Category Archives: Violence

Dreaming of my Bladder

Originally Written: July 6, 2015

toilet-1I had a dream the other night that someone was chasing me with a hammer. I do not think they wanted to hang a picture for me or make a birdhouse. I had the feeling that they wanted to sink that hammer into my skull.

Last night, I had a more interesting dream. I dreamed that I was in the master bedroom in my house in Maryland, and someone gave me a pair of shorts that were for a 10-year-old boy. I squeezed into them (that’s how you know it was a dream), sucked in my stomach, and buttoned a two-button closure. Then I suddenly needed to pee. You saw that coming, didn’t you? Oh, so bad, I had to pee.

I started fumbling with the buttons, but I had a hard time sucking in my stomach enough to unbutton them. The pressure was unbelievable. My bladder was bursting, and I had a strong urge to let it go. I finally got the boy-shorts unbuttoned just as another woman appeared. She had to use the bathroom, too. She started running for the door.

Finally success!! The shorts were unbuttoned. I made a run for it as I was pulling the pants down. I got through the bathroom door before her. When I finally looked at the toilet, a large, plastic dry cleaner bag entangled the entire seat. I was yanking my pants down with one hand and trying to remove the plastic bag with the other when H woke me. My pajama bottoms and panties were halfway down. I can’t tell you how fast I jumped out of that bed and ran for the bathroom. I barely made it.


Spousal Abuse Dream

Originally Written: March 8, 2015

I dreamed that I had a friend whose husband was physically abusive to her. I tried to persuade her to leave him. She would not. I realized that her husband’s wrath would soon extend to me. I told her that I would not interfere anymore, that she could make her own decisions but not to wait too long. Her husband caught me before I could get out of their yard and tried to beat me with a shovel. I avoided his attempted blows.

Then my friend, the wife, came out of the house and got in on the act. She grabbed a manual lawn edger similar to the one above and tried to chop my head off. I grabbed the blade-end of the edger with my bare hands in an attempt to keep it away from my neck. I woke screaming. Now that’s a Jerry Springer dream if I ever saw one. H woke and told me it was only a dream (he’s used to the routine).

And this all took place on the street where I grew up.

The only thing I can think of that relates to the dream is a conversation we had yesterday about mulching the flower beds in a few weeks and a couple of other yard and garden topics.

Easy as Falling out of Bed

falling-out-of-bedOriginally Written: October 26, 2014

I’m in here in the middle of the night again. I dreamed that someone was shooting at me. In an attempt to get on the floor and hide under the chair, I dove out of the chair. In reality, I threw myself out of the bed again. This time I pulled all the bedding off the bed and got entangled in it. I was unable to move and got a little panicky.

H jumped out of bed (his covers had been snatched from him), ran around to my side of the bed and tried to help me, but I was throughly trapped in the bedding. My spilled iced water had covered most of the bedside table by now, and was dripping all over me. That was some frigid water. I began to shiver; he wanted to get me off the floor and onto the bed immediately, but I needed a minute to collect myself. H has always been this way when something happens. He wants me to get back to normal immediately because he’s a little nervous that I’ve really hurt something. I insisted on sitting there for a minute while iced water drenched me, cuz who could ever get enough of that? I wasn’t exactly the most plugged-in person, if you know what I mean.

I never really got completely disentangled from the bedding. H kind of lifted me out of the mess and put me on the bed. My t-shirt was soaked by now, and I remember him making some lewd remark about having always wanted me to enter a wet t-shirt contest. I guess he thought he could get away with a sexist remark while I was still half in the dream, but I didn’t miss it. If I’m going to keep doing this, I need to cover the bedside table with glass or the water is going to ruin it.

H made me laugh a few times to get my head out of that awful dream, and now I’m in here with all my grandchildren covering the walls, a warm comforter wrapped around my lap and legs, wearing a fresh, dry t-shirt and comfy robe. H wants me to get one of those bed rails. I am officially moving into old-ladydom or back to childhood. Remember those wooden rails for the top bunk bed?

H never recalls his dreams. I’m the dream star in the family, but he remembered what he was dreaming when I woke him. It was Halloween and there was a knock at the door. He grabbed the candy bowl and answered the door. It was ISIS. At least it wasn’t Ebola. We’ve gone off the deep end around here. ISIS is in the Cul-de-sac, y’all.


candlesticksOriginally Written: December 31,2013

Twenty thirteen was a disturbing year on many levels. I’m still in the process of shaking it off, leaving it behind and moving into a new year. If I were the superstitious sort, I would mention that notorious thirteen that followed the perfectly innocent twenty.

I’ve had a recurring nightmare about once a week since Dad died. It distinguishes itself from every other nightmare I’ve had by casting me as the aggressor and even a perpetrator of violence. Usually my unfriendly dreams find me running from a pursuer, cowering in fear or waiting for someone or something to break down my door. I’ve never tried to harm or use physical force against anyone in a dream before this. I even flail about now, sometimes hitting H or my nightstand. I wake him with furious, contentious screams. He grabs my hands to keep me from hitting him or hurting myself.

About a month or two before Dad died, I became suspicious of one of his caregivers. I suspected she was stealing from Dad because things seemed different in the basement, and then H noticed something fishy with the medications. Some were unaccounted for.

I noticed opened packages of household supplies and food I’d bought in bulk at Sam’s, and one or two items would be missing. Dad’s basement was full of antique tools, brass propellers, fishing tackle, etc. He had two lathes, and he made some wonderful things over the years. He made a beautiful set of brass candlesticks and gave them to me when we were first married. The basement was so full of stuff that it was difficult to assess, but my brother noticed many things were missing when he cleaned the basement after Dad’s passing.

All of the brass propellers were gone and so much more. We suspect her husband backed his truck up to the basement and helped himself when my brother was at work.

It was impossible to prove anything. So many people had access to the house, but I have no doubts. The entire thing came to a head just before the arrival of Dad’s shingles. During one of Dad’s hospitalizations, another of his caregivers came to me with her own suspicions and suggested that I remove all of the medications from the house until Dad returned home. I had never uttered a word to her about my own misgivings. She had no idea I suspected anything. H changed the locks, and we removed all medications.

We parted ways with the caregiver. In an act of rank audacity she actually tried to get us to take her back. Clearly, she will never use me for a reference, but there’s not much else I can do. She wasn’t from an agency, I don’t have proof. She now works at something far removed from caregiving. That is some consolation. And all of this came to light during an already horribly stressful time. My thoughts were somewhere else entirely.

Dad had some wonderful caregivers. This was the only one in seven years who had a shaky moral compass. It still rankles that she got away with such obscene behavior.

So, about once a week I throw her out of Dad’s house in a decidedly uncivil way. I’m always giving her a verbal dressing-down, and sometimes I actually shove and swipe at her to remove her from the house. That’s when H wakes me. During the day, I’m lured into believing I’ve taken leave of all that, but it comes back over and over at night. Methinks someone is harboring a teensy tiny bit of anger, but I believe the real problem is regret that I didn’t pursue it to the hilt at the time. Can you imagine Dad’s tiny living room full of police officers and hospice workers at the same time? Of course, she counted on us being overwhelmed.

Fillet of Phalanges

The Dream

(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.”

Stimulated Thoughts

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.

Dream Analysis

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

Good Heavens!

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.