The electricity bill at my house growing up must have been quite a lot, because I rarely slept with the lights off. Lights out meant my dolls would come alive and plot my demise with my beanie babies. Lights out meant that the ghost in my bathtub would wander free. Lights out meant that the demons in my closet would leak sulfur out underneath the door and choke me before coming out to tear me apart.
Lights out meant terror. So I slept with at least one light on, always.
Usually it was the light at the entrance of my room. When you entered my bedchambers, immediately on the right was my bathroom. I hardly used that bathroom because I knew that Bloody Mary awaited me in the mirror and the dead woman from the shining was napping in the bathtub. Plus, a light was always constantly out, so I would use my parents’ bathroom at the other end of the top floor instead. I showered in there, got dressed in there, brushed my teeth in there. Anything to avoid the dead, murderous creatures in my bathroom.
Immediately to the right upon entering my room was the door to my closet. I had a large, walk-in closet that my brothers and I would play lava-monster in: one of us would cover ourselves in a blanket and try to drag other people under the blanket. It was wonderful, but I wouldn’t go in my closet unless everyone who was playing was in my room. I needed witnesses.
So I would leave the entrance light on, knowing that the demons in either adjacent room could not enter the main bedroom without first passing through the light. Upon hitting the light, they would die. So I was safe, until that light went out. Then I would just sleep on the floor in my parents room, sometimes for weeks at a time. As a fourteen year old girl. Yes, you read that right.
I’ve always suffered from extremely vivid nightmares, creations so masochistic and violent that it makes me worry about my subconscious. When I started treatment, my daily anxiety mellowed out immensely, but the nightmares remained.
Last Saturday night, I dreamed about my brothers, my father, and my ex-sig fig from the Blood Clot Era. In the dream was lots of molestation, violence, murder, and ghosts. I woke up crying. I do that a lot.
Dispelling of the psychic pain of night terrors takes at least a week. I have to shake off the sense of foreboding that follows me every where I go. I have to remind myself that reality has nothing to do with where my subconscious attacks me. I have to force myself to accept my anxiety dreams so that I don’t have to live in constant anxiety.
Because of my semi-frequent night terrors, I have become great friends with dream dictionaries and writing them down. I like to try and interpret why my brain is so fucked up sometimes. Dreaming about being molested? It’s a common PTSD symptom of people who have been molested, so, thanks, history for that one. It also suggests I am being taken advantage of, which only fits one character that appeared in the dream. Dreaming of witnessing a murder? That indicates deep-seeded anger towards something, and an aspect of the relationship that you want to destroy. That’s pretty accurate about all the characters, at least in part. Ghosts of live relatives and loved ones? They are no longer in reach, and you are in danger from them. Hmm, for some people, that works perfectly.
Last night, I dreamed about being chased by various flying, stinging insects. And no, I’m not talking about Tea-Party Republicans. But I had to hide from bees, wasps, and hornets. The bees I stood with like Galadriel when she rejects the Ring: I let them swarm around me, as I knew they wouldn’t harm me. Bees symbolize luck, wealth, and creativity. It’s great that they were sent to protect me, and they died fighting for me. Which is a fucked up metaphor. The wasps and hornets? They represent anger towards me, and killing them symbolized my strength. But they overcame and over powered me and most of my bees. I was left with a few dying bees, my dress tattered, curled up in the fetal position under a piece of a barrel in a desert.
What the fuck is that about.