***Triggers – (Fairly Graphic) Child and Animal Abuse, Stalking, General Trauma***
I am being plagued by bad dreams at the minute, at least on the occasions on which I am actually granted the ‘escapism’ of slumber. I’ve been trying to keep some track of them by scribbling down details when I inevitably wake up in a cold sweat, but it’s been difficult; it’s very hard to do anything other than try to ground yourself in whatever sphere of reality you find yourself in. Still, I’ve been trying my best, and have ergo managed to spot a few recurring themes.
Mentalism. Voices, borderline behaviour, panics, suicide, etc, yadda.
NHS/Trust fails. No explanation required.
The fact that I believe I am a failure.
On that point, it’s worth noting a recurring dream that leaves me waking up in unparalleled terror, even though the subject matter is not per se petrifying – it’s just kind of unfortunate and sad. I am back in sixth form at school – the only moderately positive years I had during that time of my life – but I am going to see my language teacher , Mike, just before my oral exam, to get the questions for same and to try to develop answers. The problem is, I’ve been off school and in particular that class for months (I was off school a lot during my pre-sixth form years). I cannot pass this A Level subject. It is simply not possible; I do not have even a fraction of the knowledge required. Yet I go to him anyway, fearful of how he’ll react, because we have a long-held mutual fondness and respect – and now I’ve let him down so significantly. I should have been his star pupil; instead, I will inevitably be his worst. The trepidation with which I approach his room cannot be quantified. I get to the door, and I wait in horror – both related to his probable reaction to me, and to my certain failure in the impending exams…and then I wake. I wake convinced it is real, and my heart sinks with dread and sadness, until A speaks to me, or until I have had time to thoroughly examine my surroundings and note rationally that it has been nine years since I left school.Other similar dreams of failure have seen me meeting public figures such as the Queen or William Hague (!) and making a complete and utter twat of myself in front of them, despite wishing to appear personable, intelligent and courteous. I always wake, again convinced of the reality of the dreams, in sickened self-disgust at how useless and pathetic I am.
Trauma. I experience what would be, in the real world, traumatic experiences.The expected players are rarely, if ever,
in situ. No vicious dreams of Paedo, faceless and/or moustached gang rapists, my father, bullies, evil teachers, Hideous Ex or anyone of that ilk.Instead, the perpetrators of the horrid stuff tend to be random people I don’t know – creations of my subconscious in other words, doubtless intended as metaphors for others. In one dream that has recurred a few times to date, I am being stalked. My life is under genuine threat from the person responsible, and I make constant desperate attempts to flee, which are always unsuccessful. Usually there is a protective figure in the equation too – so far it’s been Disraeli (yes, let’s anthropomorphise cars some more), Mum or C (the latter taking up this role well after I last saw him). The protector has varying degrees of success in his/her attempts to protect me; Mum had
nearly slain the attacker, but he eventually gets past her (although, thankfully, he does not harm her in the process). Disraeli tries his level best, dear love him, but eventually – at the last moment – his accelerator fail. I cannot go anywhere, and the stalker is gaining on me. C, in almost perfect symbolism, starts to fend off the stalker – then simply gives up.
I always wake up just as I realise my death at the hands of the stalker is inevitable. As with everything else of this ilk, I awake convinced that these dreams represent reality. Indeed, I’ve woken from this one believing that I am actually dead – existing in some horrible sort of afterlife – having been murdered by the stalker.
Of course, whilst this one is quite traumatic, it is subtly narcissistic too. A stalker. Who the fuck do I think I am? Lady fucking GaGa? (Not that I’d want to be, mind you. I resent the mad bitch for citing her one of her influences as Queen, and indeed for naming herself after one of their songs, when she is nothing like the aforesaid Gods of Rock. I wouldn’t mind if she was good, if she in any way vaguely approximated their absolute excellence, but pretty much anyone who first came to the public’s attention after about 1990 is absolutely shite. Bah humbug, you say? Fuck that, I was born old).
A new one has today entered the fray. This one is about abuse, including but not limited to sexual abuse – but it is not directed at me (well, one arguable incidence aside). The random people responsible for this abuse are known by me, and for a while I am able to infiltrate their ranks. I know what they’re doing, and I want to stop it. I’m pretty rubbish at espionage, though, as quite the opposite seems to happen: they’re abusing both animals and children, and to my disgust some of their ‘samples’ of both end up in my house, their little bodies contorted and virtually vacuumed into these horrible, tiny containers, ready to be ‘used’ by the abusive gang. There seems to be little I can do to stop the placement of the containers in my house.
I go to their headquarters, and despite my apparently demonstrable allegiance, they are somehow suspicious of me. They order me to a cellar; there is a single man there, surrounding by containers full of helpless puppies and children. I am disgusted, but I hide it well. I try to casually talk the man into releasing his captives – I don’t remember the reasons I give, but they ostensibly relate to the potential benefits to him and the gang, rather than that of the victims, as I surmise such reasoning is all they are likely to listen to. He appears to find the suggestion amusing, and proceeds to ask if he can ‘practise’ on me. To my (disguised) horror, I acquiesce.
Back in my own house, I am trying to work out how I can involve the police in my (mostly failed) spying operation without using the phone . How utterly, unspeakably, laughably wretched is that?! The matter is taken out of my hands, however, when the police arrive at my house unannounced, a warrant to search my premises in their possession. Unfortunately for me, I still have containers - lots of them. I wonder if I have been framed by the group that I infiltrated - after all, on the last visit they did regard me with palpable chariness. As the police enter my house, I know I am to be arrested and almost certainly imprisoned. Imprisoned as a nonce, what’s more; not exactly a barrel of laughs, by any stretch of the imagination. I wake.
In this one, I woke-fell asleep-woke several times. My mind – my treacherous, nefarious, nasty little mind – insisted on returning to this disgusting fantasy in order that it could play it out to its conclusion. Note the yet-again-narcissism towards the end of the dream: I am distraught that I am about to go to jail, not relieved as fuck that the children and animals that I am ‘keeping’ are to be released.
I was also interested to note that my home in this bollocks had been the childhood residence of my old friend, Louise . I don’t know if there’s a psychoanalytical point in there somewhere, but it seemed interesting nevertheless. The headquarters of the gang was a traditional but hidden pub beneath the central streets of the conurbation in which I reside. The entrance was through a fast food outlet, of all places!
I may add to this entry as I note or recall more weird dreams. As someone fairly unversed in Freud, I don’t know what, if anything, some of the more bizarre ones are meant to exemplify. But it’s interesting to look at them nonetheless.
(Random aside: I am applying for all my psychological and psychiatric notes since 1998 in preparation for the meeting with the Trust of Evil. Mwhahaha! It is going to give them so much work
And it will be interesting, if in all probability difficult, reading. More information to follow, as and when).
On that point, it’s worth noting a recurring dream that leaves me waking up in unparalleled terror, even though the subject matter is not per se petrifying – it’s just kind of unfortunate and sad. I am back in sixth form at school – the only moderately positive years I had during that time of my life – but I am going to see my language teacher , Mike, just before my oral exam, to get the questions for same and to try to develop answers. The problem is, I’ve been off school and in particular that class for months (I was off school a lot during my pre-sixth form years). I cannot pass this A Level subject. It is simply not possible; I do not have even a fraction of the knowledge required. Yet I go to him anyway, fearful of how he’ll react, because we have a long-held mutual fondness and respect – and now I’ve let him down so significantly. I should have been his star pupil; instead, I will inevitably be his worst. The trepidation with which I approach his room cannot be quantified. I get to the door, and I wait in horror – both related to his probable reaction to me, and to my certain failure in the impending exams…and then I wake. I wake convinced it is real, and my heart sinks with dread and sadness, until A speaks to me, or until I have had time to thoroughly examine my surroundings and note rationally that it has been nine years since I left school.Other similar dreams of failure have seen me meeting public figures such as the Queen or William Hague (!) and making a complete and utter twat of myself in front of them, despite wishing to appear personable, intelligent and courteous. I always wake, again convinced of the reality of the dreams, in sickened self-disgust at how useless and pathetic I am.
I always wake up just as I realise my death at the hands of the stalker is inevitable. As with everything else of this ilk, I awake convinced that these dreams represent reality. Indeed, I’ve woken from this one believing that I am actually dead – existing in some horrible sort of afterlife – having been murdered by the stalker.
Of course, whilst this one is quite traumatic, it is subtly narcissistic too. A stalker. Who the fuck do I think I am? Lady fucking GaGa? (Not that I’d want to be, mind you. I resent the mad bitch for citing her one of her influences as Queen, and indeed for naming herself after one of their songs, when she is nothing like the aforesaid Gods of Rock. I wouldn’t mind if she was good, if she in any way vaguely approximated their absolute excellence, but pretty much anyone who first came to the public’s attention after about 1990 is absolutely shite. Bah humbug, you say? Fuck that, I was born old).
A new one has today entered the fray. This one is about abuse, including but not limited to sexual abuse – but it is not directed at me (well, one arguable incidence aside). The random people responsible for this abuse are known by me, and for a while I am able to infiltrate their ranks. I know what they’re doing, and I want to stop it. I’m pretty rubbish at espionage, though, as quite the opposite seems to happen: they’re abusing both animals and children, and to my disgust some of their ‘samples’ of both end up in my house, their little bodies contorted and virtually vacuumed into these horrible, tiny containers, ready to be ‘used’ by the abusive gang. There seems to be little I can do to stop the placement of the containers in my house.
I go to their headquarters, and despite my apparently demonstrable allegiance, they are somehow suspicious of me. They order me to a cellar; there is a single man there, surrounding by containers full of helpless puppies and children. I am disgusted, but I hide it well. I try to casually talk the man into releasing his captives – I don’t remember the reasons I give, but they ostensibly relate to the potential benefits to him and the gang, rather than that of the victims, as I surmise such reasoning is all they are likely to listen to. He appears to find the suggestion amusing, and proceeds to ask if he can ‘practise’ on me. To my (disguised) horror, I acquiesce.
Back in my own house, I am trying to work out how I can involve the police in my (mostly failed) spying operation without using the phone . How utterly, unspeakably, laughably wretched is that?! The matter is taken out of my hands, however, when the police arrive at my house unannounced, a warrant to search my premises in their possession. Unfortunately for me, I still have containers - lots of them. I wonder if I have been framed by the group that I infiltrated - after all, on the last visit they did regard me with palpable chariness. As the police enter my house, I know I am to be arrested and almost certainly imprisoned. Imprisoned as a nonce, what’s more; not exactly a barrel of laughs, by any stretch of the imagination. I wake.
In this one, I woke-fell asleep-woke several times. My mind – my treacherous, nefarious, nasty little mind – insisted on returning to this disgusting fantasy in order that it could play it out to its conclusion. Note the yet-again-narcissism towards the end of the dream: I am distraught that I am about to go to jail, not relieved as fuck that the children and animals that I am ‘keeping’ are to be released.
I was also interested to note that my home in this bollocks had been the childhood residence of my old friend, Louise . I don’t know if there’s a psychoanalytical point in there somewhere, but it seemed interesting nevertheless. The headquarters of the gang was a traditional but hidden pub beneath the central streets of the conurbation in which I reside. The entrance was through a fast food outlet, of all places!
I may add to this entry as I note or recall more weird dreams. As someone fairly unversed in Freud, I don’t know what, if anything, some of the more bizarre ones are meant to exemplify. But it’s interesting to look at them nonetheless. (Random aside: I am applying for all my psychological and psychiatric notes since 1998 in preparation for the meeting with the Trust of Evil. Mwhahaha! It is going to give them so much work