Thursday, November 05, 2009
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
I'm wasn't exactly sure what a genogram was so I googled it. Here's what I found:
A genogram (pronounced: jen-uh-gram) is a graphic representation of a family tree that displays detailed data on relationships among individuals. It goes beyond a traditional family tree by allowing the user to analyze hereditary patterns and psychological factors that punctuate relationships. Genograms allow a therapist and his patient to quickly identify and understand various patterns in the patient's family history which may have had an influence on the patient's current state of mind. The genogram maps out relationships and traits that may otherwise be missed on a pedigree chart.I suppose that could definitely include emotional relationships and trauma. We talked about three generations of trauma in my session tonight - my mother, me, my children. I'm sure it preceded my mother's generation as well. It will interesting to see where mental illness fits in.
The thought of seeing a genogram of my family unnerves me. I dread what I might unearth and connect.
Dr. B made a suggestion tonight - would I consider taking an antidepressant? Again? I've been depressed for months now...since my son had his flashbacks and my daughter had her flashbacks and a secret was revealed while on vacation. It's been too much for me and I've found my self detached and unable to reconnect with my emotions.
"What do you feel when you say you're depressed?"
I feel nothing. No, that's not true. I feel exhausted, all the time.
Thursday, October 08, 2009
It was the cumulative effect of many realizations. I am not able to process them all and so two distinct reactions have occurred - detachment/denial/dissociation (all three actually) and illness.
This year, 2009, I have had several very unpleasant physical ailments, all of the onsets came after trips with my family -- shingles, stomach viruses (one of which lasted almost two weeks), flu/pneumonia, and strange fevers which erupted out of the blue and would last days. My last vacation was the worst - I fell sick with the flu for four weeks. I'm still recuperating.
Tonight my daughter was talking to me about these dreams she has been having. Not regular dreams, she told me, but dreams where she woke up thinking she was hiding under the bed in the house we lived in when I was married to my second husband. She said they felt really real and felt creepy and she would wake up and not know where she was. She's been having these dreams for several nights now. I told her they weren't dreams - they were flashbacks. Her hiding under the bed was real and frightening. It hurts me to think about it. It hurts her to remember it. She didnt' want to talk about it. She left the kitchen. I didn't follow.
I have passed my trauma on to all my children, in one way or another.
One more thing I need to process. One more thing that shuts me down.
Wednesday, October 07, 2009
Why did everyone hate big sister? Why did she move across the country then across the ocean to escape? Why did my grandparents try marriage therapy in the 1940's? What secret did my mother reveal?
Only that my grandfather had a secret, intimate, close relationship with her older sister. And everyone in that family was jealous. They took trips together on the train; spent weekends today in the city. Incestuous? Yes.
My grandfather was mean, too. I never really knew him. He didn't like children or maybe he only liked one child who grew too old.
Tuesday, October 06, 2009
But I did have two dreams that I do remember. I was travelling with my mother and sister and we stopped at a house (I thought at first it was my abusive ex-husband's mother's house) for some reason. My mother told me that she was leaving and wasn't taking me. I got really angry and told her she couldn't just leave me in this strange place with no transportation or money, etc. Too bad, I was told. I grabbed my mother, threw her up against the wall, slapped her across the face, and called her a bitch - well, I screamed bitch at her. She pulled herself together and left me there. I don't know what happened to my sister. Later I was showering in the upstairs bathroom of this house - the shower curtains were Victorian drapes -- and I was furious. I ripped down the drapes, smashed the window, broke the mirror - I went on a rampage breaking everything I could. I wound up cutting and bruising my hands and feet and just stood there soaking wet (still in my clothes) crying.
Saturday, October 03, 2009
So, I looked up suicidal ideation and I learned that it can be used as a sort of stress reliever for people suffering with biopolar, depression, etc. Dangerous though, it is. It is a way out of a life that is so unbearable with no end in sight that the idea of death offers the only comfort. Apparently it is not always a precursor to an actual suicide attempt. It was not with me and I fantasied about suicide (or accidental, on-purpose death) for decades, continuously. My friend's suicidal ideations often led to suicide attempts and subsequent hospitalizations; mine didn't. I suppose it should never be taken lightly.
I believed death fantasies were normal. So, why didn't I commit suicide or attempt suicide? It's a question I've often asked myself. A part of me surely wanted to die. After my conversation the other night, I believe I finally understand why I'm still breathing.
To kill myself would have been admitting that there was something dreadfully wrong in my life...something that I worked so feverishly to deny. I couldn't remember anything that was so horrible that I would have to die to escape the pain.
Friday, October 02, 2009
I can't continue.
Friday, August 28, 2009
There's been a lot of death around me lately. It's my age, I'm sure. But still, it unnerves me just a bit. And I've been feeling estranged from my love. He's upset with me for going on this trip. He's not angry at me but he's feeling extremely anxious and he's been quiet around me. I need to feel him, his hugs...I need to hold on to our love so that if, god forbid, I don't make it back, my heart is filled with his love. Oh, my heart is filled with love (for him, from him). I'm anxious. I'll say it again, I'm a little nervous. If I keep writing it maybe it will get out of my system. Would the powers that be take my mother, my sister, and me all at the same time? It would leave my children and my sister's children orphans. But I guess if it's mean to be, it will be.
So, I want to tell you, LOML, that I love you. I love you more than you can imagine. I always have, every second of every day for the last 18 years. I love you because you have consistently loved me, even when you weren't with me, and I have never felt alone. For the first time in my life, I felt truly loved and adored and cherished. Your respect, your support, your care has helped me learn to live life. You have listened countless hours to my tales of horror and abuse and yet, you've never left. And it's traumatized you but you stayed and held me and loved me some more. I know I have frustrated you to no end but somehow you are still here. Sometimes I wonder what I did in my life to deserve your love and loyalty. I want to come back from this trip and share a life with you. I hope that we are given that opportunity.
Should something happen, please help my children understand who it is that their mother was. They don't know. Only you know, my love. One day, hopefully, you will find them and they will listen to you.
There, I got it out of my system. Quickly, my fears have been jotted down and released. Now, I can live. No, I don't want to crash in a plane over the ocean. I want to have a great time with my family and relatives and come home and work on my relationships with my love and my children, and make new friends, and get new business, and find a little peace and joy.
I love you.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Friday, July 17, 2009
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
The last year has brought clarity to many of my behaviors and reactions to life. Ten months ago the LOML was talking "dirty" to me (which he does often). It was playful and as often happens, it escalates to really hot, sexually tense conversations. Ten months ago during one of these exchanges, I was referred to in a rather crude manner -- as his fuck bitch. I didn't take offense because this was not said in a derogatory way, it was not meant to hurt. However, hours later in my car I had a flashback to a time in my 20's when I was raped. It was a trauma and recalling the incident, retraumatized me and traumatized the LOML. It took many months of therapy, discussions, etc. to accept this trauma into my life and his. It was the crude talk that triggered the memory. It silenced the LOML for many months.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
"Do you remember when mother was tucking us into bed and she heard dad coming down the hall to kiss us goodnight and she hid under the bed? I was about 3 and I remember us both giggling because we thought it was so funny." No memory.
"Do you remember all the parakeets we had in our room? They only lived about two weeks." Uh-uh.
"Do you remember when I spent your birthday hiding in the closet because you weren't really a princess?" Not really but I've heard the story for decades.
I have a photo of Christmas morning and a pink puppet theatre but I don't remember if it was yours or mine. "Oh, it was mine and I loved it."
Watching the movie, I was immediately struck by the forbiddenness of the love, the shameful secrets they both coveted, and how those secrets choreographed the movement of their lives. I tried to tell the LOML about it but he wasn't interested in discussing it and although I didn't understand why, I chalked it up to exhaustion, candida die-off, and a bad mood (which is frequently the case). A week later I got my hands on a copy of the book and started reading and again I brought up the subject, to which he snarled just a little and the subject was dropped. It came to my attention a short time later in a text message that he had tried to watch the movie but turned it off because it was too upsetting. He had little compassion for Hanna - she was a rapist and an abuser. When he witnessed Michael's pain in the courtroom upon seeing Hanna, he could take no more. It made him angry and turned the movie off. No more.
Yes, Hanna was an abuser and yes, she committed statutory rape (according to our standards). But I was filled with compassion for both her and Michael and I couldn't quite understand what or why the LOML was filled with such contempt for Hanna and with such agonizing pain from watching Michael's struggles. But he (my love) was clearly suffering. He couldn't sleep. It occupied many conversations we had in person, in email exchanges, even text messages. I tried to understand what he was feeling. He connected to Michael - not knowing who this woman was that he loved so intensely, this woman that altered the course of his entire life. She took advantage of him sexually - she sexually abused him -- and it left him as damaged goods with a lifetime of issues that he didn't know how to heal from.
My love equated that to what happened to me - abusive love that damaged me. But there was no love in my abusive relationships -- desperation, yes; loneliness, yes; fear, yes; terror, absolutely. As I look back on my relationships now, there was no love - there was a driving fear to not be abandoned again and it pushed me into the arms of men I never imagined would be in my life...an abusive alcoholic and a severely mentally unbalanced emotional abuser. It is upsetting my stomach to write those words.
After reading The Reader, a whole new world of understanding unfolded, slowly, page by page, about how the LOML dealt with his love for me, the forbiddenness and the secrets, my hidden past and the force with which it controlled our relationship. Set in another era, it could have been our story.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
The LOML gave me gerber daisies a few weeks back. Looking at them filled me up with joy. Such a simple flower, such a simple gesture of love, such a simple yet powerful emotion surfaced. Joy. I've spent decades telling therapists that I felt no joy in my life...it was missing. I knew what should bring me joy and I pretended to feel it when appropriate. But it was a lie. I was numb. I was detached. I was even dissociative.
I did talk about my life - a little. What I could remember, much of which was unpleasant...no, actually, it was bad, really bad. But I told it like a story. A story that had no emotion, no connection. I talked and people gasped or cried like the LOML but nothing registered with me. I had more emotion attached to novels I read than anything in my own life. It was a joke -- my life was a laugh.
Friday, May 15, 2009
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Wild animals (according to Carl Jung) are symbolic of dangers (hurtful and negative things) being "swallowed" by the unconscious.
Lions and tigers link to anger and intimidation. Lions are linked to great danger. Lions tend to symbolize moments of real fear linked to someone. Lions can be linked to moments when you have faced real danger. Lions can also link to your specific fears connected with life in general and problems you would like to avoid.
Walking my little Jack Russell terrier with the LOML on a dirt road near my home, we noticed up ahead an animal lying across the road. At first glance I thought it was a dead golden retriever with its blondish coat, but as we neared I realized it was a lion with a huge mane. It was on its side sprawled across the one-lane dirt road and it didn't appear to be breathing. The LOML leaned down and stroked the soft fur on its belly, freaking me out.
I ran to a house on the lane and started banging on the door for help. A woman and toddler answered - they didn't speak English. I started yelling 'emergencia, emergencia' - dial 911 - which she did and handed me the phone. I told the police that there was a ferocious lion on the loose and they needed to capture it. The 911 operator asked me if the lion hurt anyone - no. Well then she said, we'll get there when we get there. I was fuming and I screamed at her over the phone, what? are you going to wait until someone gets hurt? gets murdered?
I looked up into the tree and saw my dog/cat cradled in the lion's front legs. It was licking the cat like a lioness does with her cubs. In the next moment my cat took this death-defying leap from the tree and landed in my arms - he was my dog again and he was covered with saliva and blood and dirt. He was trembling and trying to escape from my arms but I held him tightly. I screamed for the police to come and screamed for the LOML but neither were within earshot. I quietly but quickly made me way down to the other end of lane clutching my dog to my chest trying not to gather the attention of the lion. I was exhausted as I started to trudge my way up a very steep hill thinking that all I wanted to do was get home to safely and find the LOML.
I spoke with Dr. B about my dream. It was suggested by the LOML that the lion was my very abusive first husband. I agree. I also believe that I was my dog/cat and when I realized I couldn't escape, I morphed into an animal that was similar so we could relate; so I could survive. And that's just what I did with my first husband until I could finally escape from a prison of my own making. Oh yes, my ex terrorized me, I'm sure, but as long as I dissociated from the abuse, I wasn't able to find my way out. I didn't even acknowledge the abuse and it wasn't until I had children that I left. And it was to protect them; not me. I still didn't allow the memories of abuse to surface. Denial is dangerous.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Sunday, May 03, 2009
I have abandonment issues. Tonight I had a falling out with the LOML and he said to me in moments of frustration (I hope) that perhaps we should take a separation until we both finished our therapy. Inside, I flipped. An irrational fear possessed my thoughts and I couldn't talk anymore. I did gather myself up and told him that I could not talk to him and wanted to leave. We parted ways without another word said. It was miserable. But I couldn't speak, not rationally anyway, and at long last I recognized this fear and the impact it was having. It was miserable but monumental in a way. There was a part of me, albeit an itsy bitsy piece of me, that wanted to screech my tires as I pulled out of the parking lot and ram my car into a tree. But it was just an irrational, angry thought not something I would ever act upon because I have learned. Learned to bring myself back to the present and not act out as that young abandoned child. Still, his words hurt and cut to my bone. He doesn't want to separate and neither do I but we're both tired and weary and overwhelmed with the work we are trying to do in therapy. We will work this out somehow.
Some random thoughts...while talking with my sister this afternoon, she related a story to me about how unfair she thought it was that our brothers didn't have to wear shirts in the summer and us girls did. So, at 6 years of age, she went out without a shirt and walked around the block. Why didn't our mother make her wear a shirt? She chuckled and said she probably never even noticed (or cared). Yes, I thought, that is true. Was she hoping for attention from a neglectful mother? I think so. She also told me how she used to dress up in our mother's dresses and high heels and parade around in front of the house and sashay up and down the street. She was preparing for her married life. She also spend her free time (after school) pushing a baby buggy with one of those quasi-realistic looking peeing baby dolls until she was 12. She had her first serious boyfriend at 14.
I shared with her what I did at 10 years old with my girlfriend -- we played adult cocktail hour in the morning hours before any adult had awakened and shook off their hangovers. Dressed in our pajamas, we would pick out the longest cigarette buts from the ashtray, hang them from our lips, refresh the liquid remnants of the previous night's cocktails left on the coffee table with ice (those without soggy Marlboro stubs), and parade around the living room sipping our heavily diluted martinis talking about adult sex.
My sister was a bride and mother in the making. I was the dysfunctional adult in the making. We both (sort of) lived up to our make-believe fantasies.
I woke up feeling sick, with that undefinable ick feeling deep in the pit of my stomach. And the feeling has stayed with all day leaving me with a stabbing pain under my right shoulder blade.
Again, I was deceived...something so seemingly innocent but probably anything but. And I was in conflict -- it felt good but I knew it was the precursor to something that didn't. Oh, yuck.
I'm going to pour myself a cup of tea and busy myself with anything other than these thoughts. Or so I like to tell myself.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
My neck aches. I now have a neurotic fear that I have osteo-arthritis or some such other progressively debilitating disease. I went out and purchased calcium supplements last night and black cohosh for my hot flashes. On top of everything I go through that is emotionally driven - I have menopause symptoms. So, I really don't sleep and I have extra anxiety in addition to my stress, and fogginess, and teariness. How do I know what is menopause and what is therapy? It doesn't matter. It's both, always. The menopause symptoms just amplify my emotional state.
I am very terrified to retrieve any memories that may confirm sexual abuse in my past. I have worked so hard all my life to convince myself that I am just a loser, a lazy, not-so-smart, not-so-successfull, waste of a human being. Oh, but that's not true. Just ask anyone. What an awful thing to write about myself. I'm not feeling well today and I don't think that at all. It's just -- well, what is the alternative? Maybe the alternative is that abandonment and physical abuse could really mess someone up, especially a child. But was I abandoned? Neither parent died. Maybe that would make it easier. They just chose not to take care of us anymore -- move out, live their own lives. They couldn't completely disown us but they did pretty darn good at letting us know that we were bothersome -- that we were trouble and some of us actually were. I was.
They did the best they could. But did they? I doubt that although I am quite sure my mother was traumatized by the whole divorce thing. She, however, denies it adamantly. And she still loves that bastard of a father of mine. It's the family dynamic of deny, deny, deny. The denial runs deeps; the wounds even deeper.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
I walked into my therapy tonight and immediately explained to her my mysterious (but not so much) illness over the weekend. High body temp, chills, hot flashes, ice in my veins, headaches, muscle aches, very stuffy non-stop runny nose. I was miserable and weak and helpless and sleepless - Friday night, Saturday, Sunday. I woke up Monday morning feeling a little bit better but by the mid-morning I had not a single symptom remaining.
On Sunday I watched the "Three Faces of Eve." I couldn't get the movie out of my head - how Eve White had no memory of what traumatized her and the personality that experienced most of her life responded to it like a zombie - disconnected, unfeeling, dead. She was unhappy in an abusive relationship and just accepted her fate. Eve White felt nothing. I could relate. Eve Black was rebellious. I could relate. I digress. I want to write about therapy and sex.
I woke up this morning and decided I needed to take action in therapy -- try to move things along. That's when I decided "sex" needed to be the topic.
So, I walked into therapy, briefly narrated my illness, and then told her I needed to begin a discussion about sex. She said, sex, okay. Is that a problem for you? Well, yes and no. I told her how anxious I was all day about coming to therapy with the intent to discuss sex. I had a headache and she could feel the tension. She started the discussion by asking me what I was feeling right then while I was gearing up for the conversation. I felt numb and I felt scared. My throat felt thick.
I immediately fell into a confusing monologue about whether or not I was sexually molested as a child. Why I suspected I was -- all the evidence, everything I read, my classic symptoms. Then I told her I thought it was all in my head. And she stopped me, and said "it's not in your head - you have physical symptoms, you were sick this weekend, you have pain right now talking about it. You've a lifetime of physical ailments. It's not in your head." OK, that's true.
I wanted to cry. I just slumped back into the couch and stared at the floor. Do you want to talk about sex with the LOYL? No, yes, maybe. I told her that our sex life had been changing - that I was feeling things I never felt before. It was a little scary but it was good. What is that you feel? I feel his touch, I feel emotions, I feel intimacy, I feel connection, I feel pleasure, I feel satisfaction, I feel so much more than just the raw sexual attraction. Your sex has many layers now. Yes. It does. I started to cry just a bit. I told her briefly about times in our past when I thought I was suffocating or on the verge of a panic attack and how sometimes being on the verge of a panic attack during sex made me more sexually aggressive. I needed to push through the fear.
I don't remember sex with other men. I don't remember sex with my first husband and I don't remember sex with my second husband. I remember being raped, sort of. I remember the fear more than I remember the acts. I remember the anger (at myself) more than the violent act perpetrated against me. But we didn't really discuss this.
You were traumatized. We know for a fact that you were traumatized. We have proof from your sister and brother that your ex-husband knocked your teeth out. We can surmise that you took a strong blow to the head when that happened. We know that you were traumatized when your parents abandoned you. We know that those traumas alone are enough to cause all kinds of problems. Now we need to explore the sexual fears and apprehensions.
As things started to heat up, it was time to cool things down. 45 minutes go by quickly but I'm not so sure I could have handled any more. It's intense and I'm tired now. I'll finish this posting tomorrow.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
I haven't been writing. I haven't been sharing my thoughts with the LOML. I talk with Dr. B. And I cry, all the time, and I don't sleep, and my body goes numb, and I cry some more. I miss talking with the LOML but somehow I convinced myself that if I didn't share all my difficulties with him, I would spare him my miseries. My traumas have traumatized him and I feel guilty. I didn't want to pile on any more guilt than I already carry. But it doesn't work. I miss him. I miss sharing my discoveries and realizations and moments of clarity with him. He understands. Dr. B understands. No one else does. No one else really knows.
Dr. B reminded me of something that Peter Levine wrote - trauma robs you of your soul. The LOML has uttered similar words to me for years but I fought him with every logical piece of denial I could summon. No, no, I cry, it's not true. I had parts of my soul retrieved back in the fall - parts that were robbed from me and yet, I still deny it. I wish I had the words to explain the hurt and anger. It's not hurt and anger...it's so much greater than those two words can convey. My life was stolen from me and what was I given? Uck. What was I given? What did I make of my life? I was talking to Dr. B about a dream I had just before my trip to Nevada.
I was ill the night before I left. The LOML left me lying on my bed that evening praying for salvation. He wasn't happy with me. I was tossing and turning all night, burning up with a fever, anxious in my semi-conscious state of delirium, how I was ever going to manage to get up at 4:45 am and fly to Las Vegas. I was drenched in sweat, dying of thirst but afraid to drink. I wanted to die and yet, cancellation was not an alternative in my mind. So I dreamed about getting fixed.
I had to keep going across the river to replace my sick body parts with healthy ones. But I could only replace them one piece at a time and each time I had to run across the bridge to the house I grew up in, make the exchange, and race back over the bridge to my bed. Then I did it all over again and again and again to exchange another piece of me. I was worried that the night would end before I replaced all the bad parts or that I would collapse in exhaustion before I was done.
I woke up many times between the exchanges but each time I fell back into a feverish sleep and exchanged another part of me.
At 4:45 the alarm went off. I dragged myself out of bed in tears, brushed my teeth, grabbed my bottle of water and a tube of saltine crackers (just in case I could eat), woke my children and headed to the airport. I guess I had replaced enough parts in my sleep to set out to adventures unknown.
When I spoke to Dr. B about my dream, she asked me why I went back to the house I grew up in for new healthy parts of me. Because that was where I was before bad things happened to me. YES, she said, that is the first time you have admitted to me that bad things happened to you. Yes, bad things happened to me.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
I haven't written in my blog in months. I couldn't.
It just hurts too much.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
I walked into a conference room -- long beautiful wood table in a very elegant, old building. I was meeting with Heads of States and professors and other dignitaries. I was decked out in a business suit (skirt, jacket) and high heels. I walked into the room where everyone was already seated and walked to the head of the table to sit. Just before I sat down, I pooped. It just dropped out from beneath my skirt and plopped on the floor. It was huge like a great dane's pile of crap would be. I didn't pay any attention although I was well aware it happened. I pulled a chair up over the pile of shit and sat down for the meeting. I was concerned about the smell but I was the only one who seemed to notice. After the meeting I pushed my chair back and accidently stepped in the pile of crap and it got all up in my heels and on my purse and I was grabbing tissues and trying to clean it up all the while making excuses about how it got all over my shoes and purse. Oh, I must have stepped in it on my way over here. I was hoping that no one would notice the smeared pile of shit under my chair.
January 23, 2009.
Well, I think you attached me last night, back to my emotions. I had dreams again, dreams about you, my sister. Dreams that were rife with anxiety and upset. And this morning I just cried and cried. I have been so detached the last two weeks and I haven't dreamed. But you brought me back and even though it pains me, it is good.
I dreamed that I was in the water -- the river -- there was a wall on one side of the river - a tall unscalable wall, and the other side of the river was never-ending. I was holding on to this long inflatable tube that was almost flat and barely kept me afloat. I was exhausted and I was looking for something at the bottom of the river. The water was crystal clear but I couldn't see anything and I was so tired I could barely hold on to this tube and my sister was way up above on the wall, telling me not to give up, to keep looking.
Next I dreamed I was at the playground of the elementary school in Upper Nyack and there was a carnival. You (the LOML) and I were there as adults and we walked over to this merry-go-round where everyone on it was naked and bending over and moaning and I was totally disgusted by it. But you wanted to go on it and you waited in this line for your turn (and I wasn't happy) and then you took off your clothes and got onto the merry-go-round. I watched you sort of hump and slither on top of all these really obese and filthy nude bodies. You weren't engaged in intercourse or anything overtly sexual (like blowjobs, or grabbing breasts) -- you were just kind of bent over and sliding around on top of these other naked bodies (but you had a hard on and I could tell you were rubbing your balls hard against the other bodies) and everyone was moaning and groaning and making all kinds of sexual noises. I was totally upset and walked away. You found me and were telling me that it was nothing, it was just simple fun and human contact and why was I turning it into something sexual. I was like, no way, it was very sexual and I was crying and yelling at you to stop trying to make me believe otherwise.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Second dream - I was in a large room -- like a prison cafeteria -- and it was filled with people and children sitting at long tables. The room was totally packed and had a wretched stench, like urine, and decaying bodies, and excrement. There were these tiny windows way high up on the walls, near the ceiling, which were closed. The lights cast a bluish tint over everything. Everyone was just sitting, like prisoners, some crying, some moaning, others with their heads down on the table, only there were no guards or fences or anything to hold them inside. I thought that they were in a self-imposed prison. I was freaked out and was with this woman who grabbed my arm and pulled me out of the room. We ran into this house - a split level house that is often in my dreams - and this woman hustled me into a bedroom and told me to quickly get dressed so that we could escape. I was wearing flipflops and grabbed a pair of socks and a shirt to take with me. I put on a navy blue t-shirt with a message (I don't remember) and was trying to stuff my socks & shirt into my pocket. I didn't want anyone to know that i was going to sneak out. This man entered, an older man with a Charlie Mason air about him, and grabbed my socks & shirt from me so I couldn't escape and told me to hurry up and get going. He came over to me to see what was written on my t-shirt and he was smoothing the fabric across my breasts with his hands. I was frozen, not breathing. The woman distracted him and he stopped. Then he walked out of the room. This woman with me grabbed my arm and started to pull me toward the front door. I stopped at the bathroom door and was just about to go in to find my socks & shirts when the woman screamed at me to stay away from the bathroom. She yelled, "Don't you remember what happens in the bathroom?"
January 1, 2009. You were showing me this house that you just purchased for us to move into. It was a big old victorian house with lots of passageways, doorways, rooms, hallways, etc -- sort of like the Adams family house. Anyway we were inside and I was very uncomfortable and didn't particularly like the house and couldn't understand why you purchased it without talking to me. You were playing this kind of cruel game of hide and seek with me in the house, running from room to room, through secret passageways, and everytime I thought I found you, you would disappear and an apparition of Chuck would appear and totally freak me out. Then i ran into this large octogonal shaped room in the front of the house with lots of windows draped with old, torn fabric, and in the middle of the room was Henry lying on his side on a marble slab (like from a graveyard). His eyes were closed but his head was turning like he was watching my movements. I ran out of the room and into the foyer and you were standing there. I was very upset and just as I was about to scream your name, you turned into Chuck and I screamed out Chuck terrified and woke up.
My second dream - I was in Nyack on Christmas Eve. All of Main Street was lit up with beautiful winter lights and decorations and people strolling around dressed up in fancy wool coats and hats -- families with children. It was really late - wee morning hours -- and I was sitting on the curb outside the police station (the first place we went to) just north of Main Street. There were no decorations or people or joy where I was sitting. I was watching the festivities from where I was sitting. An older man approached me and offered to buy me a sandwich and I got up and started to walk with him. We went to the pizza restaurant on the corner of Main Street which bustling with patrons and he told me to sit down at a table while he ordered my sandwich at the counter. I sat at a table with this creepy old black man and a blonde haired woman. The man kept eyeing me salaciously (?) while he was talking to the blonde woman about the sexual things he was going to do to her. I was very creeped out (I was young) and the looks he was giving me where frightening me. Anyway I decided the only I could do was whip out my camera and tell him I wanted to take some portraits on him so he would shut up. He started to pose, staring straight into the camera with this very weird expressions and I was taking photos but it was also scaring me so I suggested he and the blonde woman get up and sing or do some sort of performance for the patrons. They did, along with some other customers, and I tried to take photos of them but every time I took a picture, everyone's face was obscured.
November 1, 2008. I had two rather strange dreams. FIrst I dreamed I was walking across a bridge - there was a paved blacktop road and a sidewalk attached on the side. The bridge peaked at 160 feet over a raging river and I decided to walk across on the road part because it seemed more stable. As I got to the highest point the blacktop gave way - it was actually painted fabric (like canvas) and it shredded from moisture and rot. I was clinging to shreds of this fabric hanging high over the river. I didn't fall though. I grabbed another piece of hanging fabric and sort of like Tarzan I swung from one hanging shred to the next until I got to safety. I had these unbelievably strong arms.
My next dream - I was moving and I got rid of all my stuff -- everything and moved into a furnished apartment. WHen I walked into the apartment I rented the first thing I noticed was the dresser I had gotten rid of. THen I walked into the bathroom and it was pretty disgusting - the floor was bright yellow tiles that were all broken and missing and chipped. There was a clawfoot bathtub but the rim was broken and someone had tried to glue a bath mat over it. The toilet was in the middle of the floor and on the wall behind the toilet, leaning against the wall, was the mirror that went with the dresser I had thrown out. I was very upset.
September 23, 2008. I had a dream that I went to look at house for us and found one (that was very similar to something in my past). It was a Victorian house with lots of rooms owned by Heidi Klum. I don't how she snuck into my dreams. It was kind of rundown but being fixed up and I went in to look around. It had an octogonal livingroom w/lots of windows of all shapes and sizes, some on the floor, some on the ceiling. Then there was a writing room with two antique writing desks, and the kitchen consisted of about 5 separate rooms each filled with gorgeous antiques and interesting architecture. I was very excited.