I am left with the remnants of a dream upon awakening this morning.
In one fragment, I was berated and shamed by my mother in a way that left me confused, sad, and filled with hot tears, when I realized that the reason she was doing this was because she had completely invented a set of circumstances in her head that hadn’t happened. I can’t remember what it was about, exactly. She was berating me for an illusion, one that she believed in. I started yelling at my father, It isn’t even true! She made it all up! I had nothing to do with it! He nodded. I was shaking with anger.
In the next fragment, I was beating some eggs in a bowl when my father said I should go ride my bike up a very dangerous, narrow mountain road, with no shoulder and cars and trucks going by all the time very fast. I said Are you crazy? No way. But it was my father and he thought it was best. He thought it was entirely sensible and necessary. He couldn’t understand why I didn’t want to do it. I said Because I don’t want to die! I don’t want to die! What’s so hard to understand about that? As I was beating the eggs harder and harder, they turned to blood.
(I hasten to add that my parents would not do these things in waking life. They don’t like it if I write about them, but really, this isn’t about them, but about my dream.)
My body is rather tense and anxious—best for me to have a quiet cup of tea and attempt a more soothing emergence into the day. I’ll park these dream bits here and close the laptop.