Nightmare on San Pedro Street

I went back to sleep at 6 a.m. this morning after being up for two hours. And by the way, I threw up in the middle of writing that last post—literally. Wasn’t my night. Then I went to sleep and had a totally terrifying nightmare. It was like being in a horror movie and having Jason or Freddy chase me. If you want to read the details of the dream …

I was in the passenger seat of a car with Martin at the wheel. It had been raining and Martin had a yellow slicker that had gotten wet, so he handed it to me and asked me to hang it out the window to dry. I hung it out with just the hood on the inside and rolled the window back up, and for the next half an hour the slicker tried to climb in through the window. It kept trying to get in through the crack, while I desperately tried to shut it out. When it finally tried crawling in through the sun roof, I lost it and turned to Martin for help. That’s when I realized that Martin was slumped over the wheel after drinking out of his water bottle. He’d been drugged by the slicke/ghost! The dream then continued in my house, where I tried in vain to keep the thing out of my house. Windows and doors kept opening, things kept disappearing, and I was convinced that this ghost was trying to kill me. At one point, I thought, “If this were a movie, they would call the ghost ‘the devil,’ but I don’t believe in the devil.” I didn’t know what it was, but I knew it wasn’t an evil spirit in the traditional sense. In fact, I eventually started to believe that maybe it was in my head, that maybe I was going crazy from all the stress I was under to finish my book, but I also knew that whether it was in my head or real, it was my reality, so it made no difference. I tried to call Martin, but the phone was dead. I tried to call 911 on another phone, but that line was dead, too. No matter what I tried, the “ghost” somehow foiled my plan. Finally, I ran outside to ask a neighbor to help me. The houses in my neighborhood were different, and I didn’t know who lived where. An old man who lived three doors down, seeing my panicked face, asked me if he could help. I told him I needed to make a phone call, that I wasn’t sure if I should call the police or just go to the hospital to get some medication to calm myself down (in other words, I didn’t know if this was real or in my head), and he said, “Is this something to do with 1980?” which made me realize I must have been traumatized when I was a kid, and that I was going crazy in response to that now. I told him I didn’t know, but that I needed help. He came into the house with two women to investigate. They examined all the windows and the doors, and I noticed the women crawling into closets and large dresser drawers, trying to re-enact how things might have happened. I guess in my dream I had seen a woman or two dead in my house. I can’t remember. Then I killed the two neighbor women (I have no memory of doing it) and the dream turned into a TV show I was watching, and it turned out that the victim (me) was the ghost/slicker/killer all along. I was the one who had killed the women, and who had been terrorizing me. I was the cause of my own fears. Pretty intense, huh? This is what examining my beliefs brings up for me!

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