I am terrible at sleeping. I probably haven’t slept through the night since I was about eleven, which means I’ve been sleep deprived (and melodramatic) for twenty years. I remember waking up beginning in seventh grade with a huge headache, stressed out about the homework due soon, or the test I could study more for. In high school, we had competitions about how little we slept (one night: half an hour), and in college, I loved me a tasty, caffeine ridden all nighter. I enjoy being up in the middle of the night, it’s often when I do my best work, but it completely obliterates the life long dream I’ve held of being a morning person. Admittedly, I’ve never tried very hard to be one, rather I’ve just hoped that one day, I will wake up loving 6 a.m.
I’m a vivid dreamer, and often a lucid one, which explains why I’ve never died in one of the many dreams I’ve had about serial killers. Sometimes my dreams are normal, though- I’m pregnant, my teeth are falling out, I’m flying, my mother is alive. The best dreams are the ones where you wake up still wrapped in it, like a blanket, reluctant to leave.
Last night, I dreamed I was screaming. The person I know I was screaming at didn’t look at all like she does in real life, and I don’t remember getting an answer to the question I was screaming . I don’t remember anything else in particular about it right now, except that I was causing a ruckus. I’ve been thinking about it all day, my ability, our ability to carry anger around inside us, like candy wrappers or pennies in the deep pockets of a coat.
I’m being purposely vague here, but suffice it to say, this all has to do with figuring out how to trust people again, especially people who base their lives around building community. It’s exhausting, carrying all this resentment around and not being able to say anything real about it, so it’s finding its way into my dreams, where I holler until my throat is raw.