11/01/2011

I had a dream that I was a man.  I was in a hotel room, and my girlfriend (wife? lover?) had just shot herself in the bathroom.  It was very graphic, with blood and brain and bone everywhere.  She had been unstable (how did I know that?), and yet  I found her death both shocking and devastating. The gunshot was very loud, and in a hotel, so of course someone heard it and called the police.  They were pounding on the door, yelling at me to open up.  I knew that it was going to look like I had shot her (I don’t know why I was so certain of this, but it was a done deal) so I decided to shuffle off the mortal coil myself.

I was trying to cut my wrists, but as so often happens in dreams, the blade (where did it come from?  I don’t know) wasn’t sharp enough to do any real damage.  One part was fairly sharp, but it was at an awkward angle.  I was making some progress, but not what I needed.

There was desperation, and despair, and not nearly enough blood.  

The cops broke the door down.  One of them took my knife, the other one handcuffed me by one arm to the bed.  They had to call for an ambulance since I was bleeding on everything.  They sat on the bed opposite me.  I was feeling drunk from the blood loss, inane shit just spilling from my mouth.  I told one of them that I would give him my cell phone (he had a terrible, old cell phone, and mine was considerably nicer) if he would give me my knife back.  I assured him that I was only going to use it on myself.  He actually agreed, which surprised me even in my dream.

I cut myself, and finally made some real progress.  I cut my wrist near the wrist bones, and I could see all the tendons and muscles inside, and the wrist bones as well.  I am not sure that is actually possible, from the angle and whatnot.  

I woke up, thinking, “I don’t want to die, I just want to tear myself apart.”

Several things about this dream are concerning to me.  The being a man thing was different and new.  I don’t consider myself strictly “female” but I am most definitely not “male.”  Second, I do not believe I would ever be driven to suicide by the death of my lover.  I will probably never have a lover, and I believe myself incapable of that kind of intense attachment.  Third, the shooting in the bathroom.  Why was it so graphic?  In my dream, it made me nauseous, and upon waking I was surprised by the level of detail my brain put into constructing that scene.

The feeling of desperation and despair lingered long after waking.  I have yet to shake it, in fact.  

But I don’t want to die.  I just want to tear myself apart.