I have nightmares.
My nightmares aren’t quite what you would find in ‘A Nightmare on Elm Street’ but on the mornings that I have woken up crying with immediate thoughts of arteries and hot baths- Freddie would seem like a rather pleasant way to spend my morning. My nightmares are not exactly the life-or-death nightmares that might spring to mind, they are often manifestations of my personal deep-routed worries (as an idea, situations where loved ones are angry with me, shouting my deepest insecurities inches from my face leaving my hated and isolated). Whilst this all may seem a little dramatic (I am after all, a self-confessed drama queen), it is the vividness of such dreams which makes them somewhat nightmarish; I have woken up, unable to tell if what I had just experienced was a dream or a memory and having to ask the people involved whether it had happened. I have woken up angry with someone, convinced they had acted the way my dream portrayed. I have apologized for things I had only ever done in my own dreams. The real nightmare for me, is that something entirely constructed within my own mind, with little (if any) basis in reality could so easily derail my thoughts; it is that nightmarish feeling of not being in control of something that can trigger a cycle of worry and self-loathing. After all, how weak and pathetic do you have to be to be affected by a dream?
On a more positive note, it is that more often than not that I am able to differentiate between my dreams and reality allowing for whatever I dreamed the night before is quickly forgotten (I am more of an occasional mess than a total mess). They also only began as a side-effect of my medication, so I will only be putting up with it until I can say goodbye to medication for good. Believe me, when that day comes, I am sorry Freddie, but you will not be missed.