The things we think, the things we remember

Oh the things we think!

I wake up breathless and rumble around my room for a pen.
It is not clear where my mind puts all this stuff when I am awake and walking around in this world. Must have a huge trunk up in my attic. A whole new definition to:
"Junk in the trunk."

The day passes uneventfully. I have decided that the Government is about to pinkslip my branch of Health Services. This based on the criteria used to assess my parent. If you *can* do it yourself, regardless of the time it takes you, the Government does not wish to spend Health Care Dollars to assist you. -period- You are expected to do it yourself or hire someone to help you from the Private Sector. Welcome to the reign of the despot Gordon Campbell and his gang of appointed, not elected advisors. A pox on you all.

So if you do not provide Home Support Services through your Government agency, why would you need Community health Nurses or worker or really, anyone at all? You can just contract it all out to the private sector and still bill the same dollars. It just makes sure the working man and woman get paid FUCKALL and the holy middle-management get wads of bonus cash for saving money. (on paper) I am certain this is what they are doing. I suppose I should get my butt to facility where I will hate my job every day, one shift at a time. I suppose I could hang in there til we privatize and get our wages sliced like our pension was. I suppose I could rant more but this is a post about the Nightmare.

So I come home after cooking for my parent and having a hearty lunch together and I find on my bed a paper with the heading: Nightmare.

I pick it up and read it. It says:

'Time and panic. Skimming across many lives lasering thing slices and exploding from my mind the mall- it is closed. The shopper- then my clock chimes- and I am looking through someone elses' eye at the plane's wing and remembering a lurching take-off and suddenly I can see the wing crumple like a tissue. I scream and sit up. It is too much, much too much! The heat has reached through my dream to my room and I stumble down for water. I drink and drink and drink and fall back down into exhaustion and my covers and there is Mom. I want to ask her why I cannot get rest? Why is it so difficult? Why? But of course she is not really there.

Where is the bottle? I remember when it used to work."

Now I have dreamed this dream so many times in various forms. I feel 111 years old when I awaken from it and frequently I shake for an hour or so trying to get rid of it. My eleventy one birthday. The dream of living a long life of restlessness. A ghost dream.

I am pretty sure I dream this and believe it to be real each and every time unlike other dreams where they are familiar and I know it to BE a dream. Not this one.

Bad chemistry, they tell me, causes my kind of sleep disorder. Probably familial, and not helped by a history of accidents to the head. Daytime is almost reasonably doable these days but nights are still awful. I wonder if I will ever be completely free of these dreams.

I suppose if I did not remember them it would not matter.
I do not remember writing that note in the middle of the night and I do not remember the dream, altho it is something that I know I have experienced many times while sleeping.
Perhaps I can get to the place where even writing the note is unnecessary.

For now, I find it deeply troubling.
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