I had the most upsetting dream last night. We were all kids/young teens in Jamul again. I received a cryptic, emotional handwritten letter from you and I was trying to figure out what it meant. I kept trying to find you to talk to you about it, but no one knew where you were. The last time we had seen you was at a party.
Then somehow I found you at the house where the party had been. You were in a bathroom, standing in a claw foot tub completely clothed, and you had the letter in your hands. Your arms were cut and even though you were dead, you were awake and speaking to me. I don’t remember what you said but I know you were alive, even though you were dead. The letter had been a suicide note.
It was like a flashback in the dream, telling me the truth of your whereabouts, and I was devastated and refused to believe it. I felt responsible.
I went to the fire station and police station to get as much information as I could about possible deaths or medical aid calls from the night of the party. I can’t remember now if in my dream I was able to get any information. I think it was just a wild goose chase, and that the flash of a moment of seeing you dead was the truth.
I woke up feeling like it was all too real. And I felt the weight of that guilt and responsibility as I got out of bed. Because I hadn’t emailed you lately. Because of the suicides in the past that I irrationally felt like I could have prevented.
I hope this email doesn’t trigger any negative or uncontrollable feelings in you because I know you are vulnerable, but I had to let you know because I know I don’t have my vivid and meaningful dreams for nothing. I needed to reach out to you and let you know that I care.
You need not feel any way at all on my behalf. I have suffered devastating pain, to the point of designing to take my life, and endured. The bomb dropped on me AFTER the hospitalization was an agonizing revelation, and yet, I still remain. Struggling, albeit. I’ve felt my will to live shake back to it’s core. Doctors in the hospital told me repeat suicide attempts are 55% more common if you take anything but Lithium. It’s a shocking world we live in, full of eccentric trajectories and hyperbole of the literal. It makes no good sense, but I’m not the judger-version of myself anymore. I’m a leaf on the wind.
Don’t take any of my life’s destruction onto yourself. Hasn’t this calamity hurt us all enough? Haven’t we given due suffering to these events, and now, represent a period of transition from, up and towards the real? Sobering, yes. Feeling infantalized, gut-shot, ponderously slow and completely retarded on a rotating short-shuffle playlist in my head which cycles randomly, but more often than not. I’m looking for anchors which I can lash myself down to something concrete, stable; where I can ivy-creep my way into a new mode of life. I don’t know what I’m doing, most of the time. Everyone takes me so fucking seriously. I really need some unconditional love to please stand up, please stand up, please stand up.
I’m going to be ok. I can’t say I’ve thought much about my dreams. This new Depression medication when taken at bed time ensures a good night’s rest, and seems to nuke dreamland into a barren-state. Which is good. Dreams are more often of your ilk, in nightmares, which then become all too real and totally inescapable. I have felt my body die in “dreams” before. I felt them come to take my soul away from my body and then I woke up. It made a noise, like lots of voices all making a note together. A single, ominous note, full of their screaming, increasingly louder. Perhaps I should tall you about the Ghost sometime. And how it tries to kill me.