guilty

I swear I must have some kind of PTSD.

I finally fell asleep maybe four or five hours ago and I just woke up from a really odd, disturbing dream where I was put on trial and nobody would tell me why.  I was trying to run away from my mother in an empty mall parking lot which meant there were very few places to hide.  She was chasing me down in a car and had some other person chasing me on foot from the side, so they sort of herded me into a corner and led me away. The idiot dream version of me just let it happen, which probably isn’t so different from the idiot real life version of me.  I didn’t protest or struggle; I just let myself be dragged away.  Dream KJ knew that she was just going through the motions; she was defeated before she even started running.

The policeman was clearly from Hawaii and possessed some Asian blood.  The moment I heard his telltale, lilting islander accent, I thought to myself, “Oh, at least I’ll have an ally in him.”  Yeah, not so much.  The stories my mother told, supplemented by a stranger who had never met me previously, must have been far too compelling.  Anything I said in response sounded frail and false — because the truth is that I’ve never felt completely blameless when it comes to the more traumatic events I’ve experienced.  I’ve made mistakes and said awful things; I’ve said “okay” when I probably should have said “no”; I’ve let things slide that I probably shouldn’t have let slide.  My mother, in stark contrast, played the martyred victim card, which meant she was blameless — innocent as freshly fallen snow.

In any case, I inevitably started to get frustrated, which only made matters worse.  I could see a crease in the officer’s brow that deepened every time I spoke — a tiny fissure of skepticism that grew with every weak word I stammered out.

My mother, of course, was crying.

I don’t know what the punishment was.  I don’t even know what I was guilty of.

All I do know is that I was actually innocent that time — and I knew before the interrogation even started that I would be found guilty anyway.

I had the best intentions about today.  I was going to get some writing done, apply for registration at an event I’m interested in attending, and spend some time relaxing before the last few days of my grueling work week [followed immediately by a trip to New Jersey to visit in-laws I haven’t seen for years, followed immediately by another grueling work week].  Instead, the panic attack I woke up with induced an asthma attack because my mild cat allergy has turned into a severe one and my fluffy children are now able to literally kill me with their cuteness.

I need to come down from this cycle before it takes over my whole day.


Writing helps center me — it always has.

It’s been two hours since I wrote that and I already feel a little bit stronger.  To prove that strength to myself, I’ve decided to post this here.  [I also don’t get a lot of traction on The Unapologetic INKDOG, so I don’t really have to worry about who reads it.]  Recording my dreams is something I’ve always done — provided the dreams are strange or torturous enough to remember vividly — so I’ve decided to make a category specifically for the weird workings of my slumbering mind.

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