Heart/break/through

At first, it's just a haze. I have to fight my way through kind of a fog to actually see the room I'm in. I'm still sitting on the cozy, comfy couch. I seriously could sink down into this and never come out.

I have to get up, though. I'm determined; I have to find the "doctor." I've got questions. I only hope he has answers.

Out in the lounge, there are other people. They look like patients. Some are in pajamas, others in comfortable clothing ranging from sweats to regular "street" clothes, but I know each of them is here to either hide or recover from something... or both. I'm seeing them as patients because that's my comfortable perception. I'm in an institution because what is happening to me feels crazy. We established that the last time I was here.

The doctor is not in the lounge. I turn and look out the windows. I can still see my attackers out there. The male is pacing back and forth, looking at the windows like a cat stalking his prey. Just the sight of him sends chills up my spine. The woman is just standing there, half watching him, half watching the windows. Her posture is different than I'm used to seeing. She's kind of slouched, like a surly teen. Her left arm is tucked close against her side, her elbow bent so that her forearm is hugged against her waist, her hand balled into a fist under her right elbow. She's nervously sliding her right hand up and down the outside of that arm, from elbow to shoulder and back. When she sees me, she stops doing that, stands taller, and leans forward a bit, like she's trying to appear more intimidating.

It works. I look away from the window.

To the left of the lounge, around the corner from my room, is a front desk set into the wall. I approach, and speak to the nurse, the lady who was the "maid" at the dinner party. She is surprised to see me. She says she didn't expect me to be up and about so soon. I tell her I can't just sit and wait. I know there's something I need to remember or figure out. I need to talk to the "doctor." I ask if he's here.

She tells me he's been waiting for me. He'll meet me in my room again. All I had to do was ask.

I wander back to the room. Sure enough, there he is, seated next to the coffee table, waiting for me. Instead of the couch, I sit in another chair, facing him. I can't relax. There is some stuff I just need to know. I remember writing the questions down. I have a list. It should be here somewhere. I look around me, and see that it's tucked into the book on the coffee table.

The doc says, "I know you think you're ready, but don't rush this. You have no idea what you're getting yourself into." He stops, shakes his head, then corrects himself, "...what you're getting yourself back into."

I'm annoyed. "NO." I say, almost shaking my head at him. "I am back into it, whatever it is. I mean, look. I'm under attack. I can't leave here. They're waiting for me outside. I have to know what this is about."

The doc tells me it doesn't work that way. I'm not ignorant because I just don't know. I haven't forgotten; I've hidden the knowledge from myself for protection. It's not that I can't remember. I didn't want to, and I had a reason.

Again, I'm annoyed, partly because this isn't getting me what I want, but partly at feeling that somehow, this makes everything my fault. I point out that whatever I was trying to protect must now be endangered by my ignorance. He agrees. He says he'll tell me what he can, and guide me through telling myself what I can.

I ask, "Who are those people?" He says he doesn't have an answer to that, because who they are is too complicated to describe. He asks me who I am, and I realize that if I just say my name, I'm not really telling him anything. I look at my questions, and realize I'm not going to ask everything as it's written on the page. These questions are too simple, and the answers they ask for are too complex.

I settle for asking him why the gray haired lady can pop my shield. Nothing else has ever been able to do that before. He responds by leaning forward and asking me, "Do you really want to explore the answer to that?"

I don't. Something inside me wants to avoid that information the same way I want to avoid the third rail in a subway, so much that my insides are screaming at me, but I have to know. I nod.

He says, "Don't blame me. You asked. Don't forget that you asked." He looks really distressed. "If you really want to know, it's yours. You just have to open it up and look at it."

On the table is a beautiful, white, leather-bound book. It looks familiar. I don't want it, but I have to know what's inside. Picking it up, I open it and begin looking at the pictures.

My own face stares back at me from inside the book, nervous and excited, and filled with joy. I'm dressed in a ceremonial robe, but it's not like anything I've seen. It looks formal, but at the same time, it's designed to be attractive. I've had my hair styled. I'm standing front of a bookshelf, leaning on it like I'm just relaxing there. I recognize this as a portrait pose. I never really stand like this.

My eyes cross to the next page, and stop. It's her, but it's not her as she is now. She looks so beautiful. Her eyes are soft, not cruel. Her hair is red, not gray. Her smile is kind, wise, and inviting. She's dressed in a ceremonial robe just like mine. On her, the effect is enchanting, regal. There are beads and feathers in her hair, and she's wearing a silver necklace with a glittery gem at her throat. There is an ache in my chest. I have to fight the urge to touch the photo with my fingers, as if I can reach through to the person shown in it. Looking at this picture makes me feel like someone has slapped me across the face.

What is this? I look up at the doc. He motions back to the book. He's not going to answer me.

I turn the page. There are more images, groups of people I seem to recognize, but can't remember. I'm in some, and she's in others. The more I look, the more it hurts. Then, in the middle of the book is a series of photos of the two of us walking together. Each of us is carrying a lit candle. Seeing this, I feel nervous anticipation rise in my gut, like I'm about to be "on the spot" and I'm afraid I'm going to screw it up.

In the next images, we pass the viewer, and enter what looks like a prop-defined sacred space, with another woman in a flowing, ornate robe standing in the center, and four very serious, somber looking people standing around the outer edges, facing out. In front of the woman is a small table covered in a golden cloth. There's a beautiful white candle in the middle of it, carefully molded and cut to create a lacy, decorative effect. There, we turn to face each other, holding our candles in front of us. The images continue, showing the lady speaking to us, and us answering her. After a few frames, there's a picture of us lowering our candles to light the fancy one on the table, and then we set them in holders on either side of it. My heart pounds, but I keep turning pages. It's pretty obvious to me now, what kind of album this is, but I don't think there was a really a photographer at this ceremony.

I stare at the photos of the officiating lady (a priestess, maybe?) as she steps around the little altar and leads us to the "front" of the circle, places our hands (my left, and my lady's right) together, and wraps a cloth over them, and then everything is blurred, and I can't see to turn the page. There's a wetness on my cheeks. I feel the book slide from my lap.

Everything around me seems to melt. For a moment, I'm falling, and then I'm not. I find myself reclining back into the softness, wrapped in someone's arms, legs intertwined, my face resting on a firm breast. Someone's fingers are weaving through my hair. I move so that I can see my partner. Her brow creases with worry, and she asks if I've had another of my "bad" dreams. Not knowing what to say, I nod, and she tightens her embrace, cups my cheek in her hand, and kisses my forehead. She tells me not to worry. They're just dreams. There can't be anything that horrible in the world, nothing so selfish and evil. I feel ambivalent. I want to be comforted, but I can't get the images out of my head; terrible, twisted beings with too many limbs and not enough mental capacity, raging down on us like roaches with unfamiliar weapons and startling tenacity. I'm overtaken by shivers. She asks, "do I need to give you something else to think about?"

I find myself holding on tightly. I try to block out the terrible visions by turning away from the light, burying myself in her embrace. Taking that as a yes, she pulls me into a deep kiss, and my fear fades as I'm lost in an awareness limited only to experiencing her.

I start to forget that this is just a memory, beginning to not hurt from reliving it, when whatever I've closed it up inside of bursts open, and I am flooded with fragments and images. The two of us standing at the back of a huge meeting hall, people shouting, two men dragging in the carcass of  something terrible and unnatural. I'm standing on top of a hill, looking down at what appears to be a long rip through the air, focusing an energy attack on it, trying to keep something from coming through. I'm laying on a mat on the ground, under a huge tent, along with many others, gritting my teeth as she stitches up a long gash in my leg. She is thinner, but she looks stronger and more beautiful than ever. The two of us, stealing a moment alone in the woods outside our camp, trying to listen for sounds of an approach, but otherwise occupied.

I remember that there was some kind of conflict, something horrible trying to get to us, and to others through us, and there was something innocent that needed protected. There was a ritual, a small group of us working together in an emergency. There had been a lot of fighting, but I can't bring myself to look back at that.

I know that the group used the image of a great, heavy door as a focus for stopping the invaders, and the image of a key to seal the door shut. That was our part in the ritual. All this time, I've been afraid that I was the key, but I'm not. I'm not the key.

I don't even have the key.

Something terrible pulls at my heart. Something went wrong. There's a fire, and there's a lot of pain. I remember floating away from my own body, watching her try to pull me back into it, drawing energy, focusing, seeing my spirit and screaming. The color drains from her hair, and I realize she's using her own life to try to bring back mine, but something is wrong, and I can't return. Something I'm carrying inside of me now won't let me go back. If she doesn't stop this, she's just going to die. I gather what energy I can, and blast her with it, throwing her backward. I push my body into the fire and watch it burn. It takes almost the last of my energy to even touch it. When I try to comfort her, my fingers aren't solid any more. I can't even tell her goodbye.

I feel myself snap back into the asylum, sitting in that chair, looking at the doctor. He tells me, "She can pop your shield because you let her. Just as she was unwilling to let you go, you've been unwilling to let go of her, too. If you don't break the connection, if you don't move on, she'll always have that power over you."

I look at the doc. My heart feels broken, and I can't stop myself from crying. It makes me feel whiny and self-centered. I realize what the connection is between myself and the gray haired lady, but now I don't understand why she's attacking me. I ask "But, why is she working with him?"

My alarm clock woke me this morning, and I didn't get a reply. I can't sleep late, because I have to work. This is a lot for me to process. I don't even begin to know what to do with this. It isn't right. I remember my whole life, and none of it was like this. This dream brought up memories only of other dreams, which I'd forgotten because they were too terrible to hold onto. 


This is enough - just documenting it. I'm not going to try to analyze this dream. It feels like there's a burning, heavy weight in my chest right now. I'm not tired, but I feel totally drained. This feels a lot like grief.