Party time: a dream

Last night I dreamed I was at a party.

I was in a hall with a press of other people. It was a welcome home party, but I wasn’t the guest of honor.  The guest of honor was looking for me, though. I was busily trying to dodge her. I didn’t want her to catch me, so I tried hard to not be in her line of sight or be anywhere alone with her. I knew that once she did get me alone, I would have to give her what she wanted from me, or at least talk about it. I didn’t want to do either.

But it required me being constantly on the move. I couldn’t sit down or relax. I was hiding–or trying to–through the entire dream. It got so bad that at some point in the dream (and apparently in real life, considering I woke up coughing and feeling tightness in the chest), I ended up having an asthma attack. But even with my lungs closing in on themselves I had to avoid her.

Perhaps not surprisingly, I woke up feeling tired.

Fill ‘er up: a dream

Last night I dreamed of a gas station for souls.

It looked like a regular gas station: pumps, islands, the place you pay. But instead of the smell of gas there was this green smell; this…life smell. And instead of cars pulling in and getting filled, people would walk up, pay, and then sit down, take the pump into their mouths and suck on them like straws. Over the heads of the people at the pumps, a gauge would flash, letting them know when they were full. Some people needed more of the green smelling stuff in the pumps, some needed less, but they all paid the same amount.

I was at this station with someone I couldn’t quite see. I was guided to the window to pay my shot, but the attendant looked at my by-me-unseen companion and said, “Take her right over.”

There was a buzzing in my ears as I was led to one of the pumps. “Sit,” said my companion.

I sat. The pump was black elastic, and as I looked at it, the buzzing in my ears got louder.  I was told to hurry and fill up, as I didn’t have much time left. As I was about to put the pump in my mouth, my companion took it from me and sprayed the green-smelling but clear fluid directly over me.

It felt cool. It felt green, even thought as it rained down it was clear. I felt into soaking into every cell, I looked over my head and saw my own gauge, but the number didn’t go up. It was stuck on empty, and the buzzing was suddenly maddening.

I was drenched in the clear, green smelling stuff but my gauge wasn’t moving at all. I was beginning to panic.

I woke up still hearing the buzzing.

Undone

I feel like I’m slacking off.

I’ve got a job (finally) and am, at long, long last, making money. I pay rent. I try to be a good roommate. But despite all that, I feel like there’s something else I should be doing.

No, I don’t know what the “something else” is. If I knew, I’d be doing it, right? But it nags me. It’s in my dreams, this sense of something that needs to be done. I think of it when I have quiet time.

So because I can’t  find it, I feel like I’m not living up to expectations. I don’t know whose expectations either. But I’ve been grading myself on Adulthood Matters and, so far, I fail.

Miserably.

The worst part is that I don’t know where to start the unfailing process.

It’s terminal: a dream

Last night I dreamed that I was dying of a disease I got from the computer.

Apparently it was transmitted through an e-mail someone sent me. It was a rapidly progressing disease; I went from fine and dandy to about to die in six hours.

The part I really remember were my last moments. I was lying in bed, and people were visiting. I couldn’t see who the people were, or hear their voices clearly, but I knew they were there for me, to see me off to the afterlife. I couldn’t breathe or talk. I felt like I was trapped in my body.  I wanted, very much, to communicate with the people who had come to see me, but I couldn’t.

I remember this feeling of failure settling over me as I lay there. I knew I was dying, but damn it, I couldn’t talk to anyone! What a waste, I thought.

Those who’ve had near death experiences where they actually feel themselves die say that hearing is the last sense to go. I don’t know if that’s right, but in the dream the last thing I heard before I died was the sound of an email being received.

My last thought was, It begins. Damn it.

 

Marriage thoughts brought to you by Facebook

There’s a comment discussion going on over on Facebook about how to answer when/if your little girl asks you why she can’t marry her father. I know that’s a stage most small children go through and there’s nothing creepy about it, but apparently some of the commenters think it’s incest or perverted or something.

One of the commenters said that a little girl’s father is her first love, her first “crush” so to speak.  That got me thinking.

When I was that young, I never wanted to marry my father, like some girls say. I never even wanted someone like him to marry. Even though I wasn’t sure of all the intricacies of marriage, what I saw did nothing to make me desire it. To me, a marriage was the same thing as selling your soul away to some man in exchange for a roof, food, and a place to put your clothes (recall, I was 5 or 6 making these assumptions, so sex never entered my head).

I looked at my mother’s life married to my father. She never saw any of her friends, never went out by herself or with them. She hardly talked any of her friends, because my father didn’t care for them. She never did the things she wanted to do. When I asked her once when I was a bit older why she never went out for a girls’ night, she looked at me and said “Because your dad doesn’t like that.”

Even to 9 year old me that sounded sad, and I thought she was being stupid.

All her time was taken up catering to him and what he wanted, what he thought. Granted, my dad doesn’t think very deeply about much of anything, but my mother was so busy trying to keep his tantrums at bay that she had no time for herself–and had somehow talked herself into believing she was happy with this situation for years.

I looked at that, and at other marriages I saw (mainly my aunts and uncles). They were all full of unhappy women saddled with the housework and the bill paying and the children while the men got to basically sit on their asses and think and act like they were kings–at least when they weren’t acting like cranky 3 year olds. And the women told us (their daughters/nieces) that this is what a happy marriage looked like!

If being married meant getting stuck with somebody like my dad (or my uncles), if it meant becoming an appendage of my husband, if it meant not living for myself and being a slave,  then I vowed to never be married, to save myself the heartache and brainwashing that those women had obviously had.

My opinion of marriage hasn’t changed much from then, I’m sad to say. It still seems like slavery and a sucker bet most of the time. Have I seen good marriages? I’ve seen marriages that looked good from where I was standing as an outsider. That doesn’t mean anything, though.  I think there are good marriages out there, but they’re few and far between.