This is a weird post. Well, maybe only I think it’s weird. You be the judge.
So, for a long time (at least a year), I’ve slept without dreaming, or I’ve at least not remembered my dreams. The past few weeks, though, I’ve had extremely vivid, very memorable dreams that make absolutely NO SENSE. Those are the best dreams, though, aren’t they?
Anyway, a couple of weeks ago, I had one of the weirdest dreams I’ve had since my recurring Ropers dream. I guess a little backstory is necessary for those of you who don’t know about the Ropers dream.
Does everyone know what Three’s Company is? Well here. https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0075596/
The Ropers were the landlords for a few seasons. Here they are:
Now, this recurring dream I had started long after Three’s Company was cancelled, but we watched re-runs all the time, so maybe that’s what kept them alive in my memory. I never liked Mr. Roper. He was creepy. Anyway, the dream always started the same. I was visiting Jack, Janet and Chrissy (because we were besties, all right) and then the Ropers arrived, and everyone was terrified. Jack and Janet hid, but the rest of us, every single member of my family and a couple of close friends, were dismembered by the Ropers and stored in their refrigerator and/or freezer (this changed with each dream). The weird part is that despite being cut to pieces, we could still talk to each other, and in the refrigerator, we’d plot our escape before (hopefully) Mrs. Roper served us for dinner.
Jack and Janet work tirelessly to rescue us, even come to sit and talk now and then. I’m not sure why the Ropers don’t dismember them, but they don’t. I remember trying to change the dream. Hiding with Janet and Jack or running away, but I always end up a severed head in a Tupperware container in the Ropers’ ridiculously spacious fridge.
I was terrified of this dream. I often woke up with my heart pounding. I hated it and every time I was in it, I desperately searched for a way out. I had the dream for years. Sometimes I still dream about it, although now it’s different. One time we had cell phones in the refrigerator and I had to use my tongue to call 9-1-1. I know, odd. It’s odd.
My recent dream, though, was somehow more terrifying, probably because I think about it every time I wipe my ass.
Here it is: I’m in a dark, Colosseum-type place. The seats are packed, people are cheering and shouting, and me, my family, and a few people I don’t know are all tied to toilets in the center of a large arena.
We are naked. We are dirty. The man standing in front of us is addressing the crowd first. I don’t remember what he says, but they like it, because the cheers are deafening. Behind him, several men in balaclavas face us. Each has a gun pointed at one of us.
The man tells us we can leave the place, if we do one thing: Wipe our asses properly.
Yes, this is all we have to do. We’re all crying, a little shocked that our lives depend on ass wiping, but we obey. Everyone else is able to wipe to the man’s satisfaction, except me and another woman. She reaches in front of her, to wipe back to front, and her head explodes as a man shoots her.
Because we all know you do NOT wipe back to front.
Me? Well, for the life of me, I can’t reach around far enough to reach my fucking ass with the toilet paper, so I can’t demonstrate a proper wipe. My kids are encouraging me, the crowd is jeering, I’m freaking out, the man points his gun at me, I try so hard to reach, but I just can’t with my suddenly Tyrannosaurus Rex-sized baby arms, and the man says, I have ten seconds to complete the task, and then I wake up.
Yep. It’s happened twice since that first night and I wake up terrified.
I know how to wipe my ass, guys. Why is it something I’d dream about? I’m sure a therapist-type might have a field day with the meaning behind my ass-wiping anxiety in the dream, but I’m just going to go with “I’m clearly stressed out about something.”
The other recurring dream I’ve had recently involves walking. I just keep walking. In the dream, I’m anxious about where I’m going. I don’t know where, but it’s important I get there immediately, but I can’t, because the fucking road never ends. Getting to my destination, though, is like “my life depends on it” important. Along the road I’m walking on, which is a highway in the middle of nowhere, with fog rolling in and birds flying overhead, I find strange things. I pick them up and keep them, but I’m stressed because I’m running out of room in my pockets for said items. I don’t know why I have to pick them up, but I do.
The weird part is, the items wouldn’t actually fit in a real life pocket. I find a dead raccoon. In my pocket he goes. Squishy guts and all. Then I find a broken knife. In the pocket with the roadkill. I find a dog poop bag, empty, thank God. In the other pocket. Thick fog rolls in sometimes at this point, and I find something I can’t identify or don’t recall what it is. I remember it’s a large, square lump, but that’s all I can remember about it. In the pocket it goes.
Then I find old cigarette butts, a pair of women’s underwear (granny panties, to be exact) and a tire.
Yes, a fucking TIRE. I put it all in my pockets and keep walking. The items change sometimes. I remember once putting a broken beer bottle in my pocket, and it hurt the whole time I walked after that. I picked up a dime too, but I can’t remember if that was every time I had the dream or just once.
I don’t know why this is terrifying, but the whole time, I’m desperate to get to where I’m going and I’m panicking because my pockets are running out of room for all the garbage I find along the way.
So, there you have it.
I’ve had other strange dreams, but I only remember snippets of those. Not even enough to say what they might have been about. These two have recurred a few times, and I wrote down every detail when I woke up, because they were so fucking strange.
What I wonder, though, is not whether I’ve lost my fucking mind, but why do I keep picking up the garbage on the road? Is it a metaphor? A message? Should I stop eating junk food before bed?
While I’m not thrilled when I wake up all scared and shit, I do welcome the return of the fucked up dreams. It means my creative juices (yes, I said juices) are flowing at top speed again. If the rest of my family (animals included) would give me the time and space needed, my writing mojo might just return at full force.
I’ll keep you posted.