(three days ago)
I woke in a state of fear. The room was in shadow, the corners black – impenetrable. Save for the dim glow of the nightlight that spilled its contents softly through the bathroom door, there was no light. I always sleep with a nightlight.
Attempting to unwrap myself from the clinging tentacles of a nightmare, I recalled standing at a kitchen counter. My right hand rested on a cutting board; my left hand held a well-sharpened fillet knife (I’m right-handed). Objectively, I looked at the fingers of my right hand. They pressed down on the board with such force that the nail beds had turned creamy-white around the edges. I squared my shoulders and girded myself for the grim job ahead.
With determination, I slowly dragged the sharpened edge of the knife across the tips of my fingers. Slicing horizontally through the skin, I watched in detachment as tiny buds of crimson bloomed on each fingertip.
There was no free will; I was compelled to continue. I worked my way up through the fingers, beyond the first row of knuckles, the second row of knuckles, and into the meat of the palm. Blood spilled freely now, running over the cutting board, onto the counter and down the cherry wood cabinets to the floor. I continued, refusing to stop until I almost reached my wrist. The bloodied and ruined hand rested limply on the cutting board, sliced lengthwise like a zucchini or banana. I looked wearily at my husband. Without emotion, I said, “I don’t think I can finish this by myself. It hurts too much. I wish Dad was here. He would do a better job.”
My father was a waterman and could fillet a fish in only seconds, leaving not a trace of fish on the bones. I never remember a time when we didn’t have very sharp filleting knives in the house. He had large, calloused hands that should have been clumsy, and were when involved in other activities, but not when he was filleting. I was always fascinated by his efficiency and speed. He was graceful, the kind of grace that only comes with having done a thing thousands of times from a tender age. He did it so fast that I couldn’t follow along to see how he did it. I always wanted to learn to do something, anything, as efficiently as Dad filleted fish. After a day of leisure fishing, as we made our way home, he would clean the fish at the stern of the boat, tossing the guts to the ubiquitous and ever watchful seagulls. With the help of the gulls, he made quick work of a nasty job. I can fillet, but not like him.
I don’t think this has much or anything to do with the dream, but rather the dream stimulated the memory. I think the dream was about some other things that have been troubling me of late.
If you dream that you are cutting something, this signifies a broken relationship. You are splitting apart a whole into two different parts. The meaning of a dream regarding cutting is designed to show that you have probably gone through a major change in your life. Perhaps you have recently parted ways with a friend that you have had for a very long time. Maybe you are breaking up with your significant other or cutting ties with a family member.
To dream that you are cutting yourself in a dream is just as severe as it might be to cut yourself in real life. This indicates that you are experiencing something so emotionally unbearable that you are willing to cut yourself out of your own life and totally end it all in one stroke.
Source: GoTo Horoscope
Truth or Fiction
Is the analysis rooted in my reality? I am experiencing profound sadness and turmoil about a longterm relationship, but I am, most decidedly, not suicidal.