremation process.In this theoretical framework, treating the body as a mixture of substances that can be reduced to its constituents and transformed through technologies of cremation enabled Western European Bronze Age society to intervene in the natural process of putrefaction and transform the organic matter into something more permanent. This transformative aspect of the cremation is seen in the evidence we have for secondary burial practices involving the curation and circulation of cremated bones of deceased members of a group (Brück, Death 87-93). This evidence allows us to assert that cremated human remains and objects were considered products of the same transformation into a more permanent state via burning, fragmentation, dispersal, and curation. Sofaer (62-69) states that the living body is regarded as a person, but as soon as the transition to death is made, the body becomes an object; this is an “ontological shift in the perception of the body that assumes a sudden change in its qualities” (62).Moreover, some authors have proposed that the exchange of fragmented human remains was central to mortuary practices and was central in establishing and maintaining social relations (Brück, Death 76-88). It is suggested that in the Early Bronze Age the perceptions of the human body mirrored the perceptions of objects associated with the arrival of the new bronze technology (Brück, Death 88-92). This idea is more pronounced if we consider the emergence of bronze technology as the beginning of a period of capital intensification of natural resources. Through this connection, the Bronze Age can be regarded as the point at which a particular natural resource—in this case, copper—went through myriad intensive manufacturing stages, which are still present today (intensive extraction, production/manufacturing, and distribution). Unlike stone tool production, bronze production had the addition of fire as the explicit method of transformation (Brück, Death 88-92). Thus, such views maintain that the transition achieved by cremation—i.e. reducing the human remains to objects or tokens that could be exchanged and curated relatively soon after the death of the individual—is equivalent to the framework of commodification connected with bronze production.A sample of cremated remains from Castlehyde in County Cork, Ireland, provides us with an example of a Bronze Age cremation burial in a Western European context (McCarthy). This is chosen because it is a typical example of a Bronze Age cremation burial in the context of Western Europe; also, one of the authors (MG) has first-hand experience in the analysis of its associated remains. The Castlehyde cremation burial consisted of a rectangular, stone-lined cist (McCarthy). The cist contained cremated, calcined human remains, with the fragments generally ranging from a greyish white to white in colour; this indicates that the bones were subject to a temperature range of 700-900ºC. The organic content of bone was destroyed during the cremation process, leaving only the inorganic matrix (brittle bone which is, often, described as metallic in consistency—e.g. Gejvall 470-475). There is evidence that remains may have been circulated in a manner akin to valuable metal objects. First of all, the absence of long bones indicates that there may have been a practice of removing salient remains as curatable records of ancestral ties. Secondly, remains show traces of metal staining from objects that are no longer extant, which suggests that graves were subject to secondary burial practices involving the removal of metal objects and/or human bone. To this extent, we can discern that human remains were being processed, curated, and circulated in a similar manner to metal objects.Thus, there are remarkable similarities between the treatment of the human body in cremation and bronze metal production technologies in the European Bronze Age. On the one hand, the parallel between smelting and cremation allowed death to be understood as a process of transformation in which the individual was removed from processes of organic decay. On the other hand, the circulation of the transformed remains conferred a type of post-mortem survival on the deceased. In this way, cremation practices may have enabled Bronze Age society to symbolically overcome the existential anxiety concerning the loss of personhood and the breaking of human relationships through death. In relation to the former point, the resurgence of cremation in nineteenth century Europe provides us with an example of how the disposal of a human body can be contextualised in relation to socio-technological advancements. The (re)emergence of cremation in this period reflects the post-Enlightenment shift from an understanding of the world through religious beliefs to the use of rational, scientific approaches to examine the natural world, including the human body (and death). The controlled use of fire in the cremation process, as well as the architecture of crematories, reflected the industrial context of the period (Rebay-Salisbury, Inhumation 16).With respect to the circulation of cremated remains, Smith suggests that Early Medieval Christian relics of individual bones or bone fragments reflect a reconceptualised continuation of pre-Christian practices (beginning in Christian areas of the Roman Empire). In this context, it is claimed, firstly, that the curation of bone relics and the use of mobile bone relics of important, saintly individuals provided an embodied connection between the sacred sphere and the earthly world; and secondly, that the use of individual bones or fragments of bone made the Christian message something portable, which could be used to reinforce individual or collective adherence to Christianity (Smith 143-167). Using the example of the Christian bone relics, we can thus propose that the curation and circulation of Bronze Age cremated material may have served a role similar to tools for focusing religiously oriented cognition. Burying: The Body as a Vegetable ObjectGiven that the designation “the Classical Era” nominates the entirety of the Graeco-Roman world (including the Near East and North Africa) from about 800 BCE to 600 CE, there were obviously no mortuary practices common to all cultures. Nevertheless, in both classical Greece and Rome, we have examples of periods when either cremation or inhumation was the principal funerary custom (Rebay-Salisbury, Inhumation 19-21).For instance, the ancient Homeric texts inform us that the ancient Greeks believed that “the spirit of the departed was sentient and still in the world of the living as long as the flesh was in existence […] and would rather have the body devoured by purifying fire than by dogs or worms” (Mylonas 484). However, the primary sources and archaeological record indicate that cremation practices declined in Athens circa 400 BCE (Rebay-Salisbury, Inhumation 20). With respect to the Roman Empire, scholarly opinion argues that inhumation was the dominant funerary rite in the eastern part of the Empire (Rebay-Salisbury, Inhumation 17-21; Morris 52). Complementing this, the archaeological and historical record indicates that inhumation became the primary rite throughout the Roman Empire in the first century CE. Inhumation was considered to be an essential rite in the context of an emerging belief that a peaceful afterlife was reflected by a peaceful burial in which bodily integrity was maintained (Rebay-Salisbury, Inhumation 19-21; Morris 52; Toynbee 41). The question that this poses is how these beliefs were framed in the broader discourses of Classical culture.In this regard, our claim is that the growth in inhumation was driven (at least in part) by the spread of a conceptual scheme, implicit in Greek fertility myths that objectify the body as a seed. The conceptual logic here is that the post-mortem continuation of personal identity is (symbolically) achieved by objectifying the body as a vegetable object that will re-grow from its own physical remains. Although the dominant metaphor here is vegetable, there is no doubt that the motivating concern of this mythological fabulation is human mortality. As Jon Davies notes, “the myths of Hades, Persephone and Demeter, of Orpheus and Eurydice, of Adonis and Aphrodite, of Selene and Endymion, of Herakles and Dionysus, are myths of death and rebirth, of journeys into and out of the underworld, of transactions and transformations between gods and humans” (128). Thus, such myths reveal important patterns in how the post-mortem fate of the body was conceptualised.In the terminology of mental mapping, the generic space relevant to inhumation contains knowledge pertaining to folk biology—specifically, pre-theoretical ideas concerning regeneration, survival, and mortality. The first input space attaches to human mortality; it departs from the anxiety associated with the seeming cessation of personal identity and dissolution of kin relationships subsequent to death. The second input space is the subset of knowledge concerning vegetable life, and how the immersion of seeds in the soil produces a new generation of plants with the passage of time. The blended space combines the two input spaces by way of the funerary script, which involves depositing the body in the soil with a view to securing its eventual rebirth by analogy with the sprouting of a planted seed.As indicated, the most important illustration of this conceptual pattern can be found in the fertility myths of ancient Greece. The Homeric Hymns, in particular, provide a number of narratives that trace out correspondences between vegetation cycles, human mortality, and inhumation, which inform ritual practice (Frazer 223–404; Carney 355–65; Sowa 121–44). The Homeric Hymn to Demeter, for instance, charts how Persephone is abducted by Hades, god of the dead, and taken to his underground kingdom. While searching for her missing daughter, Demeter, goddess of fertility, neglects the earth, causing widespread devastation. Matters are resolved when Zeus intervenes to restore Persephone to Demeter. However, having ingested part of Hades’s kingdom (a pomegranate seed), Persephone is obliged to spend half the year below ground with her captor and the other half above ground with her mother.The objectification of Persephone as both a seed and a corpse in this narrative is clearly signalled by her seasonal inhumation in Hades’ chthonic realm, which is at once both the soil and the grave. And, just as the planting of seeds in autumn ensures rebirth in spring, Persephone’s seasonal passage from the Kingdom of the Dead nominates the individual human life as just one season in an endless cycle of death and rebirth. A further signifying element is added by the ingestion of the pomegranate seed. This is evocative of her being inseminated by Hades; thus, the coordination of vegetation cycles with life and death is correlated with secondary transition—that from childhood to adulthood (Kerényi 119–183).In the examples given, we can see how the Homeric Hymn objectifies both the mortal and sexual destiny of the body in terms of thresholds derived from the vegetable world. Moreover, this mapping is not merely an intellectual exercise. Its emotional and social appeal is visible in the fact that the Eleusinian mysteries—which offered the ritual homologue to the Homeric Hymn to Demeter—persisted from the Mycenaean period to 396 CE, one of the longest recorded durations for any ritual (Ferguson 254–9; Cosmopoulos 1–24). In sum, then, classical myth provided a precedent for treating the body as a vegetable object—most often, a seed—that would, in turn, have driven the move towards inhumation as an important mortuary practice. The result is to create a ritual form that makes key aspects of human experience intelligible by connecting them with cyclical processes like the seasons of the year, the harvesting of crops, and the intergenerational oscillation between the roles of parent and child. Indeed, this pattern remains visible in the germination metaphors and burial practices of contemporary religions such as Christianity, which draw heavily on the symbolism associated with mystery cults like that at Eleusis (Nock 177–213).ConclusionWe acknowledge that our examples offer a limited reflection of the ethnographic and archaeological data, and that they need to be expanded to a much greater degree if they are to be more than merely suggestive. Nevertheless, suggestiveness has its value, too, and we submit that the speculations explored here may well offer a useful starting point for a larger survey. In particular, they showcase how a recurring existential anxiety concerning death—involving the fear of loss of personal identity and kinship relations—is addressed by different ways of objectifying the body. Given that the body is not reducible to the objects with which it is identified, these objectifications can never be entirely successful in negotiating the boundary between life and death. In the words of Jon Davies, “there is simply no let-up in the efforts by human beings to transcend this boundary, no matter how poignantly each failure seemed to reinforce it” (128). For this reason, we can expect that the record will be replete with conceptual and cognitive schemes that mediate the experience of death.At a more general level, it should also be clear that our understanding of human corporeality is rewarded by the study of mortuary practices. 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