Not A Dream Journal

Oh my fucking god Rosenthal, I think you might need to prescribe me some Benadryl, because your fucking hippocratic bullshit is giving me allergic fits!

The whole fucking premise of making this stupid blog was, and I’m going to fucking quote you on this, “...to create a safe space where you can air your thoughts and express your feelings”. Could you please fucking tell me what part of “safe” includes bringing things up in therapy that I’ve fucking written here?

Let me fucking sum up my sleep-walking dreams for you:

I’m at the hospital again, waiting for dad to arrive so granddad can go to his appointment two floors down. Everything smells like death, even through the surgical mask. He’s lying there in the bed, literally wasting away. I’m sitting beside the bed, trying to read, when he grabs me. The chemo destroyed his fucking skin; it’s shedding and coming off in flakes. There’s barely any colour in it anymore. The covers fell back a bit when he reaches over, and I can see the fucking tumors, little angry lumps of rot pushing at the skin. They broke through his bones once it spread inside them. So here’s this dying, misshapen, literally shattered old man who used to be my granddad clutching my arm, but it hurts. He’s strong again, like he used to be, somehow. His fingertips are digging into my arm, and his face is twitching and a steady trickle of drool and blood is leaking from his mouth, but those yellowed eyes are fucking locked on me. 

And the only difference between the dream and what actually happened is that in my dreams, he doesn’t then let out a shuddering gasp and collapse, letting me break free and run into the hallway. I have to sit there, frozen, until I wake up to find myself somewhere in the fucking house doing something stupid.

Ask me about my dreams again, read my blog again, and I’m going to cancel our fucking sessions. 

Wrong

I woke up in a basement.

I woke up in a basement with a dull pain running up my arm.

I woke up in a basement with a dull pain running up my arm, and pulled a fucking 30 gauge needle out of it; the syringe was still half full.

I threw it against the wall, scrambled away. And I almost stepped on the other three empty syringes under my feet. 

It was cold; I realized I didn’t have a shirt on. I started to massage my arms with my hands, and my shoulder lit up, suddenly in agonizing pain. I winced, almost bit my tongue, and then moved my hand to squeeze it. 

And I felt a cold lump under my fingertips. 

I...I sort of lost it, at that point; I guess I was still partly under the influence... I threw open drawers, tipped over a table, and eventually I found a small knife. I felt more awake when the metal bit into my skin, despite the pain and the screaming as I dug deeper. The blood warmed me up as it flowed down my arm, spilling onto my chest. 

I stopped cutting as soon as I saw it. 

I saw the white lump through all that blood, a spongy fibrous root pushing through my bone instead of dirt. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind as to what it was. I’ve seen them before, after all. I’d been to my granddad’s biopsy appointments. 

I sank to my knees and started crying, after I’d seen that. I couldn’t even feel the pain, anymore, but that wasn’t the point anyway. I knew that I was going to be in so much more pain later. 

And the only reason I’m able to type this out right now, is because I’m more terrified of the fact that I blinked, and was suddenly home again, still shirtless, knife wound in my shoulder.

It’s...It’s an actual voice, talking in my head. It’s quiet, I can’t really pick out exactly what’s wrong with it. I

It...It wants me to go outside. It wants me to wander again, to get lost, to go drink and dance and lose myself...That’s what it’s whispering to me right now, as I’m writing this. Thank god dad’s not home, he’s away on a business trip. Didn’t even call.

It’s getting louder and louder, and I’m afraid that if I get out of this room, if I break focus for just one minute, I’m going to blink and find more needles under my skin.

Get Busy Living or Get Busy Dying

Dad’s having a fucking fit, again. Nothing new here; he’s been hitting the bottle ever since granddad hit the dirt.

I’m sorry if I don’t fucking like staying cooped up in the house all night, I guess? I’m sorry that I have a fucking social life, and friends who like having a good time? I’m sorry that they like me enough to invite me to every get-together they have?

No offense, Dr. Rosenthal, but your little therapy sessions don’t fucking do anything for me. I don’t feel better when I’m in-session with you, I feel trapped. There’s nothing to do in your office except think about granddad dying, over and over and over and over.

So yeah, I go out a lot. I can’t help it if there’s a party every other night of the week. I’m fucking glad things are that busy, because I can forget about all this fucking bullshit in the music and the drinks and the dancing. It’s not like I sleep well anyway, right? Somnambulism sure is a bitch. At least if I pass out at a party, I’ll wake up somewhere that kind of makes sense, or is at least hilarious; not halfway down the fucking staircase at 3 am. 

And dad, you can scream and shout all you fucking want, but I’m going to go out again. Probably tonight, actually; Leena’s place.

 If you still can’t understand why, try reading the fucking title of this post again.

Fuck Off

I don’t want to be here.

I don’t want to be here, and I sure as hell don’t want to be putting every stupid thing that wanders into my mind onto the Internet where any fucking jackass with the mental capacity to use Google can find them. 

But, I’m fucking sitting here typing this anyway, because my therapist (hi doctor) insisted on this blog. Let me be perfectly clear, Ms. Rosenthal; the only reason I’m fucking humoring you, is because my dad paid a lot of money for these sessions, and I don’t want to make him any more upset than this whole fucked up situation is already making him.

Hi. I’m Hector. I’m writing this blog because my grandfather died, and my dad is under this huge fucking delusion that I’ve been damaged by the experience or some bullshit like that. 

Now that we’re all on the same fucking page, I’ll be going. I’d like to actually do something instead of moping around on the Internet.