My dreams are violent, morbid and often reoccurring. Rarely do I have a dream of sunshine and puppies, celebrations and successes.
A friend shot in the neck through a screen door.
My mom ran over by a train.
My two youngest children have gone missing.
Panic stricken, anxiety-ridden dreams that have me out of breath, crying in my sleep, crying when I wake. What a mess.
I suppose I could have lied and said that my dreams are infinite in their glitter and unicorns. But I’m just not a very good liar.
My dreams are a constant reminder of how my anxiety and depression seep into the recesses of my brain.
Even when it feels as though I am conquering it all, my dreams are there to remind me how fucked up my sub-conscience remains. Damn it, I try so hard. You know, think good thoughts, think good thoughts.
I do. I swear it. How can these dreams be when my soul is happy, my spirit is grateful? I don’t want to catch these dreams. I want to send them straight back, like bats out of hell, to where they came from and shout that I won’t stand for the infiltration.
I won’t stand for trying and seeking goodness, and wanting to BE goodness only to have to surrender unwillingly in the night.