| | The stuff of nightmaresThis thing is supposed to be a record of my thoughts. It is an idea that wasn't forced on me, it is what I wanted and expected. Do I still want and expect the same thing? It makes me uncomfortable. I am uncomfortable. Is it the sharing, or the thoughts themselves? Maybe some of both. Or possibly the organization of said thoughts is what holds me back...or the thought or fear that there are no thoughts of my own. Certainly nothing original, nothing of worth.
There are two general feelings that I feel torn between here. On the one hand I feel that I've been through and survived an awful lot in my lifetime. On the other hand I'm not sure if anything has happened. My days go by in a sort of haze, with a gloss of sameness. There is a feeling of "just get through this" and I tell myself often that I will have the time/strength/willpower/energy/gumption to deal with or face issue x, y or z tomorrow, or next week, or whenever. Then I put that emotion or situation on a backburner and try to convince myself that I will certainly deal with it later.
I never do. Never.
There is so much going on, has been for so long...simmering, stewing, roiling, boiling over, burning, it's this hideous mass of inseparable glop. What is it? It's always there waiting for me, and I've no room for anything else. I try to listen, to pay attention to the world and people around me. There is this horrible hissing and smell of burning coming from the kitchen and I am afraid to go in there. I can't do it. I'd rather not eat than be forced to choke down spoonful after spoonful of the vile stuff again.
I dream. I dream that my teeth are shattering, that there is some obstruction in my mouth. I can't speak, I can barely breathe, and I spit, and chew and spit. I dig the stuff out and get rid of it and it just grows right back. I am eating shards of glass, always at a get together of some sort. The place needs to be neat and tidy so that everyone is happy and no one gets hurt. But I can't find the vacuum, or the hostess. So I'm down on my hands and knees scooping little bits of glass off the carpet and pushing them into my mouth, I'll just spit them out later and no one will ever realize what a mess this was. But I can never seem to get all of the little tiny pieces out by myself, and if I ask anyone for help well...they wouldn't enjoy themselves and our little secret would be out. But it doesn't matter anway, even if I did get it all out there is always more glass to be scooped up and hidden away...and I'm the only one who can do it.
I dream my life away. The world passes me by, I barely have the strength to lift my head. I want to look out of my little window, I am curious. But it is hard to take the steps, those few steps to that window.
I dream that I killed a man. There are several variations on the theme, but a couple in particular stand out. In the first and most distressing a man pushes his way into my home and hurts me. I kill him and hide the evidence in the most horrific way. And even as I write it I can't believe that I can even dream such an awful thing let alone write it down.
But write it down I must, because what I have been doing is not living. Somehow I think the living part comes after I purge myself of this poison. I pray that this is so. In this first dream I take the man apart and cook him down piece by piece on my stove. I place what remains in jars, the type my mother used to can with. I tear up a portion of my flooring and hide the jars beneath my house.
Can you imagine my horror upon awakening after having had this dream? What on earth would compel me to have such a hideous dream, not just once, but dozens of times in one form or another?
In the dream of course someone eventually learns of my aquaintance with the man and comes to question me. I assure the people that I have not seen him in ages or whatever it takes to get them out of my house. After they have gone I pull up a floorboard or two and take out a jar.
I don't even know that I can relate the other version. Maybe even this was too much? I cannot believe I have put these words down. Shall I post them? Am I brave enough? Does it matter? What do I gain from this? I don't feel clean. How long will it take and how much of myself must I expose before I start to feel clean? Will I ever?
How do I live my daily life, interact with friends and family, go about mundane chores, hold my children, make love to my husband and all of the things that I do with this hanging over me? (Though it has always been there anyway. But have I made it real, given it life by giving it a voice?) I feel perfectly sane you know. I do not think about death and such things all day long. How have I managed to go on all this time, all these years like this? GAH...I don't KNOW. I better hurry up and post it before I delete it all. I wouldn't blame any subscriber who unsubscribes because of this...I frighten even myself.
I will try, I will try to post again as soon as I am able. Thank you my Pokey One for encouraging me the way that you do. I don't know how you put up with me. I love you.
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| | Posted 12/19/2006 2:46 AM - 5 comments
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