Screaming for help in my dreams

This morning I woke up at 8 a.m. from one of those heavy dreams, not quite a nightmare, and it was hard to shake it off. I was just as exhausted as if I hadn't slept at all. The dream's somber atmosphere still clung to me as I got out of bed, and I found it a strain to relate to the real world. I considered skipping church, but it was Palm Sunday and I have always loved the beginning of Holy Week.

In the dream I had just spent what felt like a week (but was probably just a few minutes) screaming for help, crying, begging somebody to listen to me. The theme was repeated in several different settings, over and over. In all of them, I was deeply depressed and desperately in need of somebody to lend me a hand.

It started at what seemed to be a retreat. I was at a college campus somewhere in the mountains. People of all ages were there, taking courses and discussing them with each other. But for some reason, nobody would listen to me. I went up to a group of people I thought were friends, and tried to join in the conversation. When I tried to say how I felt, though, they didn't want to hear it. I felt invisible, as I sometimes feel in real life.

So I sat down in the grass by the junction of a couple of paths, and I cried. People passed by, but nobody stopped. One even went so far as to ask me why I was crying, but she didn't stick around long enough for me to answer. I kept on crying, feeling more alone than ever, hoping somebody would stop and talk to me, but nobody ever did.

Then the dream shifted. For some reason, my sister had built a huge new house for our mother right next door to the house we grew up in. (There isn't room, but this was a dream, after all, and the landscape is expandable in dreams.) This house was so big it had a college dormitory in one end and a museum in the other. I kept trying to find the bedroom that was supposed to be mine. I wanted to collect a shawl I thought I'd left there, so I could wrap it around myself and maybe feel a little more secure. There were elevators all over this house, and they led to all sorts of strange locations. I remember there was a room where Mom's chocolate was kept. (My mom is a chocoholic.) And I kept trying to find somebody to listen to me. It was clear my mom wasn't going to; she didn't want me to be sad, so she ignored me when I was. (In the dream, not in real life.) I found a therapist or minister or somebody who should have wanted to listen to me, but she didn't have time for me. And I never did find my bedroom.

For some reason my sister had bought Mom a little flying car, like in the Jetsons. I thought we were riding over to wherever we were going in a helicopter, but it was actually a little golden car and Mom was driving. My mom gave up driving maybe a year ago, and it was significant to me in the dream that she could manage to drive this car.

And then I woke up. I still hadn't found anybody to talk to, and the weight of this need hung over me. It was difficult to shake it off. I found myself contemplating this dream during the sermon at church this morning (sorry, Lisa! but hey, Tim was making a paper airplane out of the program, and I think a couple of other choir members might have been dozing...). I decided to try to write about the experience in my blog to see if I could untangle what it really meant.

When I left church I could still feel the grim atmosphere of the dream clinging to me, and I was afraid that I'd have a difficult afternoon today. But I stopped at Trader Joe's and bought a few things we needed, and after I got home I took the cats out in the yard and raked up a couple more bags of leaves. (By then I was out of bags.) By now I feel all right. The sun is out and a few daffodils are in bloom in my yard.

So what was going on with that dream? I think I'm worried about my mother. My sister did move Mom into a large home where she has her own apartment - an assisted-living facility - but while Mom has a wheelchair, she doesn't have a flying car. The symbolism of Mom driving a golden car into the sky doesn't escape me, though. I just hope she doesn't drive off too soon.

And I frequently struggle with feeling unheard and feeling invisible. It's easy for me to see, when I'm awake, that sitting by the side of the road and crying, waiting for somebody to come and help me, isn't the way to solve my problems. Writing this blog entry, which will link to Facebook, is a way to help me feel a little more connected, whether anybody really responds or not.