A dream and some other stuff

Begin Dream.

We are going to war.  It’s stupid.  It’s for a stupid reason.  It’s illogical, something that could be easily negotiated, but we have been instructed to fight.  The reality of it strikes me.  I see Them, on the Other Side, loading their weapons, putting on body armor.  It occurs to me that I don’t know how to load a gun.  Why am I in battle?  It’s stupid.  I am going to be killed for this ridiculous cause.  I will waste my life for someone else’s unworthy reasons.

No.

I am not going to do this stupid thing.

I storm into the commander’s tent, hijack the radio.  They start fighting over what to do with me.  I give the speech of a lifetime, denouncing our cause, denouncing our leaders, Their leaders, the whole issue.  I point out the idiocy of this battle.  Both sides rally to my cause, stand down.  There will be no battle today.

Commander comes into his tent.  I hand him the microphone, give a mock salute, and dash out.

I am almost immediately prevented from running.  Someone grabs me by my collar.   Some sort of Secret Service-CIA type.   “If you run, they’re going to kill you,” he says.  He leads me to a car, I get in.  All the little prole-soldiers like me are giving me some kind of respectful salute, a weird hand gesture.  Can’t remember where I’ve seen it before. 

We drive.

“So,” I say, sarcastically, “Am I going to rue my actions for the rest of my life?”  In retrospect, this is exactly the sort of thing I would say. 

He doesn’t reply immediately.  Then, “I suppose that’s up to you.”

“Where are we going?”

“I’m taking you home.”

It my dream, it’s not quite the road that leads home, but it’s close enough. 

I consider jumping out of the car, and ponder if I would die from the impact at the speed we’re going.

He locks the doors.  “I wouldn’t do that.”

I’m hot.  Our uniforms are made of leather, kind of like those awful things from the first X-Men movie.  Underneath, although I haven’t seen it, I know I am wearing a short-sleeved black shirt and black leggings.  The sun is shining into the car, and I’m sweating. 

I decide to unzip my body suit and at least pull the top half down.  I unzip and start pulling my arms out of the sleeves.

I remember that I’m a cutter and have extensive scarring on my arms.

But I’m still roasting.  “Fuck it,” I think.  “He’s an adult, he can handle it.  I am fucking hot.”

I slip out of the top part of my jumpsuit.  He glances over at me, to make sure I’m not doing anything subversive or dangerous.  He sees the scars.  I have that feeling of being judged, but he doesn’t say anything.  Eyes back on the road.

“Where are we really going?”  I ask, after awhile.  “You’re not really taking me home.”

No reply.  A creeping feeling of dread.  I don’t think I’m going to like where we’re going one bit.

Not one bit.

End dream

I think I’m going to start keeping a dream journal.  I’ll keep a paper notebook by my bed, maybe transcribe into an online diary.  I’m too dense to listen to myself when I’m awake, but I learn all kind of interesting things about myself from my dreams. 

For example, “Fuck it, he’s an adult, he can handle it,” is not something I would ever think in real life.  That is, there is no one in my life who I consider adult and capable of handling “it.”  I know no emotionally mature people—myself included. 

I really resent when people decide what I can and cannot “handle” for me.  My mom, for example, won’t tell me when or why my dad gets fired from his jobs because she doesn’t want me to deal with it.  I think I’m perfectly capable of dealing with it, and so it’s annoying.  Am I doing the same thing?  Logically, yes.  Actually, unequivocally yes. 

<span style="

font-family:"Arial Black","sans-serif"”>Is it really “protecting” people, or is it born out of my own shame?  No one really  wants to deal with an overly-dramatic 25-year-old cutter with a score of other issues.  So I hide all of it.  I’m protecting everyone else.  Or, I’m protecting myself from having to deal with other people caring.

I liked, in my dream, having someone that I didn’t feel needed protection.  It was immensely freeing.

How do you get over needing to protect people?

What if they really DO need protecting?  My sister’s fiancé has the emotional maturity of a turnip.  When confronted with something that makes him uncomfortable, such as mental illness, his first reaction is anger.  Occasionally violence. 

Maybe there’s a middle ground.  “Protect” friends and family.  The phlebotomist at the doctor’s office, though?  Fuck her, she can deal with some scarring.  The doctor?  He’s a big boy.  Strangers on the street?  Who fucking cares what they think?

The truth is, I do.  I don’t want to.  I want to be someone who doesn’t care, but so much of who I am is false that I don’t know how to be genuine.

If I start a dream diary, I’ll post a link.