After an awesome last two day, I came down hard today. I guess I should’ve expected it.
I woke up from a nightmare. I had a brother, or he might’ve been a half-brother or step-brother. He was 8. I loved him, but something was wrong with him. Everyone thought he was this perfect angel, but he kept doing things to hurt me. He would steal things from me, things he knew I needed.
Then he framed me for something really bad–murder, I think. Something bad enough that everyone was chasing me. (Most of my nightmares feature chases as a major element. Sometimes it’s just a straight-up foot pursuit, but a lot of the time it’s complicated, with hiding and disguises and so forth.) I was in a big city, and I knew I couldn’t stop or they’d catch me. I was so tired, though. I’d been running for days, and I just wanted to sleep. I went to this magic building–I’d taken my brother there before all this. It had this stairway that just kept going and going, twisting up and up and up even though from the outside the building was only about three stories tall. But if you could somehow magically get to the top, there was a zen garden, and if I could get in the pond there, I’d be safe. But somehow, in all the running, I’d lost my cane. (In real life, I’ve been pretty dependent on it lately.) I tried to drag myself up by holding onto the banister rail, but I knew I was too slow. The longer you spent in the stairwell, the higher it got, so I needed to be fast, but I just couldn’t.
I was crying, sobbing, as I dragged myself back down all the stairs. Down was much easier than up, but down still hurt too. I tried to hide in a church, mostly dissociated, but they kept trying to lay hands on me to heal me. That just made me panic and shake and dissociate, which they thought meant they were driving the demons out of me. Really I was just alone and terrified, and they wouldn’t stop touching me, their hands all over me.
I got out of the church, but I could barely even walk anymore. I needed to rest, so I thought if I could get a sleeping bag, I could go in the park like the homeless people and sleep, and nobody would think it was me because they’d expect me to be running. So I went to my landlady’s house (where I live in real life) because I knew she had sleeping bags in the basement. I managed to get down to the basement, but then they found me there. There was no way to get away–there’s only one way out, and they were standing there on the wooden steps, standing in front of the door. I was trapped in this dark concrete room, and I was so cold and everything hurt. Still, I tried to keep them from getting me. I limped in circles around the room, leaning against the wall because I couldn’t even hold myself up anymore. But it was hopeless. Finally I just curled up in a corner and dissociated. I knew, distantly, that they were hurting my body, but I wasn’t there and there was nothing I could do to stop it.