I don’t really want to go back to sleep. Waking at 6:00 am, just to cry. And ask Why?
These dreams get so horrible. I have been glad that the emotional turmoil stage has seemed to end, but during my sleep, it has only increased. Now that I cannot afford the marijuana, the dreams are not greatly suppressed, the dreams become as real as reality.
I know my dreams have been crazy all night long, though I can’t remember the themes except for the last one. I awoke several times throughout the night, drenched. So much that I wonder if you can smell it on me, but with my mostly clean eating lately, the sweat doesn’t stink.
If you know my ongoing theme, then this is redundant. However I have not fully or boldly stated, but I claim the fact that I am a healer. The idea permeates my dreams and my waking life. This is all I can think of anymore. I am obsessed.
It is true, real. So real that my life has fallen apart around me. Every thing crumbled. I cannot look at the universe in the same light, or darkness perhaps. Anymore when someone asks about work and what do you want; why haven’t you gotten an engineering job? . . . Because I cannot. It is not meant to be right now.
I am counseling one family, one pair of husband and wife whom has shared in the most intimate way. They’ve told me their nightmares of their past, their secrets, their dreams, and all their struggles. Their problems are unique — unreal, most would think.
Yet, I sit and listen and repeat back to them all too often of how I will never tell another person unless with that of full confidentiality with another counselor. After all, “I am a black box. I’ve thousands of others’ dark secrets”.
People tell me things. Always. My entire life. I’ve thousands of secrets securely stored somewhere in my mind. Rarely to be thought of — never spoken about. I always wonder if this is for me or for them.
The dream that woke me nearly an hour ago stayed firmly in my sight. It may stay all day as a passing thought or continue on for months as a constant reminder of something I’m not aware of.
I have one now in my head, from the moment I typed that, of a baby falling from an attic doorway. The hole in the ceiling where he dangled in freeze-time motion, barely allowing me to catch him before he fell, head first, towards the concrete below. I know that baby who I dearly love. That dream broke my heart that day and I feared of what may come, but it was only a parable or a representation. The baby is no longer a baby, he is much beyond yet I saw it as such. That day, the dream awoke me before I could catch the boy. He remains in the air — one Hell of a Cliffhanger.
Tonight, my dream of a baby. This baby was barely born. Looked severely premature. Unnatural by sight. Likely impossible to have actually been alive or it would seem.
I was there helping people, I recall. Several were helped in the same fashion as I’ve done recently. And then they casually re-focused my attention to this baby in such despair that my heart instantly broke. I had to turn away several times while looking. The sight of the dehydrated skin, the bones of decay, and the overwhelming sense tat nothing could be done. Nothing can help “this” situation. I was lost to the solution — How could there be one at all?
The baby wasn’t in an egg, though it seemed to be. Like a curled up fetus, the decaying baby layed on the table. Just the body, no incubator, no sheets or blankets, nothing but the stainless steel table with a pathetic, dead-looking, rotted baby carcass placed upon.
I just cried. I cried until I awoke. And then I cried again, awake.
I don’t know why I had to see that.
7:06am, February 7th, 2018, Wednesday