Psychedelic dream of psychedelic-ness

In this dream, I was watching a musical on this old console TV (the ones with the huge buttons and the bunny ear antennas). It was this wild, psychedelic 60s style musical, complete with the Technicolor.

It began with this big, redheaded guy sitting in a barber’s chair. He’s talking to somebody off-screen, saying how he was nervous about this as it was his first haircut in a long time. He turned to the camera and asked how it looks.

It doesn’t look good. In fact, it’s the ugliest haircut.

At this point, the play stops, and the screen asks:




So I click LIE.

The person the guy in the chair was talking to steps on screen. He looks like Archie from the comic books. Archie says that the cut looks amazing, that the girls will attack him in droves, basically just playing to the guy’s ego. The guy in the chair smiles and asks for a mirror so he could see for himself.

When he gets the mirror and sees the monstrosity on his head, the guy goes insane. Yelling, screaming, he totally Hulks out. There was a song about his rage and embarrassment, and while he’s singing about it, he starts zapping people with beams of light.

Archie realizes too late that this guy has superpowers, and he stands dumbfounded as the people who were struck by the beams first turn into animals and then melt into puddles of goo. The redhead with the bad haircut tells Archie that he’ll pay for this, and storms away.

A few weeks go by, and Archie’s sister is shot and killed during a mugging. Archie goes off to find the redhead—who by this time has gotten his hair fixed—and pleads with the guy to use his power to save his sister. There was a very emotional number, with Archie begging and pleading the redhead for help. The redhead declines to help, saying basically that one pain deserves another.

At this point I stop the show. It’s horrible, and I didn’t want to see anymore. I tell the people watching with me that it sucks, and they ask, “What would happen if the guy told Hair Dude the truth?”

I restart the show, and click TELL THE TRUTH when the screen asks.

This time, Archie tells the guy that he can’t let the redhead go out looking like that. The redhead asks for a mirror and agrees when he sees it. He gets it fixed immediately, and there’s a song about how grateful the redhead is to Archie.

When Archie’s sister is shot, Archie goes to the redhead and is telling him about the situation. The redhead tells Archie about his power and says he can bring the sister back, but cautions him that she’ll lose a few years of memory. Archie gratefully agrees (with, of course, a very moving song) and the redhead brings the sister back. The sister is reset mentally to age 18 (she was maybe 21 at the time).

Frustration and depression

I went to the doctor today to get the pin in my pinky out. Alas, the doctor told me my finger’s not quite healed enough for that yet. It frustrates me. My hand feels like there’s a lead weight in it. It’s stiff in the mornings, and sometimes for hours later, exercises or not. It feels like my pinky is dragging behind the other fingers. I can’t quite make a fist, and my grip in that hand is pretty weak. I don’t trust myself to hold anything with real weight in that hand, as I’ll drop it.

I feel depressed. I can’t do my job because of this. I keep feeling that this is my own fault. If I had done something else–anything else–I wouldn’t be here with a deformed hand that may as well be encased in cement for all the use it has. I was just walking to work that day–mentally aligning my day in my head as I went. I didn’t pay attention. I wasn’t watching. Because I wasn’t, I’m sitting here with a worthless hand.

It’s very hard to get up in the morning to go to work–the place where I’m not pulling my weight and being nothing but a drain. I wish I could stay in bed forever. I’d probably be of more use at home. It’s very hard to go to work and put on the mask, to pretend that everything is okay and I’m just fine. I don’t feel fine at all, and every day is a struggle.

There is no peace

I’m sorry to have been away so long. Something major happened to me not long after my last post here, and I’m still dealing with the repercussions of it.

I was mugged on the way to work on the day after Christmas. During the attack, I was flung to the ground and dragged a bit, and during the struggle my left pinky finger was broken and the tendon ripped off the bone. I had surgery last month to reattach the tendon, and have started physical therapy to get things working again.

That’s a very dry recitation of the physical stuff. The emotional journey has stalled, pretty much.

I’m terrified walking to work in the mornings, despite having pepper spray and my neighbor walking with me. I keep feeling like people are going to jump out of the shadows onto me and keep sweeping my eyes left, right, up, down, in front and behind. Once I get to work and the door is locked behind me, the terror doesn’t stop. I jump at every sound, check the door every five seconds, keep thinking I hear people trying to break in. My workplace could stand against the zombie apocalypse, and still I feel unsafe.

You’d think I’d feel better once I was at home, right? You’d be wrong about that. At home I run scenarios in my head, judging what I’d do if someone broke in, what I could use as weapons, escape routes, hiding places. I’ve timed how fast I can escape/hide/fight. Constantly. I’m always checking my doors, seeing if they’re locked, even if I’ve just locked them. I keep scissors within reach all the time when I’m home, in case someone breaks in and I need to fight. I feel unsafe at home, too.

I dream about the mugging all the time. I keep seeing it over and over. In the dreams I keep trying to change it somehow.

I feel guilty all the time. If I had paid more attention, none of this would be happening. I’m useless at my job, and everything is backed up, with everyone else doing more and more to pick up my slack. My hand barely moves unless I concentrate on it. I feel like it will never get better. Nothing will ever be better.

I don’t like being right

Last month, I wrote about my mother posting a soppy declaration on Facebook about my brother on his birthday, about how proud she is of him and all that.

I said to myself later that she’d probably do the same thing on my sister’s birthday.

Well, today is my sister’s birthday, and yes, I was right. She posted a soppy, melodramatic thing (complete with a photo collage) about how somebody told her that when my sister was born she’d be special and a blessing, and how that person was right.

I just…

Again, where was mine? Not the photo collage, as I don’t care about that. But the words, the sentiment? Where were her feelings of soppiness and pride for me? Me, her firstborn? Me, who (according to the story I’ve heard my entire life) she wanted so much and prayed for and “worries” for now? Where was all of that on my goddamn birthday?

If she had the time to pop onto Facebook, make photo collages, think of and write soppy messages on my sibs’ birthdays (on workdays, even!), she could have written a couple words really quick to me on my timeline on my birthday. She had a Facebook page on my birthday. She knew how to use it–especially if she could make fancy photo collages. She even had the time, as my birthday was a Saturday this year.

Why can’t I get her to love me? Why do they always get it? Is it because they marched along and followed the family script? My sister got married and popped out kids. My brother had a few kids and got married. I have no kids (I never wanted them), and have never been married, nor am I particularly interested in being married. Why is that so bad?

What have I done that’s so wrong?

This bothers me–but maybe it shouldn’t

Today is my brother’s birthday.

Before you say “And we care about this because…?” I’ll tell you.

My mom posted on Facebook a photo montage of my brother and some really sappy words saying how proud she was of the man, husband–yes, the Lord of Lassitude finally married the lady he gave that ring to a couple years back–and father he’s become.

Yeah, let that sink in for a minute.

Yes, this is the Lord of Lassitude we’re talking about. The guy who has four kids by three women. The guy who can’t keep a job and blames the fact that he can’t on his possession of black skin. The guy who expects the world to hand him a living on a platter and gets mad when he has to actually–ugh–work.

This is the guy my mother is being all sappy and gushy on Facebook about.

What I’m wondering is: where was *my* gushy Facebook birthday post, Mother? Where were your probably tearful and sappy words talking about how proud you are of me and the fact that I’m holding down a job and a household and have been doing both–with no help from you or anyone else–for a year now? Where are the words about how you’re proud of me and the person I’ve become? Huh?

I’ve managed to have a (somewhat) workable household. I have a job I enjoy. I pay my bills. I do my own taxes. I’m learning to use a sewing machine and to do basic household repairs. Sometime soon, I’m going to start learning to fight with a staff (which is something I’m really looking forward to). All this is stuff I never thought I could do.

My mother doesn’t know the intricacies of my life, but damn it, she knows I can budget and that I know how to work. Why can’t she congratulate me for those things, but can congratulate my brother for the things he’s “accomplished” and the person he’s “become”?

“Your money’s no good here” & tortured: dream doubleplay

A duo for you this time, folks.

In the first dream, I’m wandering a market, trying to sell something. I’d go to a stall, they’d buy whatever it was I was selling, and then I’d request something of theirs. They’d give it to me, but wouldn’t take my money. This happened over and over, at stall after stall. “Your money’s no good here,” they’d say. They were all smiling as they said it, and the overall atmosphere of the dream was good, but I was becoming frantic, running around trying to complete the transactions.

In the second dream, I was being tortured in this medieval torture chamber. I’d been on the rack, had my tongue held in a scold’s bridle, been sat in a witch’s chair. When the dream began, I was being whipped with a cat o’nine tails. The lashes were like fire cutting into my back, and it seemed like each time I screamed, the next lash would be more painful.

Though my back was turned toward whoever was wielding the cat, I could still somehow see that they were dressed completely in black, with a hood covering their face. I was tired and in pain, and wanted only to die so that the pain could stop. I knew somehow that I was waiting for the executioner.

Finally, I heard steps coming toward the room. The heavy wood door opened, and someone came in. During this time, the lashes had been coming steadily, each worse than the one before. But suddenly, the lashes stopped, and I was free.

I thought this odd; I was expecting the executioner to come in and finish me off quickly with little fuss. When I turned around, the person in the mask was being restrained by the executioner, and was being very loudly angry about it. There was screeching about how I needed to be punished, that without it I wouldn’t learn and do better, and ineffective struggles to get away.

The executioner shook the person in the mask and they quieted somewhat. “No more,” said the executioner (still calling them that because that’s what I thought).

Over yelps and protests, the executioner pulled the mask off.

It was my face.

I stared and my twin started spewing more invectives, only to be shaken yet again.

“Look deeper,” said the executioner, and pulled at my twin’s face. It came off like a mask and it was my mother standing there, still spewing abuse.

And I woke up.

Saran wrap me

I feel like I’m seeing the world through a film of Saran wrap. Things happen, and it’s not reaching me.

A couple friends gave me a sort of intervention last night, telling me that things are wrong since the surgery and need to be dealt with. I felt their concern (in some cases, alarm), but it was muffled. It’s like I’m watching it all happen while inside of this plastic suit. I felt their concern but it wasn’t my concern. It should have been and I know it, but it wasn’t.

It’s hard to care about anything. I know I should care, but I don’t have the emotion to give to it. The only thing I really feel is tiredness. I come home from work every day and nap for a couple hours, only to wake up feeling just as tired as before I laid down. I sleep at night and wake up feeling the same.

I feel like I’m running my life on a checklist. Get ready for work tomorrow, set out clothes, close the house, shut things down. Check, check, check. None of it matters. None of it affects me.

Maybe it’s a comfort. Maybe being muffled is a good thing. I’m just tired.

Favorites, favorites everywhere, and all I feel is meh

It’s my favorite time of year, heading into my favorite month (the calendar page for October shows a couple of fuzzy orange kittens hiding in a flower patch/garden, which is too precious). I should be falling over myself with happiness, but all I can muster is a lukewarm “Meh.”

I feel tired. I just had a couple days off, came home from work today and had a nap, but I feel totally exhausted. I had to fight myself in order to get a decent (well…decent-ish) meal into me. I have no energy for much of anything.

I wish I could cry or scream or throw things. But all that takes energy and emotion I don’t have.

It’s not really sleep I want–though it sounds really good and I feel like I could sleep for a few hundred years. I want rest. A simple hour without things bouncing and pinging in my head. An hour of quiet. I don’t even have that when I sleep, what with having an active imagination and being a vivid dreamer.


It’s just emotion, taking me over

I’ve been posting here, but they’ve all been private things, not fit for public consumption. Don’t worry, I’ve not forgotten you.

I got a deck of Tarot cards for my birthday, and I’m trying to learn them. I keep dreaming about the Lovers card and the ace of cups. I’ve dreamed about those cards since the first day I slept with them beneath my pillow. Something scares me about those cards, both separately and together.

I said that to lead into my topic. I’m going to try to talk about emotions here.

I’m afraid of my emotions. Feeling them, having them. I wish I didn’t feel at all. My emotions have done nothing but give me stress and heartache.

There’s just too much of them. I feel too much, too strongly. I always have. Every time I try to feel a little–just a little, since the damn things will out no matter what I want–the whole boiling rears up and I have the devil’s own time trying to wrestle them back into some semblance of order.

I wish I didn’t feel, like I said. I can never feel the right things. My mother always told me that my responses were off and wrong, that I didn’t feel what “normal” people felt; she said it to me today in fact, in passing during a phone conversation.

My feelings are always inappropriate, in the wrong measure, for the wrong things, at the wrong times. I can never figure out when the “right” times are.

They won’t leave me alone. They haunt my dreams and leave me stressed. I wish it would stop.

A thing because I feel jumbled

Because I feel all jumbled up with the surgery coming up–I’ll post about that in a while–I wrote this. I don’t have a title for it.

I cried when you first came at twelve years, eleven months.
My life is done and over, was my first and secret thought.
I tried hard to be friends with you, to accept that you would be
Part of my life for the rest of my life–my preteen mind was blown at that.

Well, that friendship never came off.
You were hard to know, hard to love.
Painful, intrusive, and useless—even then I thought so.

You came to other women with ease, with consideration.
With me that never happened. You were never punctual.
I poured over my calendar the way my mother taught me,
But you never came when I thought. I could never plan for you,
As my mother told me I’d be able to do.

Oh, you were hard to love.

I dreaded your visits. I dreaded even more your attendants,
Bone-deep weariness, waves of sadness, and most of all the pain
That only seemed to grow as I got older.

I dreamed of the day when you would leave me.
You were useless to me; all you gave me was pain
And inconvenience, and embarrassing moments.
I wished—prayed—for your end.

And now, it’s here.

I cry now as you leave me for the last time at thirty-three years, eight months.
I am both glad to see you leave and sad that no more will I have to look forward
With dread, certainly—to your lackadaisical presence.

I’m startled that I feel this way, I who was your enemy for so long.
I salute you, worthy foe.

Thank you for what you gave me, for the things you’ve taught me.
Thank you even for the pain, as pain is the sign of growth.

I salute you, and wish you farewell, until the next go round.