" … and now that dream is gone from me." I apologize, my Matrix: Reloaded jest wasn’t that funny. Har har.
I did really have a dream. The only thing that gives me pause in naming it a nightmare is the lack of rank terror that is to me what typically defines a nightmare. This dream was more subtle, more discomfiting, and in that way so much more terrifying than what I might call a simple nightmare. There weren’t any monsters or naked-at-school episodes or long weightless plunges from heights.
My dream took shape in the form of a wall—stationary, white, isolating. I couldn’t move my body, not even my eyes. I could only stare at the wall. An all-too-convenient dream-flashback informed me that I had been in a car accident, and that I was left utterly immobilized. Though my mind was perfectly intact my body could respond to my commands no more than might a statue. It was torture. I was stuck in this immobile form, and there was absolutely nothing I could accomplish of my own accord.
But there was hope. Weekly I had a trip to some sort of machine (my mind’s interpretation of dialysis?) that was able to drain me of my body’s toxins and give me a momentary lease to live life more fully. I could move! I could speak! I can tell you, the feeling of freedom when I was first informed of this miracle machine was something I can’t very well describe. But freedom in the dream is as fleeting as it is here in the waking world. You see, I could indeed walk, but only in a spasmodic and discomforting imitation of walking. I could talk, but instead of words pouring from my mouth I could form no more than a bestial yowl.
My family brought me to a nice restaurant during my few days of freedom. As is wont to happen in a dream, my entire high school class was there, forming some sort of gauntlet through which I was forced to walk to get to the dining room. It was hell. In waking, I like to think that I have gone on to bigger and better things than the majority of them. In dream, I was paraded staggering and twitching in front of them, unable to meet any of their eyes for the shame of it. I tried to tell them that I was still alive within this unresponsive shell, but I could only groan and gurgle. A much-disliked coworker was there as a waitress, exulting in my debasement. She saw me try to move my arms—I almost did!!—and her satisfaction at my self-defeat burned. What do I remember most about the dream? It was the shame, burning hot in my head.
In the end, the effect of the toxin-machine wore off. I ended up back in the hospital room, alone with the white wall and my own fevered thoughts. My family left. The nurse left. I was alone in a prison too small for my brain.
As I’ve come to expect in a dream, it drifted off into something much more blissfully mobile. But it wasn’t long before I woke up to my bladder’s protestations. I remember an intense wash of relief when I awoke in my own bed, able to move my eyes and my limbs, able to go to the bathroom simply by moving my legs, getting some flip-flops, and going. It is here that the dream coincides with nightmare, thanks to the feeling of elation when you wake up and realize that the fall you just took didn’t kill you, that the monster wasn’t catching up to you on the conveyor belt, that your girlfriend hadn’t broken up with your pathetic ass. It’s powerful. I came back from my bathroom visit, fully pleased with myself that I was able to do so without assistance. I lay back and started to fall back to sleep, and my body went numb. I cannot describe to you the terror that shot through me, the instant of absolute truth I felt that I would lose my body forever to this numbness. It was enough to wake me with the shock of icewater and keep me awake until I was absolutely sure that my body responded as I commanded. Have you ever awoken from a dream where you were sure that something was still in the room with you, in one of those shadows in the corners? Have you felt that unspeakable, irrational terror? Imagine that terror, but imagine that the only enemy is your own body.
I wonder if this whole experience was a warning. I could wonder as to its source. Internal or external warning, it doesn’t make a difference. I have lived my life too unaware of the dangers around me and the circumstances that wrap the lives of others. I am relatively sure that my own mind’s interpretation of physical handicap was dreadfully inaccurate. But the experience was enough to make me think, which I suppose is the point. How have I gone through my life feeling the discomfort that I know so many others also feel in the presence of the mentally or physically infirm? I guess I have been an asshole, unable to come to terms with the circumstances with which others are forced to live every day. I am fortunate in that I tasted the warning without living it. It was enough to make me think. I haven’t thought so much about a dream in my entire life. To this point I have made the mistake of avoiding the discomfort and ignorance I have long harbored for handicaps. I guess it has been a long-waiting change.
Note: This entry is by no means designed to offend or disparage. My facts on physical or mental disability are surely warped; I make no guarantee to accuracy. If you feel the need to correct or inform, by all means please feel free to comment. This post is authored simply as a personal epiphany to be shared with others.