Fucked Up Dream Time

So, at 3am I posted another entry about how my meds are going and how this med is definitely doing weird stuff to my dreams. Then I went back to sleep… and now I want to tell you about my disturbing ass dreams, and why I hate taking antipsychotics.

Last time I took antipsychotics, Risperdol gave me horrifying nightmares that I can’t even remember. I would just wake up screaming. This time, I don’t know if these are nightmares, but they are… unsettling at best.

I’m in a school, but it’s built like a lodge in the mountains. We are surrounded by trees and a cable car runs from a platform on our second floor. There are other, similar buildings in the area, and we are all part of the same school I know this, but it’s not said. There are people there. Some are teen aged, some are college aged, and there is a smattering of actual adults. I am one of these adults, and we seem to be in charge.



There is a siren, and I rush everyone inside. “The hole is coming,” I say. It’s not as catchy as “The Nothing” or “The Darkness” or even “The Mist / Fog” but I get everyone inside and I’m aware that I’m scared. There are more people in our building than seem to lodge there, and so I clear a space to setup sleeping bags and start dismantling furniture into firewood. I seem to know that it’s going to be a long time before things will ever be normal again.



Enter, the random apparition of my exboyfriend invading my dreamscape. This particular ex is the one that I can never forgive. The one that I blame for many of my personality changes from “sweet, nice girl” to… whatever you call this cynical, sarcastic shell of a human being. I don’t know why he’s there, not even in the dream, and I still hate him when he gives me that smile that I remember adoring. I’m stuck with him, though. That much is clear.



So, I make the best of having someone I know around. He’s still himself, though, and while I’m trying to put all the sharp objects in the house where no one can get to them, he’s hoarding them by his sleeping bag. I have to explain to him what’s going on… which is handy since I don’t actually know until dream-me says it.



“What’s coming is the hole, and when it gets here everyone is going to lose themselves.” I’m gathering up a number of knives with my bare hands, managing to cut myself on an obsidian blade that he has for some reason. “The hole takes away feeling. There’s nothing. People don’t become depressed, they just feel nothing. They’ll kill themselves, and god knows what else they might do.” He’s rolling his eyes, and dream-me thinks he must assume that what’s coming is just a storm. I look him in the eyes and say, “What would you do to feel something, Mike?” He stops rolling his eyes, and he looks almost concerned. Almost. He lets me take the knives anyways, and I hide them in a wall, in a closet, somewhere in the bowels of the lodge.



Time goes on. It’s like a montage. I’m aware of the passage of time and glimpses into things that happened. It began to snow, and never stopped, though it’s not snowing particularly heavily. We ran out of food and had to start sending parties out into the snow to try and find animals or vegetation; they would come back a little less of themselves every time. For whatever reason I cannot begin to understand, I start sleeping next to my ex. I might hate him, but I guess in this weird time he makes me feel safe. Then one day he goes out on a foraging mission, and never comes back. Slowly less and less people come back from foraging, until it’s just me and a handful of students left. We never find the bodies.



We are out on a mission, having followed the cables from the inactive cable car up to a station. We are cresting a tall climb to the platform when we hear people. Some of the party get excited and run toward the noise, while I try to hold people back. The hole has come and it will have its sacrifices. Those at the top of the hill stop suddenly… some backup, some don’t move at all. When I reach the summit I can see why. There are people: people I know: people from our party; and they are laughing. Their laughter is hollow, like the laughter one produces when they are expected to laugh, but nothing is funny. Then the laughter turns to sobs, but those, too, sound wrong in every way. There’s no heart in it. They are stripping the skin off of one of my students, who’s hanging from the overhead cable.



I backup slowly, shock filling me with cold, and I slip. I tumble down the platform, the sound of my body hitting the rocky terrain alerting those skinning the student. They come after me. There’s a small chase before I lose them. I am alone. I don’t know where everyone else went, so I return to the lodge. No one is there. It’s empty and cold, and I’m terrified. I go to sleep in the middle of the sleeping bags. I cry.



I jump awake at the sudden feeling of someone breathing on my feet. It’s a man. I recognize his face, but it’s been painted black and I cannot place him. Only his white eyes and teeth are visible to me in the darkness. He’s grinning at me, but it’s not a real grin, for there is no mirth in it, not even the cruel joy of a killer. It’s just been stuck there on his face, like someone taped it there. I inch away from his dead, wide eyes, and to my surprise he does not follow me. He just stays, staring at me with his teeth bared, almost into a snarl. His eyes follow me, but he does not move, and I manage to escape the room.



I can hear people in the house. I am scared. I don’t know what to do.



I end up in the closet where I’ve hidden the knives, but there’s only one there and I grab it by the blade. It’s a black knife… it’s an obsidian hunting knife. I cut myself pretty bad, and stifle a yelp of pain. I have to get out of the closet, I know that, but there’s nowhere to go. I end up leaving the closet and having to hide myself in a window box that someone has been using for a bed. I jam the knife into the wood at an angle that I don’t think would work in real life, but manages to keep the lid closed in the dream. No one finds me, but I also don’t have a way out. Day after day I listen to frightened screams, false laughter, and faux tears. I try to leave my hiding place, but I can’t get the lid open, even after I pull the knife out. I don’t get any omniscient insight as to why. I just get a montage of days, as I lie awake in the box, crying, scared, and slowly dying of thirst and hunger.

The dream ends with my shriveled up corpse laying in the box. My face is contorted into an unnatural scream, but I know that’s probably just because of the way I was laying when I died. All I thought was, “wow, I look so thin.”



Antipsychotic dreams are… well… psychotic. I hate antipsychotic dreams because while they are often outlandish and unrealistic, they always hint at things you’re actually thinking about. It’s like the subroutine your brain runs all the time never shuts off like it used to, and those thoughts you don’t really remember thinking just invade your dreams like it’s Normandy. This one hits especially close to home, since whatever was happening stripped everyone of emotions. Obviously they retained something, though, since they continuously tried to feel something. Longing… is longing an emotion?

I have been struggling with my new and ever shrinking emotional range. While I was used to feeling all of three emotions, I felt those emotions much strong than I feel any of these new, wider ranging ones. I felt Euphoria, Rage, and Despair with all the bitter, painful fire of passion. I felt them to my core. Now I feel… less. I’m not despairing, but sometimes I’m sad, or just not happy. I don’t rage, but sometimes I’m mad or a little irritated. I don’t get lost in the intense feelings of euphoria, but sometimes I smile… so I guess that’s happiness? It’s a hard transition that only people with a mood disorder really “get.” How do you explain to yourself that feeling less is how you’re supposed to feel? While the emotions might be more complex, like ambivalence is a new one I’ve been feeling a lot, the feelings are so much less. There’s no passion behind them… it’s so muted… like a Giorgio Morandi still life…

the other things that REALLY bothered me, was that exboyfriend. Why, of all the exes I have, did it have to be that one? And then he goes off and gets killed or something and I’m all alone and I MISS HIM. That’s fucked up, brain…. I know we’re lonely, but we aren’t THAT lonely.

Anyways, I’ve been dealing with the psychological aftermath of THAT all morning… It’s not a great way to wake up… but I definitely didn’t want to continue sleeping…

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s