bearthinking

About recovering from depression and suicide.

Nightmarish Iterations

Between 1:30 am and 7:15 am, June 6, 2010;
could Jack Bauer handle this?

I am standing in front of my easel when she comes in. Her foot taps, and I start to get the flush across my body that happens when I think I have forgotten something. I wait for her to speak, but she is making me wait, trying to force me to speak first. I rack my brain trying to remember. My concentration is blown, my artistic momentum gone.
I turn to ask what is wrong, but she turns away as I turn toward her. She leaves, knowing I must now put things away, clean my brushes, and stop for the day. I do so and look for her.
I search the house. It occurs to me that while this is our house, and I live here, I have never been here before. The rooms are dark even though it is noon and no shades are down, no curtains hide the world outside. There are shadows everywhere, doors that make no sense, nothing is familiar although I recognize it all.
I search and search, from the basement up. There is no-one here. I can’t find her, our son is not here, the cats are not here. My reflections in the mirrors are unfamiliar, showing only confusion and despair. Where are they, where am I?
As I search, traveling up the stairs, examining each floor, every room, I begin to hear voices low and indistinct. Every time I think I have reached the top floor of the house, I find another staircase going up. The voices get closer, but remain low and indistinct. I become more and more frantic; I feel that something is very wrong, she is in trouble, our son is in trouble. I can’t find them.
They are gone.

I am standing in front of my easel when she comes in. Her foot taps, and I start to get the flush across my body that happens when I think I have forgotten something. I wait for her to speak, but she is making me wait, trying to force me to speak first. I rack my brain trying to remember. My concentration is blown, my artistic momentum gone.
I turn to ask what is wrong, but she turns away as I turn toward her. She leaves, knowing I must now put things away, clean my brushes, and stop for the day. I do so and look for her.
As I step out of the door, talons rend my flesh, beaks pluck and ravage my ears and eyes. I scream soundlessly, endlessly. My blood is everywhere, my hands plead for mercy, my feet shatter.
My guts spill across an endless ocean. My intestines entwine about my neck, squeezing, twisting, crushing. My hair catches fire and writhes away in the wind. My tongue has been shredded into maggoty snakes of disgust.
Laughter I cannot hear fills my soul, echoing in my skull, devouring my spirit.

I am standing in front of my easel when she comes in. Her foot taps, and I start to get the flush across my body that happens when I think I have forgotten something. I wait for her to speak, but she is making me wait, trying to force me to speak first. I rack my brain trying to remember. My concentration is blown, my artistic momentum gone.
I turn to ask what is wrong, but she turns away as I turn toward her. She leaves, knowing I must now put things away, clean my brushes, and stop for the day. I do so and look for her.
She is in the shower and the both of our towels are hanging, ready to be grabbed, a sign she wants me to join her. I strip, excited and desiring her. I step into the shower behind her as she washes her hair. I slide my hands up her back and into the froth of lather, the feel of her hair caressing me.
I rub her scalp, working the shampoo through her hair, then grab the shower head on its hose and rinse her. As I rinse, I realize that while this is her, I don’t know who this person is. I don’t recall meeting her. Her curves, her limbs, the structure of her face and body are familiar, but the eyes and the way the mouth are held are unknown to me.
The beautiful woman I was cleaning is gone, leaving a stranger in her place.
I put the shower head back and try to get out of the shower. I’m confused and hurt. She grabs me, enfolds me in her arms. I’m scared, terrified of this person. The shower spews acid that melts me and she engulfs me, pressing me into myself, makes me smaller. She stuffs me into the drain and I am washed away.

I am standing in front of my easel when she comes in. Her foot taps, and I start to get the flush across my body that happens when I think I have forgotten something. I wait for her to speak, but she is making me wait, trying to force me to speak first. I rack my brain trying to remember. My concentration is blown, my artistic momentum gone.
I turn to ask what is wrong, but she turns away as I turn toward her. She leaves, knowing I must now put things away, clean my brushes, and stop for the day. I do so and look for her.
I hear the door lock behind me and turn. She is there, the key in her hand as she strokes my hair, my face, my body. Her kisses caress me, drain me.
I fall to the bed. She grabs my cock and strokes me more. I cannot move except to thrust into her hand. She mounts me, fucks me. It hurts. Her vagina is made of jagged glass, ripping me, rending me. Her fingers claw into my chest. My heart is tossed to the side, into the trash. My lungs are filled with her bile, my skull hollowed out as pain racks my body. I orgasm not from pleasure, but fear and anguish.
She stamps on my body, ululating in triumph as my semen leaks from her and melts my body into a steel floor.

I am standing in front of my easel when she comes in. Her foot taps, and I start to get the flush across my body that happens when I think I have forgotten something. I wait for her to speak, but she is making me wait, trying to force me to speak first. I rack my brain trying to remember. My concentration is blown, my artistic momentum gone.
I turn to ask what is wrong, but she turns away as I turn toward her. She leaves, knowing I must now put things away, clean my brushes, and stop for the day. I do so and look for her.
She is in the kitchen, cooking. She is cutting up a large carcass, blood streaking her face, hair, and body. She smiles sweetly at me and offers me the skull. It is a bear and I vomit profusely as I recognize myself.
I am bound in my chair. A fork pushes meat at my mouth, hands pull to open my jaws. My tears dissolve in pools of pain. I cannot hold my jaws closed much longer. She beats me with my claws, tearing me apart to make me cry out.
I am smeared in my blood, shit, bile, piss, brains, and fear. Spitted and turning above the fire, feeling my skin, my self, my soul crisping, charring, burning, cracking. My heart bursts and my blood feeds her fire as it consumes me.

I am standing in front of my easel when she comes in. Her foot taps, and I start to get the flush across my body that happens when I think I have forgotten something. I wait for her to speak, but she is making me wait, trying to force me to speak first. I rack my brain trying to remember. My concentration is blown, my artistic momentum gone.
I turn to ask what is wrong, but she turns away as I turn toward her. She leaves, knowing I must now put things away, clean my brushes, and stop for the day. I do so and look for her.
She beckons me into the dining room. The house is dark, and she giggles as I stumble slightly. When I get into the dining room, the lights snap on and “surprise!”
Everyone is there who has ever hurt me. People long forgotten, people from yesterday. As they flicker in and out, wraiths of all my pain inhabit them and make them real. My self-doubts cut me up and serve me with ice-cream. Regrets and guilts ice me over, coating me in sweetly destructive hatred.
My fingers burn with no-one to blow them out.

I am standing in front of my easel when she comes in. Her foot taps, and I start to get the flush across my body that happens when I think I have forgotten something. I wait for her to speak, but she is making me wait, trying to force me to speak first. I rack my brain trying to remember. My concentration is blown, my artistic momentum gone.
I turn to ask what is wrong, but she turns away as I turn toward her. She leaves, knowing I must now put things away, clean my brushes, and stop for the day. I do so and look for her.
She is carefully packing my canvases into the car. When I grab some and bring them over, she looks at me, a reproachful smile painted on her face. The show! My exhibit! She had arranged it for me, and I had forgotten that today was the day!
We finish loading them in and drive to the gallery. A wind storm kicks up as we unload the canvases. We struggle to carry them in.
No one is there, we can’t find the lights, there are no hangers, and the ice for the punch has melted all over the ceiling; it drips monotonously like a pendulum’s swing. We get the pictures up and the lights turned on as people begin to arrive. I stand at the entrance, greeting people as she shows them around. I am happy, people are conversing and there is laughter.
The laughter turns mocking, the conversations disparaging. I try to turn around, but my feet have somehow become glued to the floor. I twist my body to see what is happening, what is wrong. People look at me in pitying disgust.
My paintings are nothing but smears of shit and blood punctuated by bile and piss. Mold and maggots spread across the walls. Cockroaches crawl on the paintings and and leap into drinks, hair, and clothing.
The doors slam open, and the canvases are ripped from the walls by tornadoes that writhe like drugged worms. I am battered and crushed to the ground. She stands over me, surrounded by the people she has invited, points to me, sneers and walks away with them.
I have no hands, my feet are nailed to the ground, my mouth filled with ordure and filth, my ears with her mocking disdain. A raven shits on my head and a dog pisses on my face.

I am standing in front of my easel when she comes in. Her foot taps, and I start to get the flush across my body that happens when I think I have forgotten something. I wait for her to speak, but she is making me wait, trying to force me to speak first. I rack my brain trying to remember. My concentration is blown, my artistic momentum gone.
I turn to ask what is wrong, but she turns away as I turn toward her. She leaves, knowing I must now put things away, clean my brushes, and stop for the day. I do so and look for her.
She stands at the front door. I forgot. I have to take the trash out. She gives me the “what am I going to do with you” look.
Smiling sheepishly I take the bag with me in it. She opens the door and kisses me. When she closes it behind me, I see that I am holding nothing, standing nowhere in a boundless desert.

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June 6, 2010 - Posted by | autobio, depression, Dream, nightmare, recovery, suicide

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