I got out of bed again.
My therapist has prescribed one hour in front of the sunlamp daily.
ABOVE: collage of photos I’ve taken of the sky, 2011-present
On Saturday morning, I rolled over in bed, shaking with nightmare-nerves, to peer out the window. I saw the usual things, the mourning doves on the fire escape coo cooing away, the vines growing over neighbors’ roofs, and the Hellgate Bridge in its demure, rusted glory. I also saw the sky, which for the first time in weeks, was blue and clear and fine. I rolled onto my back, remembering that today was the day that the prescribed sunlamp was to be delivered to my home. How strange, to suddenly have the real thing interrupting sleep.
Last night, after spending an hour in front of the sunlamp, my father called me on the phone. He’s dating. And having quite a nice time. And I am dreaming about him and my mother still being together, but I am seeing the cracks now, the places where they don’t and never did meet up. In my dreams, my mother is sad and crying. My father is pretending not to be. There are storms and floods. I’ve lost my voice. I’ve given myself a short, unruly fringe. When I wake up, it takes time to really come back to it all. But at least now there is the blue sky, the bridge, the sunlamp.
Nightmares have always been a part of my life. Nearly every night, I dream about being afraid or angry or alone. I do not have lucid dreams so I’m never in control. I return to familiar settings over and over again where new horrors await - a clearing in the woods with a stone path up a hill, houses with no driveways or roads, every home I’ve ever lived in, my boarding school. My therapists have always told me to keep a dream journal. To what end, I don’t know. I’ve tried and it only feels, to me, like I’m solidifying the terrors. Giving them permanence. Other doctors have offered me pills but I’ve always declined. I feel like the dreams are a part of my life, a place I go at night, and although they’re unpleasant, I worry I’d miss them. Sometimes I feel like they help me to understand my waking life.
How do you admit to having nightmares every night without seeming like you’re trying to be ~~cool and interesting~~? I worry it makes me seem attention seeking.
I struggle with the reality of the things I cannot share with others. They make me feel alone.
Lately, I have been watching streams of late 90’s Saturday morning cartoons while I do things around the house. They are complete with interstitials and era-appropriate commercials. They remind me of what it felt like to be home at the age of seven, knowing that others were watching the same exact thing airing on my television, making me feel like I was a part of the world. How strange to feel so lonely in an age of hyperconnectivity. Sometimes, it feels like so much of the world is right there, in front of us, that we offer up our own corner every time we unlock a phone screen or open a laptop. Other times, it all feels so artificial - the manufacturing of our experiences online, everything so curated to us, ourselves, in a moment. It’s all too personal. I find the personal so isolating.
I write this newsletter sitting on my couch. I am doing my daily hour of time with the sunlamp off to my left, blazing false sunlight into my left side’s peripheral vision. To the right, true sunlight reaches towards me.
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