"No, no one specific. The library was very crowded today and I felt suffocated by all the people, my anxiety acted up so Mr. Casstor let me come see you."
"Yes, he gave me a call, I was wondering if you had gotten lost." She says it sweetly, but it's accusatory. She knows I know how to get here and could probably do it in the dark.
"I had to go to the bathroom." I put it simply, trying to keep my tone and agitation separate. The truth ended the conversation, she wouldn't push it. It doesn't matter if I were gone for ten minutes or thirty, she is not about to ask about my bathroom habits. That's why it's one of my favorite truths to tell, no one ever asks you to elaborate, which means I don't have to lie. The conversation drops but a new one starts only a few seconds later,
"Did you have any new dreams? Did you write them down?" Her tone is softer now, more professional, I can tell that she was regrouping during the small silence. I have a way of pissing her off, but also never causing any real alarm. In other words, she wishes she could scold me but there isn't anything to scold. She has to remind herself of her professionalism. I understand why it bugs her, why I irritate her. Her job, her passion, is analyzing people's problems and helping them learn to handle those issues on their own. A person like me is frustrating because I don't pretend to be perfect, but I don't delve into my soul and give her all those emotions she's used to dealing with. It's like we both know this is wasted time playing a game where we both expect victory and yet neither of us ever really win.
" I did. A few were darker than others." I say as I shrug off my bag strap so that I could get the mid-sized journal from my bag. I was asked to keep this as a dream journal, since I have such vivid dreams and they often center around the same thing- my delusional people. My dreams all start out the same way, I'm at this old well I used to go to as a kid, where strange people in costumes of all different colors and styles would gather around.
When I was young mom kept telling me not to play alone and when I would tell her there were adults there, when I would try to show her she would tell me not to lie to her, that no-one was there, that it wasn't safe . It didn't take long after multiple repeats and meltdowns for my diagnosis, no matter how old I get my dreams start there, at the same well in the same field.
I'll often see different people smiling, laughing, knights dueling each other in friendly competition, fathers cutting wood for winter, horses prancing through bitter snow or ever the blooming of strange flowers I know nothing about. My favorite dream though is one I keep to myself. I draw it sometimes even, I always feel inspired to do something after having that same calm dream. The dream features a woman, beautiful and odd, both human and somehow not, like two halves of the war in one glorious person. She's silent and never speaks a word, her elegant cream colored riding coat is darker only when compared to her fair skin, her strong body is hugged by her clothes which I can only think to refer to as 'female pirate attire' since we don't have anything like it modernly, her attire is even complete with a dagger and sword at her waist and thigh. Her skin is so white it is nearly translucent, she looks soft and warm despite the firm set of her fierce blue eyes and rigid posture. Her hair is waves of white, illuminated by the moon. In my dream, she walks to the well and sits, she stares at the moon and I stare at her. That is it, I just watch her walk purposefully to the well and then sit and stare at the moon as if she had no idea what the purpose was that she came all this way, as if stealing the moment to wistfully stare at the sky. I just watch the moon angle around her as it turns to day, I see each feature as the moonlight reveals it, her strong cheekbones and jaw, the curve of her lips and short pointed nose, the sad lack of blush within her cheeks. I see her beauty and as night turns to day she'll rise with the sun and
the dream will end with one last look as she turns to me with powerful raging passion, like blue flames dancing in her eyes as the mood drags me away from her into consciousness.
But they can get a lot crueler, more nightmarish too. I have, just as often, seen war and bloodied battles between people like me and dragons, dark creatures, magic thrown fireballs from both sides. I see them use gadgets against the hordes of monster-like creatures and the blood never seems to dry. They slaughter each other, their screams overlapping into one heart shattering symphony. When I oversee their war, I can't see who are righteous in their cause, both teams fight with the desire for survival, for triumph even, both sides have crying fearful children.
Of course I can't let Ms. Lopez know of the atrocities that occur when I sleep so I leave out most of them. When I tell her some of them are dark, I mean the ones I've carefully selected to allow her to analyse so that I don't seem to be holding back, even if I am. I refer to dreams of magic users- sorcerers- that speak in an odd language and repeat swirling spells, these wouldn't be considered dark or creepy if it weren't for the way these people look at me. Most of my dreams rely on me as a mere spectator but these ones seem to target me as a player. The spell casters look directly into my eyes, and sometimes it seems as if they want to say my name but no sound escapes their moving lips before returning to the odd and audible language.
I let Ms. Lopez analyze those ones, even though she never tells me exactly what any of them mean, I have hope that this dream journal has merit behind it and isn't just a tactic to get me to express my feelings. I'd like to know why they frighten me, why they call for me and what that is supposed to represent in my life. I fidget in my seat as she thumbs through some of the pages but I still most of my body, not wanting to give away any uneasiness I feel until our meeting concludes and the bell rings.
People are avoiding me here at home just like they do at school. Moms' lies cycle around in my head, 'it's different this time', ' I'll be by your side the whole time', 'they are family, they will love you once they know you'. When I was a kid, my mom always told people I had an overactive imagination but I guess that changes the older you get and an 'imaginary friend' turns into the term 'psychosis'. Now, I'm one bad day away from being shipped off to Club Sunshine, a mental hospital a few miles outside the city limit.
I don't blame my mom entirely for the pamphlets on the kitchen counter not being in the trash where they belong...I do blame her boyfriend though. Calvin's the reason my mom is even considering sending me off. Mom shouldn't consider it… so I guess I can justify being just a little angry at her. Of course, I can't show that I'm angry; when you're crazy the worst thing to do is express anger- it's the fastest ticket out of town and into a straight jacket.
I know I'm delusional, I know I can't trust my eyes half the time and because I don't try to prove myself sane, the doctors and my mom felt medication would be sufficient, it helps a bit. The pills took away the tactile delusions, the audible ones too- nothings worked to keep me from seeing them all though. I hate taking those damn pills, they make me groggy and slow minded, my grades slipped pretty bad and I stopped being able to react fast enough for most sports so I've haven't played soccer in quite a few years.
I watch the odd looking women shift through the yellow kitchen wall and make a mental note that she, in her golden sundress and braided brown hair, is not real among the sea of my relatives, most of whom I don't know or remember. They gather in our kitchen and living room, chatting and sipping on glasses of moderately expensive wine and marveling over my mothers crystal chandelier. My mom has always had expensive tastes in decor but less care for the smaller details like branding or rather the diamonds are real, she just wants her life to sparkle- even if all of it is fake. Some may find that, in itself, to be shallow or fake but I don't think it's wrong to live a cheap fabulous life, as long as she can laugh at it when the silver colored plastic plates break. It's not something she hides and she hasn't done it for reputations sake, she really admired the glam of the rich but she didn't condone the wasteful spending and ludicrous prices so when she got older, more educated and got a good paying job she started sporting fake gold, artificial diamonds and knock-off brand make-up.