I’m having increasingly intense nightmares these days, which, while may not shock some (given my inclination to choose the most controversial horror flicks by which to ‘relax’), took me by surprise simply due to their non-horror and atypical nature.

I dream about my mother.

These dreams are not based in reality, save for the negative feelings associated with and throughout them – I’m not reliving or rehashing the past, or caught up in some unfulfilled childhood fantasy.  Instead, she takes on the ultimate antagonist role – successfully thwarting each of my random attempts at successes of varying degree.  In some dreams, she’s a Vorhees-like figure of terror…in others, she’s merely a Joan Crawford caricature whose aim is to sully any semblance of meaning and fulfillment I might scrape up within the dream. This recent one was striking, leaving me teary-eyed and foul for most of my waking day.

I wanted revenge.

Perhaps revenge is too strong a term for what I sought, but I certainly wanted to make the maternal figure suffer and seemingly went to great lengths to accomplish such.  But it didn’t work – no matter how desperately I tried to contact her (manically calling her mobile but not making it through a 30-minute greeting), I couldn’t get my point made to her that part of me wished to make her suffer much more so than she had made me in the past.  I couldn’t get through to her.

Instead, I could almost hear her voice expressing her joy at my most recent failure in acquiring a new job (one that I was very much pushed to apply for by those whom I figured knew better).

Don’t get your hopes up…you know you’ll only disappoint yourself.

In this dream my father stood staunchly next to me, not necessarily for encouragement, but more for catharsis, methinks.

I do not wish to dream such dreams.

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