The ominous stair

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.

Not by flood

Even though the Noah story promises that the earth will never again be destroyed by water, in my dream last night (among other things), as Mark and I stood at a balcony railing, the ocean waves grew increasingly high and fell on top of us. As they grew taller, I knew it was the end, and said “here it comes,” and acted like all I cared about was that heaven was approaching — not concerned about the discomforts of watery death first. Accordingly, after the first attempt, the ocean did it again, and I realized I was supposed to be afraid and upset about the death thing, first.

———

I just realized that there’s a parallel to a dream I had when in my teens, a relatively new Christian. My best friend Cheryl and I were at a retreat. We were hanging out in a tree when a storm blew up. We got out and started running towards the retreat center. Thinking things couldn’t get any worse, I let out a bad word. And got struck by lightning.

(Now why did I think that was parallel?)

1. I wore my new pants today, after letting out the hems and notching the curved seams. I love them. They are warm and soft and fit. They are still shorter than I’d like, and I still tug at the back waistband when I sit, but I am mostly very pleased.

2. I dreamed last night that I was doing some work for someone I know from dulcimer festivals. She shows up in my dreams occasionally — it always seems to have something to do with my musical and other ambitions, and with my social awkwardnesses. Anyway, in this dream, she paid me with a margarine tub of cocaine. Which was awkward. I finally had to try to tell her that I didn’t feel right taking it to sell — if I didn’t feel right about using it myself, how could I feel right about selling or even giving it to someone who would use it?

3. I went to the Methodist thrift shop in Culver today, to hunt for more pants. A couple people I know from Culver love this thrift shop, especially compared to the Plymouth Salvation Army which they dislike. It’s nice enough, but I think the Salvation Army, since it’s bigger, is a wiser first choice for me — more selection. The Salvation Army store is not as pretty and tidy, but it’s not bad. Anyway, I did find a pair of dark mossy green corduroys for me and a pink turtleneck for Amy, and spent $1.25, which is nice.

4. I went to the liquor store, too. For a bottle of sherry, for the ginger beef that Mark made for my birthday dinner. The real deal, with real garlic and ginger and fresh veggies. Mmmmm. Anyway, I felt a little funny walking into a liquor store, but it was fine. The two girls working there were much younger than me; perhaps just a few years legal themselves.

5. Amy somehow got hold of the knife Mark was using to cut up her broccoli (brah-kee) and held it up, proclaiming “knife” (nie).

6. A little later she started crying in frustration, saying “help” (hup or hep). Finally we figured out that she was trying to pick up the drops of milk that she had spilled on her tray.

7. She pooped on the potty again (second time) the other night.

8. For a long time she hadn’t peed on her naked time blanket, so I had taken the tarp out from under it — it makes things slippery. But yesterday she let loose buckets three times, so the tarp is back.

Feelin’ ugly

I’m not 100% down in the pit over all of this — it’s just some of the stuff floating around. So no need to get all concerned or anything — just share in this little bit of my musings if you like.

I have been feeling ugly lately.

(Picture taken by older sister at Sophia’s party.)

Ugly especially on the inside — a little paranoid about my friends, because why would anyone want to be my friend? Surely they’re all just humoring me, being polite, that sort of thing. Second-guessing many of the things I did or said at Sophia’s birthday party, or at church, or anywhere else. Disliking things about other people and therefore assuming other people dislike me and hide it, too.

Ugly on the outside, too, as I had to buy a swimsuit four sizes larger than I thought I was, and Eddie Bauer’s Original Loose Fit jeans, also four sizes too big, are so tight I can’t zip them up. My belly looks like Amy’s birth was last week instead of last year.

Ugly in the pathways that connect inside and out, as I can’t seem to resist the donuts at church, the cookies at the dining hall, an extra bowl of cereal as dessert at home. No, I don’t eat like that every day, but I was much better at making healthier choices when the not-so-healthy options were not in plain view.

Ugly because I could exercise, I could eat better, or I could accept my body as it is, but I don’t want to do any of those things. I’m busy doing other things. I don’t want to punish myself. I don’t have the stamina or want the commitment it would take to really make a difference.

Last night I dreamed I was beautiful.

Zigzag

In my dreams last night, among other things:

I was following someone (my professor? a man, I think). The way started out across some water, on a very narrow plank bridge that zigzagged.

Then the planks were just under the water.

Then at the bottom of the water.

They were widely separated, so it took a look around to find the next one, and a kick and a bit of swim to get to it.

Finally there weren’t any more, and by now I’d lost sight of the person I was following.

The water was up to my neck, now, and I was tired / cramped so that I couldn’t make swimming motions.

Someone (a woman? closer to my own age than the man) came over to me, whether intending to help me or by chance, and I was able to get help from her — to hold onto her neck while she brought me to shore.

Dangerously furious dreaming

In my dreams last night, among other things:

My dream self was awakened to see a concerned, large black man sitting on the couch looking at me. He told me that I had been dreaming so furiously that they had to wake me up — he was a doctor.

Take that

In last night’s dreams, among other things:

I was trying to participate in a serious task / videogame — something that involved really teleporting to a friend’s room, and leaving some things there. Her name was Muriel. The task required a password and an access code.

The people I was with were helpful on the surface — helped me get the access code, set me up in a dark private room, etc. But then they were sitting in the room with the lights on, talking to each other. I reminded them that I needed dark and privacy — they agreed, but didn’t leave. And so on.

I lost it, started yelling, was told that I was being selfish and that it’s not all about me and that sort of thing, and I grabbed the woman’s arm and started flinging her around and pushing her.

Somewhere near the beginning of this, Cheryl and our mutual friend Maria showed up. Acted like all was normal between us. We hugged and talked a bit about nothing. But I had to shoo them away in order to get on with my task — later, we’d catch up and all.

At another point everything I tried to say to Mark either didn’t make sense to him or he didn’t hear it. This got very frustrating.

Then there was stuff about teaching school and racism and theater and all sorts of things, and even though I felt strongly about some of these things, and had ideas of what I would do, I was still glad I’m not a school teacher anymore.

There was also a shoddy dulcimer concert I tried to do — I hadn’t practiced or really prepared at all, and was using a set list I’d prepared so long ago I didn’t remember what half the tunes sounded like, nevermind how to play them. At the beginning I was hammering random notes in what I hoped was a pretty pattern, while sorting through papers on top of the dulcimer with my other hand.

There were a few movies coming out, one which felt very sinister involving Mickey Mouse or Winnie-the-Pooh or someone like that coming back from the dead with huge evil powers. It sounds laughable in morning awakeness, but in the dream it really did seem like it would be a scary movie.

Menace

In my dream last night, among other things:

I was talking to a friend about her marital problems.

I was noticing old, molding oranges in the back of our fridge.

I was realizing that I’d scheduled a meeting with Austin at the same time as an outing with other friends. They all showed up, and I had no idea how to interact with them — particularly how to introduce Austin.

I was in Sunday School (me an adult, not a volunteer leader, but one of the students, though the rest were kids), hardly able to keep my eyes open, unable or unwilling to look at anyone or anything, hardly paying attention.

The project involved ribbons that all the students had brought in (I didn’t bring one; had I forgotten or not known?). I guess I just figured I wouldn’t participate in the project, and maybe that’s why I wasn’t paying attention.

But when it came around to me (they were taking turns describing and explaining their results), someone started explaining to me how I could take a leaf and make a ribbon out of it. It sounded complicated. I said, “It’s not a big deal.” In other words, I didn’t want to make a leaf ribbon, I was fine with not participating.

An adult volunteer, who seems to be a conflation of several women I know, started in on me, “Now, Marcy, it’s that kind of attitude that…”

I didn’t stay to hear the rest of that. I just walked out. Confirming, no doubt, her low opinion of me.

Even though, perhaps, she really was trying to be helpful, and not trying to condemn and insult and rebuke me.

I wandered around… talked to a friend about other things…

———

This dream is about a book I finished last night, While I was Gone by Sue Miller, and about some things ama and I were emailing about.

About the pain people (I) cause just by being who I am, unintentional, unbeknownst to me; the kind of pain that surprises me, that seems so unfair, that seems to demand my non-existence in order to prevent reoccurences, because I apparently cannot be sufficiently watchful and aware to avoid hurting people.

About the same kind of pain that others have caused me, and how I don’t know how to metabolize it all — the fact that it hurt me, alongside the fact that they didn’t intend to hurt me, maybe didn’t even realize that it hurt me.

And do I want apologies? And do I want to offer apologies?

It is my own pain that makes me so afraid of my own power to cause pain.

And yet this too, all of it, is part of this dark and fallen world, this present reality. It is not tragic — in the sense that it is not shocking, not unusual, not out of the ordinary, but just very much what this life in this world IS. Not to be dismissive — not at all — but to metabolize, to integrate, to radically accept.

All this is still part of my trying to learn not to war against reality.

———

From the book:

What I was beginning to understand was that simply to act was to affirm my inescapable self, to make exactly the kind of mistake I would make…

Well, all right. Having children teaches you, I think, that love can survive your being despised in every aspect of yourself. That you need not collapse when the shriek comes: Don’t you get it? I hate you! But you do need to get it. You do need to understand and accept being hated. I think this is one of the greatest gifts children can give you, as long as it doesn’t last.

It seems we need someone to know us as we are — with all we have done — and forgive us. We need to tell. We need to be whole in someone’s sight: Know this about me, and yet love me. Please.

But it’s so much to ask of other people!

Futility and fierceness

In my dream last night, among other things…

Someone with no pancreas was therefore driven to eat awful, hurtful things, like his own foot, still attached to his leg, wrapped first in flour.

Every attempt of mine to speak my mind, request something, state a preference, or otherwise be myself, ended in futility as everyone ignored or resisted or countered or contradicted me.

My responses were twofold — an immediate act of rage, such as throwing my glass of milk into the highway (at the time it seemed a terrible awful thing to do), and resignation and self-minimization.

At one point, I realized that I was being overreactive.

But the sense of being thwarted didn’t leave me.

Joe

In my dream last night, among other things I went to Joe’s office for an appointment.

His real office is in an office building, but in the dream it was in part of his home. I walked in, looked around, and said, “Oh it is so great to be back here.” I started talking about stuff, only to see that he was reading a book (maybe a comic book) and not paying attention. I don’t remember if he asked me to repeat myself or if I asked him to pay attention.

———

This dream reminds me that, while Joe is an excellent therapist and has been very valuable in my life, he’s not God — he’s not The Answer, just part of it, and he’s not perfect.

Have I ever mentioned that when I was teaching at the homeschool co-op, they asked me to teach a math course, and Joe’s son was going to be in it?

Joe thought this would be a good idea — he thought my empathy and such would be good for his kid. I wasn’t sure it would be a good idea — what if I had to talk to Joe about the kid’s progress? I agreed to do it with the assurance that I would be able to talk to Joe’s wife instead of Joe.

That’s not the way it worked out. My teaching style wasn’t working so well for the kid, and most of the time I did have to talk to Joe about him instead of to his wife. And it was affecting my therapy.

Joe realized that, because of my vulnerability to him as a client, I couldn’t act appropriately as his kid’s teacher; I was too invested in being a good patient, doing an impossible job well. He put his kid in another class. Then I was fired from that position (but asked to stay on as the English teacher), but that’s another story.

It took awhile for us to work through that snarl in our therapeutic relationship, but we did.

I sent him a birth announcement. I wonder what he thought when he got it — did he wonder how soon I would be calling him for help, did he wonder if somehow new motherhood might go smoothly for me, did he have to think a minute to remember who I was, did he pray for me?

I do miss his office. It was good to do phone sessions during PPD, especially since no local therapist seemed to suit me, but it’s not the same as a) being able to see each other’s faces and body language and b) being in a room with healing and safe associations, with a cup of Sleepytime tea (no sugar or honey or milk — he didn’t have any of those) in one of his stained earthenware mugs. The tea itself was a reminder of how excellent and yet how finite Joe was; a variety of good teas, earthy good solid mugs, but no honey — genuine caring service, real, but Other, not the ideal I would envision.

That room, and the healing work done within it, was a taste of goodness and safety that will only be fully realized in heaven. Not that the taste is meaningless or worthless or even necessarily idolatrous, but simply a shadow, a dim look at what’s to be.