Last night was the last straw.
For the first time in my life, I’ve bought my own bed, and now my first-ever bed set with comforter and a pillow sham. To be fair, I wanted the full set with sheets, pillow shams and comforter and a dust ruffle, but clicked the wrong thing. It’s okay, because I love what I bought, but there’s still a catch.
Because of course.
There’s always a catch.
Because I am old, beat all to hell, and have CPTSD to boot.
So I was pretty pissed after a night of hard, on-and-off sleep with slimy, scary, Twilight Zone, bullshit nightmares.
Not fever nightmares, because my condition makes those worse, and if you know fever dreams, then imagine them on Crack and LSD.
Well the nightmares of last night and this morning weren’t that shit. Just your average PTSD nightmares where being trapped and experiencing loss are normal themes. And Lord have mercy, whatever you do, don’t drink any liquids before bed if you’re over 60. They say two hours before? Well I say two weeks before. Because, fuck that.
***
I was working my old Airgas job, at an old plant in Lansdowne, and there’s this older woman, she’s driving a forklift and she’s decorated it for Christmastime with two plastic candles, you know, the yard size, and has them each attached to the sides. Everyone says she’s retiring, and I’m not feeling either way about it because in the unreal construct of dreams, what’s ever complete anyway? And I hear, but don’t see, the people describing her as humorous, cheerful and witty, because of course she is, she’s gotta be, because who the hell puts lawn decorations on forklifts, right?
Humorous, witty, cheerful people.
Because of course they do.
In PTSD nightmares.
And because this is a PTSD nightmare, it’s just getting started. The torture hasn’t even started yet.
It just so happens that my eldest sister has moved to the southern east coast and sends me the money for a visit. A bus ticket, a short flight, then something else. Doesn’t make sense, but in the dream, I merely found it confusing and a source for anxiety, never really expecting logic. But at the bus station, I meet the woman who just retired. She’s moving south to set up a summer home and then to live mostly on a yacht in the Caribbean. You know, island-hopping, drinks with doll’s umbrellas. That shit. Stuff normal people do. Golden Years shit.
And in the bus station I get to talking with her. As if I’m just getting to know her. But we hit it off, and by the time we part, she’s given me her address and phone number, and before she has to leave, she pulls me close, holding my hand, and kisses me. Vulnerable, she bravely whispers, “I love you,” and then she’s going to the exit. Did I say I loved her too, or was I the coward, as usual, and keep silent? I don’t remember, but I believe that I did say it.
Of course, I missed my bus. I chased it but when it stopped I had to pee, so I ran back into the station. By the time I got back, it was gone and I didn’t know it. This bus began to leave but I realized my mistake. I somehow got back to the station, saw the managers, and was told it would take 3 million dollars to just get back to Baltimore. I was constantly going to men’s rooms, couldn’t stay out of them. It turned into a true nightmare then, because the dispatcher was going to cover the cost of the ticket (now I was traveling to see my surgeon?). Yet it wouldn’t get me all the way to my destination. I’d still be marooned. And I still had to pee, constantly. Constantly.
At some point around 10:00, I awoke, too sore, too tired and far too sleepy to make it to the latrine. So I lay there, feeling almost drunk, halfway paralyzed by sleep, and a while later, fell beck to sleep and back into the nightmare.
I awoke after 14:00, tried to shake off the effects of both sleep and nightmare, and finally realized why urinals had dominated my dream: I really needed to go, and any further delay would have ended exactly as has happened before.
And sometimes that even happens before I wake up.
A grown man, pissing the bed. It’s humiliating beyond my ability to cope with. New bed, new bed set, finally, Amazon Emerald-Hunter green, just what I wanted. But I don’t use it. No.
I spread an old blanket on top of it and sleep in my clothes. And that’s the last straw I was talking about. So, it was a given that I had to appeal to, or curse, old Father Time, who never vanishes on New Year’s Eve at midnight to let some newborn baby take his job. Nope. that’s bullshit.
“Why have you called me out,” he asked.
“That nightmare, old man. What was that all about? I never made it anywhere. I was stuck.”
“What, you’re blaming me?“
I said, “Not for everything, no. But some of it. You could cut me some slack you know.”
“And you believe I have such power, do you? Now why would you think that about me? My sole purpose is to watch people from birth to death. To see that everyone follows, but is not victimized by, time. Simple.”
“Then why am I tormented so by things that happened ages ago?”
He stroked his long beard and said sternly, “Let me get this straight. You’re blaming me for nightmares, incontinence and things I had nothing to do with and have no control over? That’s what I run into so often. Men blame everyone else for their problems while refusing to claim any responsibility for themselves or to pin it on those who have hurt them in the past. Your problem is, your entire life, you had to focus on survival. That’s not your fault, son. It twisted everything: your potential for success, productivity, peace, happiness, stability and love. That’s very sad. I should know; I had to watch it. The word “romance” was created for everyone but you. Your trust was destroyed by too much evil. I have watched you since you were born and I had a most difficult time doing so. I have hurt for you, grieved for you. But I’m very pleased that I can offer advice. If you choose to hear it, that is.”
Wonderful. I couldn’t wait. Asshole.
“For once, while there’s yet a little time, instead of fighting for survival, let go. Live what’s left of your life. Go ahead and sleep between clean sheets. Order some leak proof adult diapers on Amazon. No one will ever know. Also, take more walks. You’ll sleep better. More physical fatigue can minimize some of those dreams. And let go of the things you no longer need. The emotional baggage you have kept all these years. Getting a bit heavy by now, I should imagine. You can’t live like that. The fight is over. It’s time to be over.”
“You’re full of shit, old man. You dodged my question and blamed me. But I never asked for what happened to me, it was just done. And I can’t get that shit out of my head. There’s no ‘off’ switch.”
I left him after that. He said behind me, “But do try the diapers!”
“I guess I’ll try them. The Golden Years? Myth. Nothing but shitty and humiliating.”
“Yes, my son. A myth. Just try living.“
“Nice talk, Father Time, fuck you very much.”
Memoirs of an American Asshole 