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Archive for January, 2013

Dream Journal: First Entry

So, a friend of mine is all interested into other people’s dreams.  I went on and on about my strange dreams (trust me, I have some seriously weird, cinematic dreams), and he asked if I’d keep a journal and share; said he’d do the same.  That’s why I’ve made this post.  I can’t lose it, if it’s on line.  LOL

Here it is:

Dream journal: Mon., 1/7/13 – So, for whatever reason, I have to find a new place for my kids and me to live. I don’t have a lot of money, so I take the biggest, most inexpensive place I can find. It’s less fixer upper than pile of sticks that needs to be burned down.

A big white two story house that I never went to the second floor on, in the dream. It actually has two front porches, with a hall that leads between them. I didn’t ever look at the back side of the house. At the head of the driveway, there is this great old twisty tree, that has thick limbs curling down toward the ground, then back up to the sky. I’m not sure if it’s spooky, or a really cool club house, until the kids start climbing on it.

I show my mom the house, and she is less than unimpressed. She is worried about our safety in this neighborhood, and about our quality of life in this house. I am conscerned about the terrible white powdery stuff that’s all over. I mean, it’s in the walls, on the floors, falling from the ceiling, caked on the porch-hall wall… Maybe that’s why I never got as far as the second floor, because I wanted to get the first liveable before venturing any place else.

The first night in the house, something bad happens. Just after dark, my kids are playing in the living room. I don’t have a great deal of furniture, but there is a television and a couch. Anyway, while they play, I am frying cubed steak and making rice and gravy in my mom’s cast iron skillet. I’m not sure why I’m doing it with the dishes she had when I was thirteen, but I am. The smells are great, and I love seeing my kids playing together so well. They don’t seem to have had a fight the entire time we’ve been living in this new house. I wonder if they are growing up, right before my eyes.

I get a sinking feeling, like my family is about to be under attack. I look around the rooms we’ve already been in. Nothing, and no one, makes an appearance. I go out to the porches. The one closest to the tree, the bulb doesn’t work. i can still see, because the light from the kitchen. I go to the poprch toward the other end of the house. Oh my God, please, no… There are three tall, lean men, who look as if they could hold their own against nearly anything. They are all wearing camo peretts, and camo clothes that make them look like they’re in the army. All three are hispanic, and look mean. They do not look like someone I want to run into, but they are headed straight down the sidewalk, toward my screen door. I whisper a prayer, just in time for them to see me. I run to the kitchen door that I exited from. I try to sound calm, “Babies, you stay here. Willi, don’t unlock the door until I tell you to. There are some bad people here, and I don’t want you to get hurt.” I hug them, and lock them in the house. I know that’s only the most minimum of protection, but it’s all I can do with the time that I have. I wish I had a gun, but know that they’d probably kill me with it, if I did.

The one in front, who looks the meanest and seems to be in charge, opens the screen. I startle them. “Get out of my house.” They speak spanish. They look at one another as if to say, okay, what now..? They look around the house as if they’d like to pick it up and carry it away, with my children and me trapped inside like crickets in a cage. I wish my husband were here. One of them looks at me and says one word, “Fun.” I dom’t like the look in his eye.

The three of them are laughing, as if there’s some inside joke, as they hurt me. I can’t scream or make too much noise, because my oldest would come out to see what’s wrong. I pray, the entire time, they will not go into the house. I cry. I did’t dream any details of what they did, but it’s pretty clear what happened.

I walk to the neighbor’s house, presumably to call the police, but then I’m back in my new living room with the kids. I’m all put together, like nothing happened. I’m thinking about the fact that the police just left. I hope the rapists all pull guns, and have to get shot by the police. I hope they get shot in the face, so that they are unrecognizable, and have to have a closed casket. I hope their caskets are cheep, and not air tight, so the bugs and worms start eating them while they are still fresh… They don’t deserve any kind of peace. Then I sit on the couch, and sing songs with my children.

The next day, we are out in the driveway. I am cleaning the yard, and the kids are playing. I help them to climb high in the tree. As my oldest is climbing down, a brown van pulls up. It’s DFACS. They want an interview. I am weirded out, but I let the lady in the house. I tell her how great the place will be, when I’m finished. She says the powdery stuff must be insilation, she’s seen it before. I feel relieved, because, I say, “I didn’t know what that stuff was! I thought it was weird. I mean, could it be sand?” She hems and haws, and says she likes that most of our living space (right now, the living room w/ a futon, and the kitchen) is already cleared of the white powder, and that our laundry and dishes are done. Says I keep a good house, given the circumstances. I smile and nod and she leaves, seeming pleased.

Later that afternoon, a policeman comes by to take my five year old for a ride in his car. I don’t seem to think anything of it. He mumbles something about kids might need counseling after crisis, that I should look into getting some for myself. It gets dark, and I’m worried. My son is not back, and no one is returning/answering my calls. Even 9-1-1 is busy! Finally, the social worker who stopped by earlier, calls me to say that my son has been given a drug test. He’s positive for coke. I flip out. I can’t talk, for the crying. The lady can’t understand me, because I’m crying too much. She says she’ll call me in the morning. I am unable to ask questions, or call her a bitch for taking my baby when he couldn’t have tested positive for any kind of drug. I can’t ask her to retest, because I can’t catch my breath. I feel like the ground (not the rug, much worse than that) has been snatched out from under me, and I’m falling into nothingness. My 2 1/2 year old pats my leg, trying to make it all better, and I’m reminded that I still have him. I’m reminded that I must keep it together for him. When I suddenly stop crying, he thinks it was a game, and goes back to his toy trains in the living room.

I call my mother to come over, but start crying so much that I can’t explain over the phone. She hangs up on me, and drives over in the middle of the night. I am calm, until she gets there. Then, she ushers me out to the front porch (off the kitchen) and tells me she’s going to shut the door. She tells me now is the time to lose it, and that she doesn’t want me to come back in until I can keep myself composed. I cry about my baby. I cry because I’m out here alone; because of what happened just over there. I cry because I’m angry that I didn’t fight the three wandering monsters. Why didn’t I get a knife, or own a gun? Again, I hope they die in a horrific way. Then, I’m just as angry at that woman who came here trying to look like she was helping me, but she took my son. I want to find her and hurt her. I cry again. When it’s all over, I open the kitchen door, and go inside.

My mom comforts me, and I hug my youngest son. Mom and I talk about solutions to my problem (Willi being taken). I try to figure out why he could have tested possitive for coke. Could it be a bad test, or some kind of blood disorder? I don’t go around druggies, therefore my kids aren’t around them. Without druggies, no coke. So, where on earth– Then it hits me. The powder in the house. The stuff coming out of the walls, and falling from the ceiling. The stuff caked on the hall way wall, and all over the floor. It’s my worst nightmare. There’s no way anyone will believe I don’t do drugs or have my kids around them, when we are all going to test positive; not when my house is… Infested with it? Built out of it? Mom finds a long shelf in the hall (why hadn’t I seen that?) with five pound bags of it… just bags and bags of the crap! Now I see them, everywhere there are bags of white powder! I have another panic attack. Mom talks me through it, and says we’ve got to get out of the house. I look around at our stuff, and wonder if the coke could have worked its way into the fabric of the futon, or fallen down into the back of the television… Should we leave everything? Should I call the landlord?

Hell yes, I should call him, the bastard! He rented me this place, knowing what it was used for. He stole my money, and now I’m homeless! How could I have been so f’ing stupid?!! I’ll buy a gun, and I’ll pay him a visit. I ask Mom if she minds sitting in the car, when we leave, with BabyJ. I have to make a few stops first. The grocery store, the pawn shop, and the landlord. I want a bag of flower (I have no idea why?), a gun, and I want to knock his teeth out and get my money back.

I wake up, crying.

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