Just woke up from the second of two nightmares in a row, nearly in a panic attack, complete with being unable to breathe and wanting to cry hysterically.
I raced through the house looking for my man, but he’d ony just left for work seconds before I awoke.
I’ve just popped 1mg of Lorazepam to calm the hell down.
This is what my life is becoming? Again?
I stayed home today on account of mental and health problems. The mental is due to work. The health is due to george. George has not shown himself physically, yet, but as of yesterday morning, I began having cramps and feeling run over. I woke up in the middle of the night feeling like I’d been in a car accident, because my entire body was stiff with pain. The worst of the pain was my lower back.
I usually only get upper back pain due to the bulging disks in my neck. But the lower back is monthly and means george is coming.
The entire body being locked with wrenching pain – that’s new. Probably also due to work stress.
The nightmares were probably a mixture of said stress along with me having taken a Tylenol 3 last night to ease the pain and get to sleep. Every time I take Tylenol 3, I’m guaranteed to have nightmares.
In the first one, I was in the house I live in now, only it was laid out differently. I was helping care for an elderly man who was related to me distantly on my dad’s side of the family, and who was also my campaign manager.
A nurse was in the house as well. She either came by daily or was a live-in, and administered some respiratory drug intraveinously each day. The drug looked like a small inhaler and was inserted into a pocket attached to the guy’s I.V.
The guy was in his seventies and was a smoker. By this stage of his disease, he was kept in a glass case on the floor. He had a twin sized mattress to lay on for his long, thin frame.
I saw him smoking IN the glass case, biding his time.
Well, his respiratory drug ran out, and the nurse was in the other room watching TV or something. I ran to get her as soon as I realised the drug had run out, because the old guy started thrashing about.
At first she was disaffected by my anxiety and took her time getting to the living room where the guy was. Then she saw him thrashing and leapt into action.
Only…she couldn’t find the replacement medication cannister!
We tore apart the house looking for the medication, but she’d let him run out! I ran outside with the cordless phone, calling 911.
I got a woman on the line who was as disaffected as the nurse inside, until she realised the guy was in cardiac arrest and actually dying. Then SHE got hysterical and said an ambulance was on the way. I hung up and heard an ambulance get closer and closer, then the sirens stopped somewhere nearby…the ambulance was for someone else.
I waited. I didn’t want to go back inside to see the guy dying.
Another older gentleman lived in the unit behind ours and had heard commotion. He was now trying to help the nurse, and seeing that she’d failed his friend badly, took the guy out of my house and brought him next door into his house. I didn’t see the nurse after that. I went next door and saw the guy slumped over and my neighbor trying to hold him up. Just as I was backing away crying, the guy woke up, stood bolt upright, and staggered towards the front door in a daze, then slumped again, but was still conscious.
I ran outside again and got to my car. For some reason, my cell phone was in the car. I used the cell phone to dial 911 and got some young-sounding guy on the line. By this time I was angry and hysterical and yelling and swearing a lot. The guy was rude back to me and asked me to think of him right now – the fact that he has to listen to people like me and by the way, he CAN’T get me an ambulance right now. Turns out he was in his own private ambulance and was busy. I hung up on him and pressed the red button on my cell phone. This auto-dials a programmed-in emergency number. Perhaps I was dialing the wrong thing before?
I can’t remember what happened next – I think I kept getting disconnected or put on hold (in real life in the U.S., that is the real actual 911. You get put on hold. I shit you not).
I ran back to my neighbor who was already on to what my next plan was. He was trying to carry the guy out to his car so we could drive him to the hospital. The hospital is only a few blocks away for fook’s sake. The neighbor was too weak to carry his friend, so I did it. I held the guy like a toddler on my left hip and slumped over my left shoulder, and carried his long, lanky, draping frame to the neighbor’s car. We all got in the front seat – one of the old bench style seats in the old big cars. I belted myself and the old man in and the neighbor drove us to the hospital. I held onto the old man the entire way.
That’s all I remember.
In the second dream, I was campaigning for local office. I can’t recall in what capacity – something important enough to have the media dogging us. We were all gathering at some person’s house, where both parties would take off for an important farm town to make our speeches.
The guy running against me was a bit older than me and dressed like a company CEO. Whereas I was dressed in a long black velvet skirt and a blouse of some sort, also black.
We sat in the small living room of a farm house, waiting. I asked for whisky to drink to calm my nerves. Everyone gave me strange and/or disapproving looks, because I’m female.
I remember thinking, “how did I get myself into this? I don’t want to go through with this. I can’t argue against that guy! I have no talking points! I have no campaign! This will make a mockery out of me. How did I allow myself to commit to this?”
The company man wanted to ride into town on a tractor to show his loyalty to the farmers. I had no special plan, but ended up riding behind him on a day laborer’s truck. I guess that would be the better of the two, wouldn’t it?
After our ride into town, we ended up in another small farmhouse living room, laid out similar to the one we’d started in. The journalists were all there, setting up for all the camera and video shots of me and the guy running against me to interview each other about our politics and positions.
Suddenly, I found myself in a short golden-brown shirt and mini-skirt. I was told this was more appropriate than my gothic look. The outfit made me look like a corporate drone in the (in)human resources department.
Even stranger, I was able to view this from outside myself. I was a spirit in the room or an audience member watching my own self.
The shots were set up and suddenly my outfit began to fall apart at the opening of the interview. I had sat up straight and my shirt rose above the waist line to reveal my stomach, while the criss-cross style top decided to part at the right breast, revealing the fact that I had no bra on underneath. I noticed that I had very different skin. A woman next to me on the couch where I sat reached over to shield my corporate self’s breast from the cameras as I looked at the self directly in front of me.
My other self got up after a moment and excused herself towards the bathroom, while the opposing party on the other side of the living room looked on in amusement. My other self, just short of the bathroom, turned towards the room behind her instead and started to let out a loud “aaagggghhhhh!!” as she shook, obviously having a mental meltdown. I ran to my other self and ushered her into the room away from the media to calm her, and that’s when I woke up, about to yell “aaagggghhhhh!!” because I couldn’t breathe and was having a panic attack.
George is still not here, but I’m tired as hell.
I have to use today to clean the house and look for a job and perfect cover letters. But I need the anxiety to please go away.
I don’t want to be the drugged housewife who is too mental to work.