“Fetch Timo!” shouted all the children. Up until then challenging my Year Six pupils to arm wrestling matches had been good fun, but Timo – a member of the other Year Six class who had now appeared in my classroom – was built on an entirely different scale to your average Year Six pupil. He looked at me through his thick glasses with a friendly gaze, sat down opposite me and held out a giant paw. I could think of little worse than being beaten at arm wrestling by a Year Six pupil, but could not help wondering whether there was any way for me to win. I did not want to lose, but there was no avoiding the situation when his arm was already stretched out in front of me. What should I do? I imagined that my arm was a large steel bracket, welded and bolted like the massive steel roof girders which tower over vast railway station concourses. I no longer saw an arm; I only saw a girder staying rigidly in position up in the roof. Timo pressed his hand against the steel girder for a long, long time. When his arm finally trembled, I very slowly tipped the girder over and let it topple under its enormous weight, burying Timo’s arm below the roof of the station concourse. I had won.

“Arm Wrestling” describes a method of muscular stiffening with simultaneous analgesia. The general trance phenomenon of catalepsy is heightened and strengthened by an additional visual/imaginative suggestion, and a similar procedure is followed for the numbing of any pain; as well as the fundamental anaesthetic effect of tranceinduced relaxation, it is implied that a steel girder cannot feel pain. There are certain risks and side effects involved with this story; it took three weeks for the damaged muscle fibres in my arm to heal and the pain to disappear.

(From: Stefan Hammel: Handbook of Therapeutic Storytelling. Sories and Metaphors in Psychotherapy, Child and Family Therapy, Medical Treatment, Coaching and Supervision, Routledge 2019)

One of the games we used to play at school was to stretch a rubber band between two fingers of one hand and then shoot folded bits of paper at the other pupils, or even at the teacher when his back was turned at the blackboard. It was against the school rules, of course, but it was still great fun and a good way of keeping boredom at bay. A sawn-off forked branch and a rubber ring from a preserving jar could be used in a similar way to make a stone catapult, and even now I still often think of these different kinds of catapults.

Sometimes wrinkles appear on my face because I am afraid, annoyed, sympathetic or troubled. I know that if they become a fixed part of my repertoire of facial expressions, in a few years’ time these expressions will turn into basic facial characteristics which determine my neutral appearance regardless of my mood – wrinkles and all. This is not what I want, and it is also not what I need.

My face muscles are like a worry catapult which is stretched between my ears. Whenever my skin tenses up in one spot and forms wrinkles in another, and whenever a particular level of tension has been exceeded, the catapult goes “pop” and the muscles relax. All the worries, all the annoyance, all the anger – catapulted away into time and space. Sometimes they are fired into nothingness, and sometimes they are sent to someone who – unlike me – will give them a good home. The only thing left on my face is a smile, as I know that the worry wrinkles have not made a home for themselves this time.

“The Worry Catapult” is an intervention which can be used at a somatic level to avoid or reduce stress-related facial wrinkles, at an emotional level for relaxation and at a social level to practice new behavioural patterns for dealing with interpersonal stress. The procedure is similar to the “clenched fist” technique, a “method which can be used by a child to ‘throw away’ tension and problems by clenching [and then relaxing] his or her fist.” (Olness & Kohen, 2001.)

(From: Stefan Hammel: Handbook of Therapeutic Storytelling. Sories and Metaphors in Psychotherapy, Child and Family Therapy, Medical Treatment, Coaching and Supervision, Routledge 2019)

My friend Peter belongs to an African drumming group led by a Congolese drummer. The leader was teaching a piece to the group which ends by getting quieter and quieter until the music stops entirely and the drummer’s hand is lying motionless on the drum. The leader lifted his hand away from the drum without making a sound. The other drummers copied him, but each of them made an audible squelch because of the sweat and oil on the skin of their hands. They tried repeatedly to lift their hands soundlessly, but time and time again the leader lifted his hands in complete silence while audible squelches could be heard from the others. In his thoughts, Peter said to his hand, “Dear hand, please absorb all the oil and sweat which is currently on your surface.” Seconds later, he lifted his hand in absolute silence. “How on earth did you manage that?” the others asked hm. Within a matter of seconds, they too could regulate the sweat and grease on their own hands.

As a story or a practical exercise, the story “The Silent Hand” represents an intervention for reducing skin moisture, or in other words for regulating the formation and absorption of oil and perspiration, and reducing the production of dandruff. During therapeutic work with bulimia and emetophobia (fear of vomiting and vomit) the story can be used to teach clients that they have involuntary control over their excretions, even their sweat. For patients suffering from colds (including blocked-up ears), the story can be used metonymically (as an example of an adjacent phenomenon), since it is associatively linked with the idea of reducing the swelling of the mucous membranes and the production of secretions. Finally, the story can be used to teach clients how to influence the production of endogenous substances through suggestion, for example a change in the quantity of tears secreted in the case of patients suffering from dry eyes. The story also illustrates how events experienced by the therapist can be turned into a third-person narrative – which is automatically more detached than a first-person narrative – using the phrase “my friend Peter” (the “My Friend John” technique).

(From: Stefan Hammel: Handbook of Therapeutic Storytelling. Sories and Metaphors in Psychotherapy, Child and Family Therapy, Medical Treatment, Coaching and Supervision, Routledge 2019)

By the time he realised that the melted cheese was far too hot it was too late to spit it out. An intensifying sensation of pain radiated around his mouth. “Keep all cells alive! Keep all cells alive!” he thought suddenly, in the midst of the pain, as though he was calling loudly to his mouth. He repeated the entreaty again and again in his thoughts; “Keep all cells alive!” The pain finally abated, and he probed his mouth with his tongue. Everything felt exactly as it had before – soft and supple. His body had followed his instructions.

An experiment is supposed to have been carried out in the 1960s (apparently successfully) to find out whether blisters could be imagined into existence. I have not been able to find a source for this experiment, but it served as inspiration for the reverse experiment which is described in the story “Keep All Cells Alive”. The modified suggestion “keep all healthy cells alive” can be used during radiation therapy.

(From: Stefan Hammel: Handbook of Therapeutic Storytelling. Sories and Metaphors in Psychotherapy, Child and Family Therapy, Medical Treatment, Coaching and Supervision, Routledge 2019)

Many years ago I had a small round bulge on my thigh, which I ignored for around 18 months. Then I happened to be visiting my GP, and asked him what it was. “It’s a lipoma,” he answered, “a fatty lump. Keep an eye on it. If it doesn’t change it can stay, but if it grows it will have to come out.” I kept a close eye on the lipoma, and it started to grow, for the first time in 18 months. I went back to the GP, who removed it surgically.

Years later I told someone this story in order to highlight the fact that noticing something makes it grow; a small problem can turn into a large one if you pay it a lot of attention. I don’t know whether it was because of this conversation, but two weeks later the lipoma reappeared, at the same spot where a scar indicated that its predecessor had been removed.

“If the lipoma can grow by suggestion, it can also shrink by suggestion,” I thought. I remembered the wart charmer’s old folk remedy; “Rub the wart with spit three times every morning and every evening, using a different finger each time, and repeat three times; ‘Wart, wart, rub away.’” I wondered to myself whether the same would work for a lipoma, and decided to try. The lipoma had disappeared after three days.

Women in Germany continued the traditions of medieval folk medicine by “charming” or “talking away” warts until just a few decades ago (and in rare cases even today). The procedure which is described in the story „Lipoma“ originates from this practice.

(From: Stefan Hammel: Handbook of Therapeutic Storytelling. Sories and Metaphors in Psychotherapy, Child and Family Therapy, Medical Treatment, Coaching and Supervision, Routledge 2019)

“What are you doing?” “I’m painting my wart with nail polish.” “Do you think that will work?” “It worked last time. I imagine to myself that it’s the same medicine from the pharmacy that my friend uses.”

There are various suggestive procedures for removing warts. The dialogue “Wart Remedy” combines several intervention types.

The described method has proved its value on numerous occasions, and works even if the patient does not imagine any medicine, since it shifts the focus of attention to the removal of the wart. The action carries the implication that the wart is equivalent to a fingernail, or in other words that it turns into keratin. Positive connotations are also ascribed to the wart by incorporating it into a cosmetic routine.

A four-year-old boy discovered an effective way of removing a wart by telling it angrily to, “go jump in a lake!” In methodological terms, he was addressing his body with a directive suggestion, and externalising and visualising the wart.

Crasilneck and Hall treat a wart by suggesting that it is becoming colder and colder, or in other words by constricting the blood vessels and reducing the circulation. (Crasilneck & Hall, 1990). Gibbons uses a suggestion of heat concentrating in the wart and triggering the incipient healing. (Gibbons, 1990. Several similar techniques can be found in Olness & Kohen 2001, 272f., 397ff.)

(From: Stefan Hammel: Handbook of Therapeutic Storytelling. Sories and Metaphors in Psychotherapy, Child and Family Therapy, Medical Treatment, Coaching and Supervision, Routledge 2019)

I once had a patient who was an architect and who suffered from Crohn’s disease, an inflammatory bowel disease.

The cortisone preparations and surgical interventions used to treat it had placed an enormous strain on her body. After attending a number of therapy sessions, the disease seemed to have remitted somewhat. I said to her,

“Imagine your body is a magnificent old house awaiting renovation – what does it look like?” She described a Wilhelminian-style villa surrounded by lush greenery, with exquisite stucco work, superb wallpaper and elegant furniture. The house appeared to have been neglected for many years. Wherever the eye turned, there were traces of water damage, cracks in the walls and crumbling plaster. Many of the formerly beautiful features now looked neglected and derelict. “What does the restoration team need to do?” I asked. She listed a number of jobs, and we discussed the order in which they should be done.

I asked for an update on the renovations at each of the following therapy sessions, and was always told that the workmen had made progress. What choice did they have? After all, renovations go forwards, not backwards. Once the woman told me, “The original features in this room have been damaged to the extent that the workmen are unable to restore them faithfully. They replace what is missing to the best of their ability, and try to make it look like it might once have done.” After another few weeks she told me that the renovators had finished their work, and that the villa had been fully renovated.

That was around thirteen years ago, and her state of health has been significantly better ever since.

The case history “The Villa” illustrates the technique of influencing an immune disease or other somatic disorder through metaphorical instructions which imply progress alone and exclude any possibility of relapses. It is also useful for promoting the healing of wounds or bone fractures.

The story relates to a case from 2004 (13-year catamnesis). The metaphor largely excludes the possibility of relapses. Once the brain has accepted the image as being fundamentally relevant to the way in which the body is viewed, it excludes any bodily behaviour which is incompatible with the metaphor. The architect’s profession is used as the source of the metaphor; as illustrated by the story “Sorting Screws”, images and tasks which pick up on aspects of the patient’s identity are more powerful than those which are externally dictated.

On the topic of wound healing and the accelerated healing of bone fractures through auto-suggestion, Milton Erickson describes the case of the US psychiatrist Robert Pearson, who healed his own broken skull completely within a single week. (Rosen, 1982) Erickson refers to studies carried out by a surgeon and psychiatrist who used hypnosis to promote wound healing in every second patient on whom he operated. These patients’ wounds healed more rapidly. (Zeig, 1985, 222).

(From: Stefan Hammel: Handbook of Therapeutic Storytelling. Sories and Metaphors in Psychotherapy, Child and Family Therapy, Medical Treatment, Coaching and Supervision, Routledge 2019)