Search

Sunday morning

Sunday 8/11/19

I am now walking up many mornings into a panic attack. I look down and I can see my heart throbbing in my wrist. I don't have breath. I do not want to be in this war, I do not want to do the things I have to do, I only want to be treated fairly--not even fairly, but just not completely unfairly. I want a chance, I don't want thousands of people standing against me not because I did them wrong, but because of what I can do, what I do do, how unclassifiable I am, what I do that they do not. I want to fail because I'm not good enough, not because I'm the best. I look over this apartment when I awake, I see how I live, the panic attack worsens, all I can do to get back under control is compose. I compose. I compose at a unique level. I compose more. That makes it worse. Creates more enmity, envy.


Last night my late father again came to me in a dream. I had no relationship with my surviving family in it. One of them could do something to me, and threatened me, and I was so broken, even in my dream, that I said, very well, please do, nothing matters at this point, death does not matter, even. And like my dream the other night, my father arrived to pick me up, to take me somewhere, with us in a car for a long time, it was understood. There is something about my dad in these dreams. He has another family. He does not live full-time with us in this dream world, and of course I don't live with these people in real life, have not in a long, long time. For a while I have thought that this version of my father had left us, was with someone else, a woman, which could not be further from how my dad was in real life. Ultimate family man. Even that is not saying enough. So it felt like a betrayal in the dream, that he was going to help, and help me, only to leave again. But last night I realized that that's not what is happening. His family is a family of the dead, and he steals what moments he can to leave them, having no choice but to be with them the rest of the time, and he cannot impart this, for some reason, maybe a rule, I don't know. He tries to help and he leaves. He tells me to keep going, that I can get to where I am trying to go, and I think, are you just my dream? Are you my dad trying to reach me? Do you know something?


And so another week begins in a life where hope never starts, pain never stops, and hell always rolls on. I should ask him how much more I can take of this before I jump in front of a train and join him.