I rely heavily on social networks for news. Facebook has, actually–in recent years–been a pretty alright place to do that. It’s usually been mostly free of shite. I worked hard to make it like that, too…unfriending and filtering the hell out of nearly everything.
With Twitter, I’ve been on perma-private for a long time now. I rarely follow new people and am very selective about who I let in. But since the election, it’s been a lot like drinking from a firehose. A near-constant stream of negativity, hate, and unbelievable bullshit. My friends–good people–retweeting or reacting–to stuff that just suffocates the soul.
I’ve done pretty good–dealing with it all. I took breaks here and there. I limited my time. I unfollowed a few people.
I was really, really upset today. But I watched us all fight. I mentioned on Twitter it was a lot like watching a Mama protect her child. And the ACLU got a temporary fix. But of course, it was all a distraction from the other outrage that he didn’t want us to see.
I decided to log off–get away–and watch some Rachael Ray. I always fall asleep during these things, and for the first time in months, I had a nightmare that was vaguely a Mama dream. Only I woke up in tears–gasping. I’m guessing my sleep apnea is a thing again. I had the worst heartburn, but my heart had been ripped to shreds.
I dreamt I was on a bus and that the driver was not right in the head and decided to block the intersection. Then he turned the corner (this part was confusing and strange) and picked up a bunch of passengers–all hungry children–in this deserted playground. Instead of staying on the bus, I got off because it was close to where I was going. I was going home.
I got off the bus and started walking through backyards. This was familiar to me as it was something I often did when I took the bus, to get home. It was dark, though, and there were bodies buried under the grass. And I was in heels, carrying a suitcase.
I was going home. I’ve had variations of this dream a few times, but usually it stops after I see home. And usually, I just get to home and see it has changed and I wake up.
This time, my home–the one I grew up in with my mother was part of this large prison-like row of townhomes. But I just knew which one was mine. But all of them had different numbers I didn’t recognize. And my key didn’t work. And there was a window like when you go to buy a ticket for something. With a woman staffing it. And I told her I needed to get into my home. 3422. She told me I needed a badge and a card…that a key wasn’t enough. That I’d need to prove I belonged there. There was wire fencing surrounding the rows of homes. I got my badge, read the number, and realized I was given access to the wrong home. That they had given me my neighbor’s home. And I was so devastated by that. There was a little island of grass and a bench where two fat men were sitting. I was clearly upset, so they started negging at me–asking me about my body–telling me they were going to hurt me. And I got out this big metal club and started beating them back–crying, and screaming, “You will stop!”
I woke up in an adrenaline panic. Unable to really breathe. Crying. Mumbling. Terrified, but gutted in the most unimaginably sad way. That idea of being homeless and attacked during my most vulnerable. Well, it was quite clear why I was dreaming this.
I am sitting here alone now, in need of a good cry and lots of hugs. As an HSP, I absorb things. As a creative person, I transport myself to places and can literally put myself in someone’s shoes.
That is what this dream was, and I’m honestly still beside myself. Still wishing someone would just fucking hug me. But I might as well live alone in that respect.
It made me realize how much I’m absorbing now and how much my mental health is at risk. So, as much as I want to be informed and as much as I want to support my friends, I have just got to be brutal about limiting my time online. I can’t have these dreams too often. They hurt too much.