Dream Analysis #2


WARNING: Discussion of sexual abuse, pornography, and grooming. Also ambivalence regarding such. Triggery stuff for some.

I think i know this face. As soon as i saw it, i felt like my entire body was singing with electricity. There is a back story to this and i’ll try to tell what i can.

My mother fell in love (or whatever approximated love for her) with a married man. I remember him coming to the house and they would go to her room while i was watching telly. I knew, based on my already long history of abuse, that they were having sex, but my dissociative nature was just as well established, and so i didn’t mark it or think about it at all. After a time of him visiting us regularly, i found myself calling him “Daddy”, and he would talk to me before he retired (/s) to my mom’s bedroom. He started bringing me presents, too. Most often it was candy or chocolate, but he brought the occasional stuffie, too.

The day eventually came when they brought me back to my mother’s bedroom with them. Details aren’t necessary or helpful, but it’s important to state that things escalated exponentially from there. He drew my mother and i into a world of drugs and sexual abuse. I don’t know how she met him, but my guess is that it happened through her contacts with people she was selling/renting me to. A lot of this is guess work, so i might very well be wrong – this is just me trying to piece together my memories and make some sense from them. I guess that she loved him, because i never in my life witnessed anyone else being able to tell her what to do, or wield any sort of power over her. I have very clear memories of Daddy yelling at her, and her crying and begging his forgiveness. He forbade her from prostituting me to anyone. From what i recall, it would seem he’d already told her that, but she’d continued and he’d found out.
I just went from being used by her contacts to his.

He and my mother attended the same church. It was some weird, non-Christian religion that i won’t name. She told me i wasn’t allowed to talk to him at church, EVER, and there was an unnaturally sophisticated part of me that understood why. He sat with a woman, and 2 boys and 1 girl. I knew that was his wife and children. I’d heard her phone calls at night where she’d sob and shriek and beg at him.

I share this because i (sort of?) recognise the face of the man in my nightmare sending me chat requests. He looks younger than the man i called Daddy, and older than his oldest son. His oldest son started talking to me after services, when everyone went down to the basement for cake and coffee. He was older than me by a significant margin, but i don’t know how much. He was definitely at the tail end of puberty, and i was 5 or 6. I would always sit in a chair by the stairs that led back up to the main floor (to this day i always need to be near/facing the quickest means of exit), eating cake and drinking Tang or Kool-Aid. He started by bringing me a second piece of cake.

It was a savvy move, although i can’t be sure that he’d thought things out that craftily. I was starved on the regular, but i also knew if i ate more than 1 piece of cake that my mother would beat me when we got home. I only ever took 1 piece of cake/sweet bread/muffin/whatever after services. He’d sidle up to me with 2 or 3 on a napkin, exclaim he took too much, and hand me 1 of them without even asking. I thought he was handsome and smart and funny. He made me laugh and said i was a “cutie-pie.” He was my first crush. Well, maybe my second, because i was head-over-heels in love with my mother’s brother. It was utterly guileless and sweet and without any thought of kissing or boyfriend-girlfriend stuff… But yeah, that sort of lovely naive adoration.

My uncle never did anything even remotely untoward. My “Daddy’s” oldest son started in on me within weeks of bringing me cake. The grownups would be chatting animatedly at long, wooden tables, all of them with styrofoam cups of coffee, and snatching treats off of fancy plates, laid down the middle. He said he wanted to “show me something.” It was pornography, of course. We would sit in 1 of the back rooms where they held Sunday school, and he would flip through pornographic magazines and make light commentary while doing so.
“What do you think of this?”
“Wow, hahaha, look at THAT!”
And i, as the multiple that i was, would play along the way i thought he wanted me to. Affecting a precociousness borne of being raped since before i could speak.

I don’t know if he knew of his father’s relationship with my mother. I don’t know if he was consciously grooming me. What i know is that i dissociated from sex and abuse and any mixture of the 2 – so all i knew was that this handsome boy was paying attention to me and saying nice things. He made me feel like a princess. My sexuality had already been awakened too early, so it’s not shocking that he made me blush and made my girl parts swell and tingle.

He began molesting me within weeks, and i liked it. I wanted him to.
This is what sexual abuse did to me. I’d already been groomed for him, by so many others. He barely had to smile at me. One piece of cake and i was his.
I won’t be detailing how far it went or describing the things he did. This blog is not for that.
I don’t know how long it went on for, but i do know my mother’s relationship with his father was getting rocky when he sent us to another city, thus ending his son’s access to me. As far as i can recall, we never went back to that church.

I did see the boy again. I know what the final, most disturbing scene means now.
I know i’m coming off super dramatic (because i am), but i won’t be writing about that part. No one should have to carry those images, that knowledge, unless they must.

I know why i dreamed of men falling out of the sky the next day, and i will share about that. It’s easy.
There were so many. So many.
They fell out of the sky and onto me and i was hollow inside.

The first dream is about the shame that i carry for “falling in love” with an abuser. It connotes my ambiguity as a child, living through trauma. The ugly truth of it that, a part of me preferred, even wanted, the sexual abuse, because (not often, but sometimes) it felt better than being beaten and starved and humiliated.

I think maybe my second dream was a gift from my weird brain – from my system, to me. I always struggle with feelings of inadequacy and guilt. That i haven’t accomplished much of anything, and i’ve made so many mistakes, and i’m so often barely functional…

There were so many.
I don’t know why i’m so damn hard on myself, because times like this –when i’m looking at it all– i’m shocked that i survived it. Even being a multiple and my brain hiding the sex stuff, the things that i’ve fully and consciously remembered all along were horrific.

As soon as i started typing, the truth of the dream started pouring out of me. I want to be completely honest and up front with you all, and i feel i must disclose that i drank a 6-pack before i could even touch the goddamn keyboard.
I will not be going on a bender.
I just leaned on the tried and true because i knew it needed to come out and i kept actively fighting it. I greased the wheels. I’m not proud of it, but i won’t ever lie on this blog – by omission or otherwise.

I’m going to cruise YouTube and shnuggle my doggo and my hubs.

Life is better lived with clarity,
~H~

IMAGE: Toa Heftiba

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Sunday, September 20, 2020: I’m adding on a bit more. I rushed to complete this yesterday, and everything was pouring out quickly once i started bashing away on my Notepad.

I think it’s significant that i was taking care of children (a common motif in my dreams). There were 4 boys, ranging in age from around 4 – 10yrs old. The oldest looked a bit like my real life nephew, but i might be reaching there. In the dream they were my SIL’s sons, and i was freaking out because i knew she’d be justifiably upset that they’d been exposed to such violent and sexual imagery. I haven’t quite figured out/decided if everyone being male except for me –in both dreams– is significant. I present very femme, but have some strong traits that were traditionally identified as masculine. Plus, i always test as androgynous (not just online silly ones, i’ve taken psychiatric tests in hospital). I’ve always felt very “girly-girl” inside, and despite being Amazon-sized, i’ve never been mistaken for a boy. I do however, have 2 in my system that are male. One of them is a manifestation of pure rage, and the other disappeared a couple of years ago along with another. Their disappearance precipitated my return to therapy.

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ETA on October 6, 2020: DUH! I’m the one that’s angry that >>i<< was exposed to pornography! Of course! Man, my brain writes a layered story, eh?

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I think the hacking part is quite significant and deserves some commentary. I hacked my own mind, in a way. The personality part of my brain broke into parts of my deeper functions at infancy (i think – no proof, just speculation on my part) and accessed inner abilities. From there i could split off into pieces in order to survive what was happening to me. I’ve read scads and reams of information on memory and so i know all of this is nebulous at best, but i’m unescapably drawn to doing it, and it seems to help, so i’m going to keep doing it until my results stop, or stop being helpful.

I think i’d already accomplished splitting off before i could speak. I think this because i have a crystal clear memory of laying on the couch and looking up at my maternal grandfather sitting beside me. He was laughing and talking to someone sitting directly across from him, but i either didn’t see who it was, or my memory just doesn’t include that information. I felt happy and i could feel my legs kicking and my face smiling. Years later i related the memory to my mother, who went immediately to a bookshelf and pulled out the photo album she had of my first 3 or 4yrs. She said, “You’re just internalising this picture as a memory. You were 9mos old.”

Sure enough, it was exactly what i’d described. However now, looking back on all the events that i have, and reading and studying so much scientifically based information on the nature of memories, i have some basis for doubt. The memory doesn’t come with words, only emotion. I can hear my grandpa talking, but i don’t understand what he’s saying (he only spoke English). Further, as someone who has long and much experience in learning how to separate dreams from actual memories that were hiding in my brain, and were merely disguised as dreams, i can now easily tell the difference. The memories where i was drugged are fuzzy and feel fluffy in my brain. The memories where i was not under the influence are sharper and feel crispy-crackly. Significant data exists to show that an alters’ memory can be nearly eidetic. Legitimate dreams may feel either way, but they’re the easiest to discern because there will always be something bizarre (TVs and computer monitors keep popping up where they weren’t before), or something impossible (it’s raining men), or something that doesn’t jibe with my real life remembered history (my SIL doesn’t have 4 sons), for which i have tangible evidence.

This is the tough part; the reason i felt compelled to add a bit more onto this analysis. My brain was also hacked by other people. This is a sketchy and controversial area to wade into, but i’m already neck deep in stuff many (including professionals in the field), don’t believe in, or reserve judgment based on what they see as insufficient evidence for them to accept it as true. Multiplicity, memories, lucid dreaming, a bunch of paedophiles and disgusting sexual opportunists that know each other and help each other and maybe even hang out. So yeah… I’m gonna go there.

It is my firm belief that many of my abusers knew i was a multiple. I also believe they knew how to MAKE them. This is based on memories i have of abusers calling me names that weren’t my name and realising years later that they were the names of some of the parts in my system. I remember some of the things that abusers would say to each other in front of me that i didn’t understand at the time. Things like, “It’s all good when she faints and then opens her eyes.” And my mother on the phone, telling someone what name to call me, or reassuring them that i won’t rat them out because i never remember.
They hacked into my brain and accessed certain parts, and made other parts that were closer to their personal grocery lists of what they wanted in a victim.

Yes, i’m aware i’m flying around in cuckoobird territory.
And yes, i might be wrong.
But i don’t think so.

I think i’m done with this dream now. Maybe. Hopefully.

Y’all take care of yourselves as best you can, y’hear?
~H~

Stuck

I’ve spent the last week filled with dread and unable to write. Every time i click [+Write], i’m stuck. Initially i wasn’t sure what the problem was, but that’s not entirely true. Being as dissociative as i am, the knowledge was there, i was just afraid and instinctively pushing it away from my consciousness. By midweek i cried uncle and admitted to myself what’s going on…
Dream #2 is going on.

There is something there that i genuinely can’t access right now. Not without analysing it. And i have this feeling that i don’t want to know what it is. I call it a dream, but it was a nightmare. It’s the worst nightmare i’ve had in years, probably since i was going through disclosing my abuse history. The night after i had it, i had the first semi-lucid dream i’d had in weeks. I was in acres of lush green meadow grass, soft and warm and full of that incredible smell. The sun was high and gorgeous and golden, and i gazed up at it in awe.

Then something large and dark caught my eye. I could see it was falling towards me, and falling fast. It thunked heavily on the ground next to me and it was a man. And then suddenly, it was raining men, literally, and even as i write this, my dark sense of humour is not kicking in. It was horrific. They were coming down all around me, hitting the grass and making sounds like when you knock on a large melon, or drop a heavy stone on freshly laid sod. The meadow was filling with them and i knew 1 would eventually land on me.

Like i did when i’d first learned lucid dreaming as a child, i knelt down, put my head on my knees and cupped my hands around my face to keep the light/the sight of it all, out of even my peripheral vision. Then i squeezed my eyes shut as tightly as i could and i said, NO, i don’t want to be here. I’m going to WAKE UP RIGHT NOW!! And i willed myself awake. There is a literal pulling sensation inside me, like waking up from anaesthetic; i feel drugged and heavy-limbed.

When i was fully awake i felt the dread i’d felt the night before, and i knew they were connected. I felt sick to my stomach again. I felt that gnawing pit down inside me yawn wider.

I sit in front of this blank white screen and i sense doom approaching. The other shoe is about to drop. I can’t explain it, but i just KNOW. I never repressed my memories per se, my brain hid them from me, disguised as dreams/nightmares/night terrors. It has been my belief that i know everything i can know about my past at this point. It took a long time to separate dreams from memories, and then memories from drug-induced hallucinations and imaginings (i was often drugged during the abuse: alcohol, depressants, and even stimulants and hallucinogenics).

I keep myself busy and try to keep my spirits up during the day, but by the time my husband comes home from work i’m exhausted from the effort. I spend the evenings feeling myself slide around inside my brain, and have fully switched out a couple of nights. I decided that it’s got to come out, lest i find myself crawling back into a bottle.

I’m setting myself up for the best outcome. I won’t be tackling the dream/s until my husband has the day off. I’ve bribed my system with promises of things they like to do after it’s done. (They’re children after all, and i found bribery a very effective tool with my sons, on occasion.) I’m talking to my system more, and at peak mindfulness. I’m establishing trust, but also asserting my place as the mama/head monkey in charge of this circus. They live in my brain, and they are all me, so it’s no secret that i’m very afraid (not all are developed enough to know anything about anything – they are a feeling, or a moment in time), but i also have a solid reputation as one who can and will do the thing anyway. I remind myself (selves) that i lived through it, and if i can survive that, i can survive looking at it and thinking about it and dealing with all of the fallout. ALL of it. I’m hella capable, and so far in this life i have never given up – i don’t intend to start now.

I don’t know what’s going to happen, but i do know that if i try to run from this or quash it, it’s just gonna keep getting bigger and sucking more of my precious energies into that ever-widening maw in my gut. Eventually it will either drive me into more dangerous switched behaviours, or i will go on an epic bender and/or wind up hospitalised. I know how i work, so i’ve got that goin’ for me. Heh.

That was almost a joke.

I will stare this in the face and learn what it has to teach/tell me.
I’ll feel the pain, i’ll grip the rage tightly in my savage breast and roar my way through, and i’ll embrace the wrenching sobs that i know are coming after.
This is the process; to feel what i feel while knowing what i know.
(I’m my own life coach, woohoo!)

Ah, there’s my sense of humour.
It never leaves me for long.

Love and Peace,
~H~

IMAGE: Alex Iby

Dream Analysis: #3

I won’t be going point by point quite like it did in Dream Shifts, Pt II. This dream wasn’t filled with so much specific symbology, i don’t think. I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s more of an overall commentary, rather than, this guy represents x, and this event represents y.

That being said, it is powerful, powerful imagery for me, and representative of a number of things. It is my brain diorama, a dream box, a mind play, representative of dichotomy, otherness, and conflict in my life.

I find the setting of an unofficially segregated graduation celebration most telling.
These children are celebrating the fact that they accomplished a great and difficult task. And yes, i call them children now, as i analyse the situation. I’m in my 50s and, as a parent, i know that if i’d lost one of my boys in their teen years, i would have wept and mourned them as children. In the scope of the bigger picture, older adults know that they are, indeed, children. The age my country ascribes to legal adulthood is arbitrary, and only necessary within our societal construct in order to maintain our current political framework. I mean, what i’m saying is we have to pick an age, because reasons. Because laws. Anyone in their 30s surely recognises that an 18yr old is still a child. Or at least in my opinion, they should be considered still children in some ways. I think of those years of say, 17-21 as transitional years. Still and all, i’d say adult maybe, but mature? Not necessarily.
So yeah, to me, which is what’s important to the analysis because it is my dream after all, they are children.

Back to the segregation of the white from the black children.
Why is it that they can all come together and party in the same place, but they cannot intermingle? This speaks to me of a number of my life issues. One, my mother instilling in me that we had to act “normal” and “fit in” around others, but her insistence that we were NOT like other people. She taught me that we were better: smarter and more evolved, and that other people weren’t capable of understand our ways because of it. A manipulation cleverly designed to hide the abuse, of course. Another issue this brings up for me is the othering that children do in school. There were rich and poor kids, advanced classes and remedial, which was decided by teachers sure, but you better believe kids understood the difference, and the crueler ones played on it. Then there was attractive and not attractive, which wasn’t necessarily based on actual looks (although it could be), but often more on if you were rich, or popular, or –as in the case of so many small towns whose schools i attended– if your family was well-established.

I don’t say this to be ignorant, but my 10yr high school reunion was an eye-opener. I had enough time and distance to see things through a different lens, and wow. Those that we’d held up as the most attractive and sought-after… I will diplomatically say that it wasn’t always the case. I will also further state, to save myself from being an arse like they were to me, that attractiveness is personal, arbitrary, and based on any number of criteria. And although i’m speaking from a purely aesthetic sense here, it is still and ever shall be, in the eye of the beholder. It’s just that i was treated as ugly, while others were touted as the most. gorgeous. EVER. I’m not ugly, and many of my fellow students that were likewise treated were not, either.

As i’ve grown and let go of a lot of the bullying i received growing up, i’ve found the lens through which i view physical attractiveness, is highly influenced by that person’s treatment of others. There’s a general sort of appeal to an aesthetic for me, but if a person is truly good and kind –even if initially i found their physical looks unremarkable– i find myself seeing them as more and more attractive.
That’s just me, though.

A more airy-fairy sort of interpretation is about my light and my dark. My conscious me and my subconscious me. My belief that i was one, and the truth that i am many. I want to be very clear here that this is just my brain and a dream. I’m not even distinguishing which group was light and which dark, which was conscious/subconscious. In the dream, the black children were stoic. I’m not sure what that speaks to. Is it just a reflection of some biases from my past? (My mother a vicious racist.) Is it my absorption of cultural, racial stereotyping from my past and my community? (I grew up in the 80s, in an area where there were almost no black or brown people, but plenty of uninformed opinions about said people.) I’m not sure, but i’m open to knowing. I’m not going to go on any further in that regard, because this is about my dream analysis, and my blog is not for socio-political issues. Just know that this blog is only about 1 particular aspect of my life, even though that aspect is enmeshed and far-reaching. I am a person who is more than childhood abuse and mental illness. I’m a multifaceted human being with myriad interests and many concerns – just like anyone else. In the dream, the white children were stuck up. I’m white, i grew up not knowing any non-whites except aboriginal people, and i wouldn’t characterise but a few as stuck up. I’m not sure what that means, beyond my brain was using established tropes to try and tell me something.
My brain will tell me if there’s more to it.
I want to know and it wants to tell me. Heh.

The most standout part after the segregation, is the part where i’m told to leave.
That and my reaction to it, seem to vibrate with meaning inside me.
It doesn’t take Freud or Jung or my therapist to tell me what that’s about.

1) You don’t belong here is the story of my life.
I was too poor, too weird, too fat, too mouthy, just tootoo much for everyone, everywhere i went. I was rejected by authority, by peers, by church members, by boys/men, and yes, even though it sounds maudlin and poor-meish – by society in general.

2) I was kicked out of certain areas of my brain for many years.
My system protected me from the truth until my mid-late 30s. I had dreams on and off, dreams that were actually memories, but i didn’t know that for a long time. I remember as a kid, daydreaming and my mind would stray over to a picture of the man i used to call Daddy. He was my mother’s married lover, and my second worst abuser, after her. I had no knowledge of him and what he was doing or what my mother was doing. I was entirely split off from those things. My Bits N’ Pieces were the ones dealing with the sexual abuse. So, i’m woolgathering and his face pops into my head. I’m feeling kind of weird: scared, nauseous, curious… And my brain would, i don’t know, some dissociative things are harder to explain than others. My brain would punt me into another part of my brain. Like, when i was at my babysitter’s house when i was very young, and i accidentally walked in on one of her teenage son’s using the downstairs bathroom (which was the only one i was allowed to use). I could see him sitting on the toilet as i was looking in the large mirror to my right, and he jumped up as quick as you’d think, and slammed the door closed. Like that.

As an adult i was almost always searching for a good therapist. I knew i needed help, i just couldn’t seem to find the right help for me. There were more times than i can remember (because i switch, because i’m a multiple, heh) that the person i was seeing would suggest what was called MPD (multiple personality disorder) at the time, and i would either never go back, or actually get up out of my seat and leave their office.
That was my system telling me, Nah, you need to go.

3) Inner commentary on where i’m at now.
The young, androgynous figure in the mirror is a good representative of where i’m currently at sexually. Although i’m queer, veering far closer to hetero, if i weren’t with my husband i’d consider and be capable of, strong feelings for anyone. I can’t say for sure, because i haven’t put it to the test. It’s my hope to stay in this monogamous, straight relationship for the rest of my life. But as i’ve dealt with the ways that sexual abuse affected me, and found some healing from it, and been able to be a better partner in my marriage, and dealt with my multiplicity… Well, i don’t know how i’d define it at this point. It’s personal and i’m not ready to say anything for sure but… Yeah, the mirror image has some meaning to me.

The Cher song.
My brain loves to irritate me with ear worms/whigs. That is my take on this one. Pfft.

The smug shit who tried to intimidate me.
That’s my mom, for sure, and how i went in anyway, and wiggled my ass at him after, is a sign to me that i’m breaking her control, in every way, more and more. Good stuff.

The sexually active kids in the booths.
I say kids because i don’t want to say children. Because i know what that’s about, and i don’t need to analyse that any further, and this blog doesn’t need any details.

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I think there’s probably more, but i don’t think it matters. I think what this is is just kind of a brain check-in.

Brain: So, you got this, eh? We’re all on the same page, right?

Me: Yeah, this is where we’re at.

Brain: Okay, cool beans.

If you actually read all this, wow. Internet cookie/hero sandwich, whatever. You pick, it’s yours.

Love and Peace,
~H~

Image: Emily Morter





Dream #3

Possible Warning: This dream contains some discussion of race, specifically whites and blacks. I don’t think it’s about that*, but in today’s firecracker/tinderbox atmosphere, you may want to skip it.** It also makes some non-specific references to teenagers having sex in a public place.

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I know i haven’t done any analysis on #2 yet. I’ve decided to let that 1 go for now, as it causes me extreme distress.
Meanwhile i have a dream from this morning very fresh in my mind that i think is significant, so i’m turning my attention to it, for now.

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My friends and i hop a train into downtown for a night of clubbing. We’re having a good time bar and pub hopping, but as we’re heading to a club for some dancing, we learn about a hot ticket that changes our minds.
There’s prom going on at a huge venue, and it’s open to the public. The big draw is that it’s a music high school that’s known for the brilliant rap musicians that’ve been coming out of it. There’s food and drink for the purchase of a ticket, and then you can catch some fresh new stuff done by up and comers.

We’re all keen and quickly pay up and head in. It’s packed, with white and black youths alike, but i do make a passing observance that they seem to be sticking in groups of their own race. That’s not entirely unheard of in my world, so i head to where the main stage is. There are 3 black youths on stage, engaged in a rap battle. They’re all amazing. My friends are content to hang back, but i want to get closer.
I do the thing i’m so good at during concerts and other crowded events/spaces, which is dodging people to get where i want to go. It’s a skill i came to as an Amazon-size female. Especially when i was heavier, i was almost invisible to the people around me, and i unconsciously turned both things to my advantage. I walk so fast most people find it hard to keep up with me when i’m going full throttle.
I stride through open spaces in a flash, expertly turning into little empty spots and then taking large, fast strides again. I’m like that annoying car during rush hour, moving in and out of lanes. Except i don’t have the potential to kill people, and i actually get somewhere. Heh.

Once up at the front i listen for a while and then decide to get some refreshments. I see the kitchen is stage left and head in that direction, thinking i’ll see a serving area close by. I pass a lot of kids heading in various directions, and they’re all taller than me, like pro basketball tall. They’re dressed in the expensive kind of track suits, and i admire all of their footwear (i like shoes). They’re black and their faces are stoic, not one is smiling. That’s not altogether strange i tell myself, but it IS a graduation reception, and people are usually smiling and laughing and joking around.

There are full length mirrors lining the wall to my right. I look at myself and smile, This is not a problem. Everything’s fine!
It is a rare thing indeed, for me to see myself in dreams, but i see myself clearly in this one, and in full. I don’t look like myself – not even close. I’m young, not much older than the ones graduating, i’d guess. I’m tall and pale and freckled (okay, that part is correct), and i’m sporting a shoulder-length, strawberry blonde mullet with a little faux hawk. I’m dressed completely in blinding white. Too-big white t-shirt with some black writing on it – sadly, i can’t remember what it said. White, thick jean jacket, highly constructed, and it hangs past my hip area. My jeans are also too big and look like they match the jacket. I’m wearing huge-ass white kicks. The outfit would NOT be cheap. You cannot tell if i’m a male or a female. I smile again at my visage, and note that i look cute.

I veer off at the sight of tables, with young people eating and drinking. Some are standing at a bar where they’re clearly getting food and beverages. It looks cafeteria-style. Cool, don’t have to talk to people, and i head over. I’m distracted by some more music, even better (to me) than watching a rap battle. Someone’s rapping ahead of me, and i can hear percussion and beatboxing. I weave through some tables to get a better look. I watch for only a few seconds before i realise something is wrong. There are tables set in enclave atmospheres, with some privacy screening, similar to what we see today in stores, restaurants, transit systems and the like. On the way closer, i pass a preppy looking white boy who sneers at me.
It’s not the way the tables are set up though, it’s that i can feel stares at my back. They feel like ice. I turn around and sure enough, i’m met with glares from white and black young men – there are no girls.

One of them says, “Man, this place ain’t for you.”
I reply that i like the music, and just wanted to listen.
He says, “Nah, you need to go.”
“Okay,” i say, ” it’s your grad. Congratulations everyone.”

As i make my way out i’m met with pure hostility in every face, except the first preppy white dude, whose smug smile makes me want to punch him. I give him my best 100-watt one, and then as i pass i strut my stuff, just a little.
So he knows he hasn’t gotten to me.

Leaving the food and drink area and its clusters of tables and various kids playing their own music at them, i can suddenly feel how unwelcome, how unwanted i am there. With every step i’m met with turned heads masked with hostility and jabbing at me with icy stares. As i’m walking away, i see half a dozen large, metal doors, swing outward, bleeding kids from another area of the venue. And then i hear the music.

It’s Cher’s Shoop Shoop song. Ugh, the most saccharine, worst cover, and my least favourite of Cher’s. (Let’s be clear: i love me some Cher.)
That’s when i notice that everyone pouring through the doors is white.
I think, Is that where i’m supposed to be, then?
But that’s not where i wanted to be – not the music i wanted to hear!

I decide to leave. Don’t wonder where my companions are, because i’m always separated from my friends or whoever i start the dream with. Always. I head towards the door and notice that everyone is white. They’re all sitting at massive tables, in those fancy seats with the velvety coverings and the high backs. The seating is luxe and curves around the table, giving those sitting there some modicum of privacy. Like those booth jobs you see in Vegas, you know the ones? I scan the crowd and they’re all white, and all dressed to the nines: expensive suits, tuxes, obviously tailored, and incredible prom dresses, like they’re all Cinderella at the Ball. I also notice that every single face looks like the kind of smug, arrogant, snotty, schmuck i ever attended school with. Privileged and elitist. Looking for the weak sheep to torture and cut from the herd. Mean girls and bully boys, i call them. They’re the ones who treat you nicely until the teacher leaves the room, or recess, or lunch hour, or after school. Or seeing you at the store or at your job on the weekends.

As i’m shuddering at the thought and making haste for the doors, i hear it. Moaning. I look and see a young woman engaging in sex in her booth. I won’t describe any of the troubling imagery, but it looked extremely uncomfortable, and the booth was filled with male youth cheering them on.
Whatever, i think. I’m not walking past that. I’ll go around the other way.
NOPE. More booths and more kids doing all kinds of stuff that i personally find distasteful at the least, and highly triggering at worst.
I feel trapped and disgusted and hopeless. One particular act makes me feel sick to my stomach.

I wake up and run to the bathroom, the urge to vomit is so strong.

**********

*Upon writing it all out, it is CLEARLY about racial tension and segregation. Is it a metaphor for something in my life? I’ll work on that tomorrow.

**Also a gentle reminder that my blog isn’t a place for heated discussions or arguments. Thank you for your kind respect.

Image: Efren Barahona

Dream #2

WARNING: Relates an extremely disturbing dream involving sex, violence, and animals. This post could be highly triggering for some. Make sure you have your support stuffs in place if you decide to read.

**********

As i’ve stated many times, sleep has been an issue for the entirety of my life. It’s been so difficult that even my abusive mother sought treatment for me as a child. Granted, it was only because my screams regularly interrupted her own sleep, and also likely because she was keen to hide the abuse going on, but still. I couldn’t sleep, and when i could, i was plagued with nightmares. The doctor said i was suffering from “night terrors” and sent me to a psychologist or psychiatrist of some stripe. He taught me relaxation techniques, and told me about lucid dreaming. From him i learned to realise when i was in a dream and be proactive – whether that was to take charge within the dream, or just to wake myself up. It’s an invaluable skill that i’ve used throughout my 50+yrs.

Recently though, i’ve lost the ability to know i’m dreaming, and i’m troubled. I don’t know why this has happened, but over the last few months of intense dreaming, i’ve only known it was a dream a couple of times. I need the control back, as these sleep-movies have turned decidedly nightmarish, so i’ve begun journalling them again. I’m looking for clarity and control. They’ve become so problematic that my insomnia has returned, full force, which in turn makes managing my mental health issues that much harder. I can lose my shit, as it were, in mere seconds. I simply don’t have the energy to be mindful and considerate.
I need that lucidity to continue this work. So i’m taking a careful look at the dreams that don’t fade. I think the ones i can’t shake might be trying to tell me something.

This dream, unlike the last one, is a straight up nightmare. I’m going to restate my initial warning: this is awful and distressing and chock full of potential triggers. If you are a victim/survivor of sexual abuse, make sure you have your supports in place if you decide to read this. My dream journal isn’t for everyone. It’s mostly for me, but i share it just in case it helps someone out there to know they aren’t alone. My brain’s machinations produce twisted, scary stories to tell me while i sleep.

Dream #2

My husband and i are at home (i don’t recognise the house), and we’re taking care of our nephews on his side. That’s weird, because there’s only one IRL, but in my dream there are 3 or 4. It’s almost Christmas, and although hubs and i don’t celebrate religious holidays, in the dream we’re decorating and planning a big meal for the kids. They’ve brought all of their computer and gaming equipment, which they’ve set up in our living room. It takes up all the space, to the point where it’s hard to move around.

My husband is preparing something in the kitchen, and the boys are gaming and talking animatedly to me and to each other. I’m futzing around on my own laptop, when i get a DM request. It’s from a man, and i’m instantly brittle and electric. I can feel the evil coming from his screen shot. I quickly click it closed and ignore it, going back to my social media and games, etcetera. One of the boys says something to me, and when i look back at my screen, the request is there again.
Hey, wanna chat?
I want to show you something.

My guts churn and i click it closed again, but it pops right back up, immediately. His profile pic is only the top of his face, gazing over something. His hair is dark and curly and his eyes seem to be looking right at me. I click it closed once more, and this time 2 identical windows pop up.
Hey, wanna chat?
I want to show you something.
I think you’ll really like it.

I click them both closed and 1 of my nephews, the 1 i actually have IRL (he’s maybe 13, but he’s actually grown up, now) says, Hey Auntie, would you be mad if i wanted to go home? I say No, not at all, let me help you get your stuff together. We go over to his setup, which has 2 monitors, and i see the chat invitation on both of his screens. I immediately run back to my laptop and see a half dozen chat requests, all him, all saying the same thing. I exclaim, OMG, i think i’ve been hacked!

I try to click them all closed, but my hand is moving so slow, like it’s asleep. More chat windows are popping up, and he’s texting more things.
Would you like to see this?
This is very interesting.
I want you to look at it.
My guts feel like there’s a lead balloon floating around inside. I yell at my husband, Come and help me, i’ve been hacked! I look up and all of my nephews’ screens have the request on them, multiple times.

I run into the kitchen and beg the hubs to come and help me. He smiles inanely at me and assures me that he doesn’t mind taking our nephew back home. He says, I need a litre of vodka for this ceviche anyway. I look down and he’s throwing shrimp and scallops into a camping style cooler. It stinks and the fish doesn’t look right. Exasperated, i run back into the living room and try to close all the open chat windows on my computer.
I can’t, and he starts sending me pictures.
They’re pornographic in nature.
I scream at my husband in the kitchen to come and help me because i’ve been hacked. Then i notice that the images are showing up on my nephews’ screens, as well. I immediately freak out because 1, they’re porn, and 2, my sister-in-law will KILL me for exposing them to pornography. Every screen i look at has pornographic imagery, and at the top of every screen is his chat invitation. His face. His eyes, looking at me.

I start grabbing blankets and towels and trying to drape them over the boys’ computer screens, but they won’t stay up. They slip off no matter what i do. The boys are running around the living room and giggling and pointing. And every time i look there are more screens to cover. I suddenly have 2, then 6, then a dozen televisions and monitors in the room, and they’re all showing the porn with his chat at the top.
Hey, wanna chat?
I want to show you something.
I think you’ll really like it.

I’m crying and trying to get the boys to go upstairs and play.
And that’s when the porn escalates.
It becomes extreme.
(I will not be describing these images, save the one that i know i MUST deal with. )
These are a mix of sex and violence and every subgenre of porn that most people find distasteful/disgusting.*

I’m purposefully ignoring them as i frantically rush around the room, screaming for help, that i’ve been hacked, and trying to cover up the screens, in a vain attempt to protect my nephews from the violent sexuality being depicted. And over it all i can hear the ding, ding, ding of more of his texts flooding every screen.

That’s when i’m caught by some of what i see. There are college students in canoes, naked, being pulled into the water. Then they’re on a football field, being chased by men carrying big sticks. They bash any student they can catch, mercilessly, and they lie around on the grass in lumps of flesh and blood.
Ding, ding, ding.
His eyes are looking at me.
Hey, wanna chat?

And as i look away from his gaze i see it. The imagery has become progressively more disturbing and now i see it and cannot look away.

It’s a man and 2 or 3 women. They are lying in a large puddle of mud in the middle of a dirt road in the middle of nowhere. They’re covered in hundreds of hissing black snakes, and they’re hurting dogs. (I won’t be more specific.) The dogs are drowning in the mud, and i scream myself awake.

This dream troubles me so deeply, that i haven’t been able to sleep well since i had it. Every night before i try to rest, i say to my brain, We will NOT be having this dream again. That’s fine; i’ve learned to control my dreaming life somewhat over my lifetime. The problem is it enters my mind every night and fills me with terror and disgust. Just the thought of it makes sleep nigh impossible.

I know i have to figure this one out if i’m to ever enjoy decent, regular sleep again.
I’m afraid of the process here. This kind of thing doesn’t usually scare me that much. I mean, my system kept my memories safe, but hidden in my dreams for years. I’ve had ugly, violent, disturbing dreams ever since i can remember a dream. But there is something about this one that chills me. I think about it during the day. I rue the approach of night. There is something here and i’m afraid of what it is.

That’s enough for now. I’m all wound up and i know sleep will be hard to find tonight, but it’s just gonna have to be that way. I’m already exhausted by the telling of it. I feel see-through and cold in my bones. My brain is sizzling.

I’ll turn my efforts to this tomorrow. Tonight i’m going to distract myself with food and television, and the love of my husband and son. I hope anyone reading this is okay. I fretted about writing it down, let alone sharing it. I think (hope) perhaps, it’s only upsetting to me.

This is my dream journal. It’s weird and also weird (plus a bit weird), but i have a gut feeling that it’s important for me to do this. It’s been my experience that gut feelings aren’t always correct, but they are worth listening to.

While i do currently feel like a live wire (PUN!) i’m hoping i can settle into a place where i can learn what this dream might be trying to tell/teach me.

Hang in there reader, y’hear?
I’m doing my best.
Love and Peace,
~H~

*This is not a judgment. This is not a discussion of pornography. What it is, what it isn’t, what’s okay/not okay. This is a generalisation, and i make it because it’s important to understanding my dream.

Dream Shift, Pt II

My habit is, after a new post has been up for a few hours, i’ll go back and proofread it, one last time. I usually find 1 or 2 errors. This time i found about 10. Wow. This dream has me all thinky and it’s coming from different places all at once. There’s so much chatter in fact, that after i proofread, all sorts of other things occurred to me that i missed discussing, because there was just so dang much! I don’t like to go over 2000 words though, so a second piece is better anyway.

Things that i missed in the first piece:

– more people kept popping up
– the man of the house having a beer with my husband, and then next saying he doesn’t drink
– my husband drinking uncharacteristically
– me being compared to Reese Witherspoon numerous times in my life
– the opulence of the home
– rich people being nice
– the part where the lady of the house gossiped that we were her only neighbours that really liked them anymore, because of some drama started by the woman across the road

**********

I lost myself for a time, which is why i haven’t finished this piece. It was unavoidable. It’s the nature of my current emotional/mental state, coupled with being a multiple. So i read the first part of this piece, “Dream Shifts”, in order to refresh my memory and access the feelings. The problem being, dream journalling requires diligence if it’s to work. It’s a muscle that must be built up. Even the most vivid of dreams can fade in a relatively short period of time. At least, this is what i’ve learned and that’s been my experience.

I’m rereading, and i found 2 more mistakes! Honestly, i’m a bit of a stickler for proofreading. If i find someone has read 1 of my older pieces, i’ll go back for a quick once-over to see if i missed anything the last dozen+ times i checked. I find that interesting. I think it’s good actually, the mistakes, because i think it speaks to how i’m just letting it flow. Stream-of-consciousness isn’t my bag, man. I’m a bit pedantic (no really, because i’m sure you didn’t notice), and if i don’t manage myself strictly, i will agonise once i’ve posted a piece and want to pull it down because i’m afraid no one will like it or get it or be helped by it, etcetera ad nauseum.
Also interesting, and seemingly contrary, is that i proofread, but i don’t edit much. What you read is basically how i wrote it. I’ll move around some words and rearrange a sentence maybe. OH! and i always comb through to try and eliminate as many qualifiers as i can – because i overuse the shit outta those (i’m sure you didn’t notice that, either).

Anyway, back to Over-Analysing My Life: The Dreams Edition.
Heh.

Comments, Thoughts, Meanderings, Ponderings:

I do see more now than i did then.
I think the lady of the house is an amalgam of all the ladies that were ever kind to me. I always felt big and clunky and awkward, graceless and unfeminine. There were a number of women that embodied all the things i thought i would never be, who were varying levels of kind to me. I never quite knew what to do with it. I craved their attention, and i was drawn to them because i wanted to be like them. On the other hand, being around them intensified these negative feelings i had about myself; i felt gross, like i took up too much space, unkempt, because i was a poor girl with lousy hygiene, loud and obnoxious, because i was socially awkward. There were some though, that extended themselves to me with such grace and gentility that i couldn’t help but be around them despite the troubling emotions they brought up in me.

The lady interrupts my mother’s sexual display and my response to it, to give me something girly and frilly of hers. She is giving me some of what she has, that i’ve always wanted so badly. And then she gives me lingerie that symbolises that i CAN start over, that i CAN go back to the beginning. If you’ll pardon me, she’s saying i don’t have to be a sexual rockstar pornstar superstar. That i am fresh and new and unspoilt. Now, i am NOT saying that someone who is sexually violated is spoiled, for that is a vicious lie perpetrated upon us. What i am saying is that i have felt that way, and she was giving me a gift, using symbology i understand (cuz, my dream, right?), that that simply is not true.

And regarding the blustery man, i think he’s more than a representation of how it’s okay to be my bipolar, switchy, slidey, messy, histrionic self. I think he also represents my abusers, who just came in and took from me, and unabashedly, shamelessly, came back and took from me again. In that vein, i believe that the man of the house becomes a much more complicated representation than i’d first thought. He is me, who is actively working on turning away from my abuse so that i might turn my attention to better things. But i think he’s also the embodiment of my Bits N’ Pieces, who just turned my head away from what was happening.

Of course more people kept popping up. That happens in most of my dreams. I’m a multiple – that one’s easy. The only other point i brought up earlier here that i see as significant is the Reese Witherspoon thing. I’d been told more than a few times that i look like her. I always thanked them graciously, but inside i thought they were off their rocker. I’d stare at pictures of her and i could never see it. She is the embodiment of Southern grace and charm, and besides her strong chin and jawline, very delicately featured. And she is lovely. I didn’t see those things in myself – i couldn’t.
I wasn’t ready. I hadn’t done the work.

A few weeks back, a friend of mine told me she’d watched one of Witherspoon’s movies the other night, and said how much she reminded her of me. Again, i went to the pictures, particularly stills of the movie she mentioned. And i’ll be damned if i didn’t see it. Her appearance in my dream is further confirmation that this work i’m doing IS having an effect. The scales on my eyes that i was born with, are falling off. The veil that was placed over me, to hide me, that i thought was my shield but was actually my prison, is slipping off, and it won’t be long…

Oh my, how much i want to believe it won’t be long.
Let’s hold on to that wee bit of hope today, shall we?
That stuff’s in mighty short supply in my life right now, so i’ll take any and all that i can get.

I’m just a fucked up girl looking for my own piece of mind, i’m not perfect.
~ Clementine Kruczynski

If you read this kinda weird stuff, thanks.
Love and Peace,
~H~


Dream Shifts

This post might only be for me, but i’m sharing it just in case. I’ll put it in a new category, labelled Dream Journal. It’s weird, but what’s new?

So, i guess i’m dream-journalling again:

Been struggling with insomnia, and when i can sleep, it’s either for 8, 10, 12hrs, which is uncharacteristic, or frustrated tossing about and cursing, punctuated by brief, unsatisfying dozes.

And always whatever sleep is filled with dreaming, and the days, with headaches. The headaches can be mild, like an ache in the base of my skull that spreads cloudy pain in a band around my forehead. An asteroid belt orbiting my brain. There are worse ones though, and they’ve been more frequent. The band tightens and makes my brain feel like it’s swelling inside my skull, there are screws of intensity at my temples. These days those are near-constant. I can feel my eyeballs, 2 hot stones that bounce around and make my sockets radiate ache.
Plus, my dreams are escalating.

After weeks of struggle, i’m thinking my dreams are telling me they have something to tell me. Maybe they’re trying to get my attention. Weird, not-my-usual sort of dreams have been happening. I’m remembering a lot more of them too, when for years, outside of maybe a dozen or so a year, they were like trying to grab wisps of smoke upon waking.

I spoke of my dreams just a few posts ago, in “Mindful Dreaming”, so this journal will only include mention of dreams or fragments of, that i’ve had since.

Dream #1:

– Husband and i are at the neighbours to pick up something i left the last time i was there. They are wealthy, hospitable people, and invite us to stay for a cool drink by their pool. Hubby obliges with the man of the house, poolside, and i proceed to the kitchen with the lady. She’s kind, petite, elegant, the epitome of gentility and graciousness. We speak as those who don’t know each other well, but like each other much. We bring a plate of snacks out to the men, whose number has grown to 3. I sit beside the one that’s mine, who’s got a 6-pack of beer at his feet, and is tucking into his second. Odd, because he rarely drinks, and when he does, it’s only a couple, enjoyed slowly.

I’m looking around at all the lovely things they have, so tastefully decorated and well-maintained. Then i’m talking to a few other women and we are no longer by the pool, we are in a gorgeous living room. It’s sunken, with deep pile white carpeting. There are banisters providing a broken border on 3 sides. One side provides entrance to a luxe dining area. There are tables laden with an incredible array of desserts, including what look like driftwood logs that have split open long ago and spilled their contents. But the logs are made of chocolate, and what spills out are dozens and dozens of the most delectable looking chocolates – a veritable chocolaterie. And there are exquisite tea cakes of every imagining, served on tiered plates made of fine china and gold. I make a note to GTF over there and get me some as soon as this person stops chattering at me.

One side of the room steps up and opens to a door leading to a hallway, which i know leads to other apartments like this one, although none of the rest have a pool, and this couple has the best apartment of all. (We don’t live there, we live in our own, much more humble home next door.) The door suddenly opens, and this guy comes in, looking like he just walked in from a retirement community in Florida. He’s very animated and blustery, and he emotes to the whole room about how he’s confessing that he’s the one who stole from Mister’s humidor. Further, he states that he’s not sorry, and proceeds to steal another box of cigars and runs back out, giggling gleefully. Mister laughs and says to the group of us, which has become more like a crowd, that he isn’t going to bother himself with that.
At which point, conversations and indulgences resume.

I then hear a voice coming from my right, and i cringe immediately because i know who it is. My mother is sitting in a chair above the sunken area, at one of the openings. I can’t remember exactly what she said, but i know it was bemoaning her life. I see she’s settling in to a speech: she sighs dramatically and stretches back. Her legs open, exposing her panties, and her gathered top comes undone, but she only pays it the barest attention. As she’s sighing deeply and fixing her soulful eyes on us, she makes a half-assed attempt to hold it up with her hand, but it falls open on one side, exposing her breast.
I said something like, This didn’t last long, and get up and head over to “handle” her. I’m burning with embarrassment.

Suddenly Missus gets my attention and hands me a beautiful piece of clothing. Taking it from her and turning it about in my hands i see it’s old fashioned type knickers, but the kind we wore in the 80s, that have a frilly sleeveless top attached. These aren’t ridiculous though, they’re perfectly stitched, frothy perfection. She tells me they’re a bit big for her and she thought that i might like them. I chuckle at her and say, A bit? and Thank you! Then she hands me a piece my own lingerie that i recognise immediately. I wondered aloud how the heck she found them, but that got lost as she handed me more lingerie, all in a rosegold satin pouch. I thought it contained one thing, but it was a complete matching outfit. Tasteful, well made, and obviously expensive. Then i saw there was another one, and another. Every time i finished looking at one, there would be another underneath it. They were all as exquisite and detailed as everything else, and i still remember many, incredibly minute details, which is odd for a dream, i think. I mark as of this writing, that while every outfit i saw was of a different colour: white, cream, gold and black, only one mostly white set, had any red, and that was merely a few stripes along with some black ones. There was nothing aggressively sexual – it was more like the wedding trousseau of a lady of some means.
I also mark that everything was a very average size, and i wasn’t worried about any of it fitting me, which has been the case for most of my life – whether asleep or awake.

I’m holding them up for the assemblage, and a beautiful woman who’s standing over a sofa filled with other ladies and talking animatedly with them, oohs and ahs, and comes for a closer look. It’s Reese Witherspoon, and she’s a dear friend of the lady of the house, and a minor one of mine.

I wake up.

Comments, Thoughts, Meanderings, Ponderings*:

– There is a quality in many of my dreams that particularly stands out in this one. I often have a tonne of backstory with both the people in interact with, and the places i go. I don’t know if it’s like that with other people, as i’ve never asked. In fact, i don’t think i’ve told anyone this before. There are long histories that are very clear and intricate, and well-known to me while dreaming, that mostly fade upon waking. Lately though, i’m starting to remember them, as i have here, although not quite as intense.

For instance, there are 2 trailer parks i’ve visited repeatedly: 1 is my own childhood home, but the other is an old, rundown, and vaguely sinister one with only a few, set far apart, with large, equally unkempt bits of land, where once were kept chickens, maybe rabbits, definitely sad, old dogs on chains in the hot sun. I’ve been there countless times, but never in my waking life.
Thankfully.
I don’t care to visit my childhood one at all, either.
Brains, huh?

– I think it’s obvious all the clothing is significant.

For one, the fact that i don’t fret about my size or the size of the clothes, which are obviously NOT plus-size, speaks volumes to me. It confirms that my image of myself IS changing. The last time i lost a lot of weight, i couldn’t see it. I still had what i now refer to as “fat eyes”. It’s like how i see other friends looking at pictures of themselves from years ago and saying God, i thought i was so fat back then, but i sure wish i was that weight now. Poor self-image, coupled with eating, food, and body/sex issues, made sure i basically couldn’t see myself realistically.
Screw lousy parents, and screw mean girls and bully boys, too.
Just sayin’.

For another, i think it’s significant that everything is tasteful and demure (as far as lingerie goes, heh) and beautifully made, and very expensive. Except the panties of mine that she found. They were more bold, say? Some might say bawdy. This lovely, sweet and elegant lady that everyone liked, was giving me something of hers, and then an incredibly generous gift of so much more. As i stated some time back in my piece about my husband’s and my relationship regarding intimacy (it wasn’t a big TMI, it was more vague references and euphemisms, also heh), we have stripped ourselves back to our beginnings, to figure out what we like/want, and don’t like/want; that includes as sexual beings. I won’t get too personal here, except to say i’m experiencing myself in a way expressed by those pretty, frilly, softly coloured, luxurious items.
I think it speaks both to who i am, and what i’m worth.

– Next, what about the barging in, rude dude?

About this, i have no clear inclination. I’ll have to marinate in all the questions i have for a bit. It’s like no one was put out by his loudness, or brashness, or confession, or his continued inappropriate behaviour. Well now, writing that out certainly gave me some ideas.
That’s why i’m doing this.
Is it me, and that no one minds my mental illness, my strange ways of behaving, my quirks and oddities?
I’m also reminded now that no one reacted to my mother at all.

– Let me tell you about my mother.

Just kidding. I’ve probably shared way too much for anyone’s level of comfortability or interest about my mother, but her appearance in this dream is significant, regardless.
It’s one of her rare appearances where she’s not the size she was when she died, around 500lbs. She was more of her size when i was 6 or 7, i’d guess around 170 or 180 (for 5’8″), which is not much over, in my opinion. She was younger and still had her looks. She was a pretty woman, before what was inside her began rotting her outsides.

She was removed from the rest of us.
She was above us.
She didn’t look at me or address me directly.

I was embarrassed, yes, but it wasn’t like in my childhood. The feeling i had was more like how one might feel when a sick relative who can’t help themselves does something. Like when i’ve been in full mania, walked up to random people, and asked them to score drugs for me. I wasn’t angry, either. She usually pisses me right off in my dreams of late – and i tell her so, which has been therapeutic as heck. But no, i was more resigned to the fact that my afternoon fun was over because i had to get her out of there and take care of her.
Weird.
Weirder still, but easier for me to ken, was the interference of the lady of the house.

Does the first mean that my rage and pain are finally dulling some? I mean, they have faded over years of therapy, but this new work i’m doing has brought the feelings back. It can feel fresh and intense at times. Am i letting go of things? Is my brain doing that, or my body, or both? And if it’s both, is it because i AM mending the connection between them? Something to ponder.

And further, who is the lady of the house?
That will require some time and more writing still, methinks.

Every single night
I endure the flight
Of little wings of white-flamed
Butterflies in my brain
… every single night’s alight with my brain
~ Fiona Apple, Every Single Night


*I’ve titled that as i did, because it’s what my therapist, the wonderful Ms T, asks me at the end of every session. Seems apropos.