Bizarro Dreams of Escitalopram (part 2)

1/31/17 – This time I’m cleaning out my old house. In my pseudo-awake mind, it’s not like any house I’ve ever actually lived in (or seen) in real life, but in this dream, it’s the house we just left behind in Georgia. And that’s fine because, you know, that’s how dreams roll.

The walls are all white. The house is big and bright. I’m giving away furniture that I know I won’t need. The first piece is an old dark wood buffet table and I’m explaining to a family friend that it’s hers if she wants it because (pan left) I’ve still got these four (or was it three?) over here. And I’m taking all of those. I just don’t need that one. She thinks it’s cool.

She also wants to buy the house even though the carpet in the living room looks dirty even though it has been steam cleaned. Tell the realtor we have a buyer for the house, I think, and it’s all set. [In real life, it’s not yet sold nor do I have a buyer (and I promise you I don’t have four buffet tables) but the carpet does need another cleaning.]

This house that was mine suddenly becomes some kind of rental unit instead. There were tenants before me and there will be tenants after me, and there is a woman with reddish brown long hair who oversees and manages the property. She is dressed in a white long-sleeved blouse and white jeans when I see her. She runs into the room just to be sure everything is fine, to check on the woman I’m with, and runs out just as quickly. Something happened with previous tenants that has made her afraid to come into the building. I don’t know what it is.

Backtrack: I am walking through to a communal stairwell when a woman stops me. She lives here. She wants me to help her make something out of scrapbook paper. She insists. I don’t have a choice. No bother, what will it hurt to help her? The carpet is green and mottled, just like those old carpets you still find in houses that haven’t been updated since the 70s. The woman’s hair is short and her eyes are wide. She’s afraid of something. I don’t ask what, I just help her.

A man walks in with three pistols strapped to holsters around his waist. Overlapping belts. Olive green or khaki colored carpenter pants. I think I shouldn’t have stayed here. I should have left. He doesn’t like it when he sees me there. Before I can react, he shoots at me, hits me in the chest and the head, but I’m still moving. It doesn’t hurt but I feel the presence of the bullets in my body. I’m still alive. (Enter manager woman.) I make a break for the door and somehow make it down the stairs where other building residents shield me from him. He doesn’t want to shoot them, though. I see a small child, maybe 3 or 4 years old. The child is a boy and the man who shot me is his father. The boy is scared and crying and somehow I know he’s in danger, too. So I grab him and run for cover.

B.W.

2/1/17 – I thought if I sat down to my computer and started to write, the dream would come to me. I should have done this much earlier in the day. Now I’m having a difficult time sorting out which thoughts in my head might belong to this dream and which do not.

I think it had something to do with my kids. I think my kids were there. I see images in flashes. I’m outside; we’re all outside. It’s nearing dusk and we’re out in a field or a meadow where the grasses are tall and dark green. It’s breezy because the grasses are moving fluidly. Boy scout troop, maybe? I can’t remember. There are other people around us. We’re out there for some reason but I can’t remember what it is.

Oh, I remember more, now. I’m switching schools. High school. Yeah, because now I’m a senior in high school again. At one point in this dream I thought to myself, “dang, I’m young again!” It doesn’t look like my high school but it doesn’t matter anyway because I’m being transferred. The really sucky part is that I have just one day before I graduate and transferring seems to mean starting over from scratch (senior year, anyway). I don’t want to be transferred but the powers-that-be (oddly, my mom) don’t care what I want.

I get a visitor – someone I have known for about eight years in real life. He’s an old friend. He’s thicker and rounder than I know him to be and he’s not traveling alone. He’s with a male friend or family member and a small child. His dark curly hair is still short and his face is still the same. His smile is a friendly comfort. He sits on concrete bleachers while I clear out my dormitory room.

I get in a little bit of trouble for having a friend over and am called away to an assembly of some kind. It might be the graduation. I can’t remember. When I return, I realize I haven’t finished cleaning out my closet and I still have clothes hanging in there, so I can’t leave yet. I have to get the rest of those things. My friend’s friend is there with the kid and he needs a stroller, so I help him find one. I find this awkwardly long contraption that comes apart in the middle. It looks like a long soap box derby car with three wheels, one in the front and two in the back, but it’s in two pieces: the front wheel is attached to the body and the sitting compartment and that entire piece is made out of translucent resin, while the back wheels are attached to a more solid piece (possibly metal) with handlebars on the back for pushing. They two pieces snap together but make for a very long stroller. We try using just part of it but it won’t work if it is not whole.

D.H.

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