I woke up at 3 am too scared to get out of bed — the childhood nightmare type of scared, where bed is the safe haven and getting out will sic the monsters on you.
The nightmare? Bizarre.
I was drawing pictures, and / or taking pictures, and / or telling / reading a story to Amy.
The picture was of a red barn-like building, low to the ground, with a tall black roof. Off to one side, a stairway stuck out of the building — enclosed — ending in the air. It might have been in a spooky thin-trees-forest swampy environment.
It’s the stair that escalated the fear.
I can’t tell if I was trying to tell a scary story, or if it turned scary in spite of me.
Then I was inside (our house? the barn?) and in the stairwell, and flipping light switches, and I accidentally (?) flipped on the switch that starts the scary sounds. And I couldn’t believe I’d done so, and cried out in even greater fear, “Mark, oh no, I’ve done it again!”
When I woke, I was surprised at the strength of the don’t-leave-the-bed feeling. I haven’t felt like that in ages.
I tried to say “there are no monsters,” but it felt like bluffing — how do I know there aren’t any monsters? That’s not the point, anyway. To get up the courage to go to the bathroom, I had to talk to myself about how God is not safe, but good. Even if I died on my way to the bathroom, God would be good to me.
During all of this, I was also aware of how strange and amusing it all was. And how strong a theme the dream had of my own complicity in my fears.
Very interesting.
