A dream of blood

I woke up from a dream, interacted with our kitten outside the door, came back to bed but I can’t sleep.

This post is written on a phone under the blankets, forgive the crapness.

In my dream I was me, but loooked very different, dark brown hair.

I had told my husband I’d be late, I was visiting friends. They were prostitutes and that night, I was too. Men came, I was to prove to one my bum and my breasts were real. He came but they wanted us to go elsewhere, with some of his mates. One was some sort of rich kid, his mother had to check me out sexually first. Then we went somewhere, a dank underground parking, plots of land, the one where we stood had little puddles. “Of blood?” I asked. I was alone and maybe I wasn’t, the younger man held a yellow dress, it was for me. I looked in a madeup mirror and saw myself wearing it, while in fact I was now a young girl of twelve, with light pink/white shorts. I shied away from this plot, he showed our “handlers” a plot nearby, a mattress on the floor, it was clean. I wanted out, but didn’t say. I hoped he would not kill us, or hurt us. I hoped my husband would believe my lie. We needed the money, and I was too scared to back away now. Another man checked the plot next door, picked up a pair of human limbs, grinned sheepishly and waved as if now all was clear. I knew that feeling of utter dread but the inability to do anything, try to run, stop the madness. The paralyzing fear.

My daughter stirred brusquely and I woke up.

I know the elements that made up the dream, some eluded me till later. At first of course, I thought of Ulla (previous post). I thought of my own past and how I am where I am now but could easily have been where Ulla is now, had circumstances been a little different. Then I saw the girl I was in the dream was the girl one of my oldest friends had been, when she’d been raped in a camping site by her uncle, only a young girl.

That girl grew to be the woman who singlehandedly ripped me away from my suicide plan. That woman is now, last I heard from her, with a good job, a good man, is as happy as she could be. She could have been where Ulla is now. Her form of bipolar if she had it was much milder, but her circumstances were very different.

I will write to her later, tell her once again how I love her and cherish her. I am still sad, because for Ulla things were just so much worse, just circumstances that meant her bipolar had been so aggressive and incurable, though she too deserved respite, and all the help she gave others whilst being torn apart by her disease… Brave warrior, huge soul, I will miss you and be grateful for the little that I knew you, I will keep you in my heart as I try to continue and be happy in my different circumstances.

I hope you have your respite, and your mum near you at last.


4 thoughts on “A dream of blood

  1. Suicide always lurks in the psyches of those of us with serious illnesses. And with mental illness everything is compounded by the the unfathomable stupidity that greets it. Just before finding Kitt O’Malley’s post about Ulla
    I stumbled across a blog whose owner posted that people with PTSD need to spend more time reading Scripture…this from a man who thinks Donald Trump will restore ‘godliness’ to our government. I resisted the urge to reply with the question of whose scripture we should read since the people who follow the hundreds of different religions in this World all think their God is the real one. It’s all so frustrating. To be in terrible pain and to know that the world is teeming with idiots who either want to punish you for it or ram their superstitions down your throat is sometimes too much

    Liked by 2 people

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