Nightmares

The Lone House.

1 March 2009; age 15

{originally published on blog 30 November 2014}

I live in an old, large, white house. It resembles a haunted mansion, its weathered, faded sides standing alone as it rests atop a cliff. The clouds overhead are ominously gray with evil. Two spots of deep gray blot each cloud, serving for eyes, creepily watching all below {*note: paranoia; someone always watching me}. They look like the devil’s eyes as they swivel around before hovering. Though it is not night, darkness dominates the air before me {*note: inability to experience sunshine even during the daytime}.

Inside of the house is a chaotic maze, stairwells leading this way & that, furniture randomly inhabiting rooms without organization {*note: chaotic house symbolizes/represents chaotic mind/brain filled with unprocessed trauma memories}. The home possesses not a single light, & darkness dwells in every corner of this place.

I am being chased by somebody. For endless hours of sweat & fear, I run through spooky hallways & up twisted stairwells. There is no time in this land, as it is always dark & all of the clocks read different times {*note: chronic distortion of time within self}. An eerie, squealing wind bounces off of the walls, casting a haunting presence upon me as I continue to frantically scurry in a panic {*note: descriptions of severe anxiety, paranoia, & PTSD-like symptoms/experiences}.

I then run down, & I end up in what appears to be the basement. I then realize that it is a dungeon. I turn the iron doorknob & open the large, thick wooden door. The souls & ghosts of the dead—those who died in this dungeon—scream & shriek & yelp from their cells where their corpses still rot & skeletons still lay {*note: upon reading this on 8/14/18, over 8 years after this dream, I strongly & obviously dissociated & got a peek into this place, remembering it clearly, revisiting it momentarily; it is all a part of my subconscious mind, it turns out}. The rats join in harmoniously, their squealing erupting with the wailing of the dead. This doesn’t seem to bother me because whoever I am being chased by is much more frightening, more threatening. Although I know not what it is for certain, I fervently believe the notion that it is the monster of king demon {*note: king demon references from before equate now with 'the darkness'}.

I run through the dungeon & retreat from it, the shrieks ceasing as I shut the large door behind me. Now the only sound echoing through the halls is the wind & my footsteps.

I meander on through the dream, though there is no real conclusion. It is another night of exhausting sleep within my disturbed mind {*note: this was 5 years after chronic night terrors & insomnia began}.

After awakening from this dream, I walk out to the kitchen as Dad is expressing his lament for the death of a ninth chick. Chills shimmy down my spine as I realize that that’s the same number of chicks that died in my dream {*note: creepy co-incidences greatly added to my fear, anxiety, paranoia & despair}.

The Lone Tree.

Several hours later, I decide to nap, as I am entirely fatigued from a night of such restless sleep.

I dream again.

A tall tree, around fifteen feet tall, stands alone in a barren meadow. This place—once a forest, green & alive—is now the mascot for death. Gloom lurks in the short, dying weeds, the only vegetation other than this lone tree. The tree’s appearance is odd yet a work of art: its stump is just two feet tall yet huge branches curve inward & upward, forming a cage-like formation. I stand a few steps away in this barren field, staring at the tree, so beautifully peculiar, eerily peaceful, & all alone.

The sun is setting, slipping beyond sight yet leaving a delightful trail of orange light behind. It’s like a paint brush went wild across the sky, the arrangement of orange strokes & shades being unintentional & therefore all the more glorious. This lone tree, surrounded by nothing but an open area of tumbleweeds & dirt clods, is awe-striking, plastered against this sunset. I freeze, admiring the piece of Mother Nature’s art before me. My guard slips down as calmness overwhelms my soul.

In the blink of an eye, the sunset is suddenly over. A menacing darkness quickly envelops the land, bringing a threatening sense of insecurity; all peace evaporates from my spirit.

Two long & barren branches from opposite sides of the lone tree stretch out like arms. They bend where an elbow might be; stems reach out from its ends like bony fingers. The outstretched branches, several yards long, sweep down & grab me. It swings me roughly into the air. Its other branches lean out, creating a large hole in the top of the tree. It flings me into this hole like a coin inserted into a slot. I kneel on the stump of the tree as the branches enclose around me, returning to their regular positions.

I jerk myself up to a standing position in a panic. But I am no longer alone. The scene alters as people begin walking around. It is a chaotic combination of New York’s city night life & the dark, abstract nothingness of the barren field. Vegetation is lifeless in both places; this stands out.

In this significant moment, I scream in desperation—for help, for freedom, for peace. I yell in terror—for aid, for an escape, for comfort. I shout in shock—for a rescuer, for a savior, for relief.

But among the chaos & amidst the noise, my yelps echo back at me. No sound leaves my cage; no thing can slip through these jail bars of branches. I am trapped, enslaved by this immovable, voiceless tree. This moment is brief yet never-ending as my soundless screams continue without attracting even a glance. I am unnoticed as people carry on, hustling & bustling in their meaningless motions of existence.

Then, away disappears the people, the commotion, the noise.

I remain in my tree cage, alone, silent yet shouting, existing yet undetected; the desolate, barren field is all I have.

I awake, jolting upright. My heart beats rapidly. I realize that the tree is king demon, keeping me trapped in what I once viewed as beautiful. The momentary chaos of the world symbolizes how the people around me do not notice the pain I am enduring. I am unable to voice my sorrows or express my feelings. King wishes to keep me in this place of helpless loneliness. I feel alone in this battle where no one can hear my screams or see my tears or relate to my sorrows, & this is exactly where he wants me.