I Wished I Was Dead Again

Even when things are going well in my life in outward respects, still the fantasy of suicide is my first thought as I climb into bed each afternoon for a nap, and each night for three hours of sleep. And then I dream of my mother and our arguments.

I dreamed that I was looking for a place for myself in the world, fantasizing about calling people at random just before Christmas and asking for donations to "Eunice F." Hahaha . . . . I dreamed my mother told me that the school in which I was teaching - the same at which she was a professor - thought it better that I leave as soon as possible.

I dreamed my mother angrily demanded that I stop screaming at her when I got angry and throwing things around the house. I said to her, "You're screaming at me," which was an easier answer, since I could not agree to stop screaming at her and throwing things around the house.

I dreamed I had nowhere to live in a big town, so as I road through a neighborhood of beautiful homes I imagined asking some of the homeowners if they didn't have a room they'd like to rent. The homes, although immaculate, were on a steep hill, and I wondered if it would be possible to exit their driveways when the snow began to fall?

I dreamed of my brother . . .

During the day, I live partially in the present. At night, when I am asleep, I live mostly in the distant past. I dream in English, of English-speaking persons, although I haven't lived in an English-speaking country for over seven years. I dream of people past rather than present - of the worst conflicts and fears . . .

If I were dead, when I am dead, I hope I will stop dreaming, because my sleeping moments in life are worse than my waking moments by far. And yet I sleep a third of my days away, like a daily appointment with the torture doctor.

If I hung myself from the door frame, then I dreams would go away. If I constructed a large rectangular box with a huge blade at the end, I could crawl into the box while it stood upright, so that only my head protruded from the box, right where the blade would catch my neck as the box fell over and hit the floor.

Sometimes, I dream of suicide during the day as well. When I see enormous two-story tour buses speeding down the road, I imagine running and standing in from of them, being struck and dying. As I swim out to see at the beach, I am torn between fear of drowning and the desire to continue swimming until the shore is a distant memory.