A dream of my Grandeur Illusion.
This morning, I had the case of a runaway mind. My burnt out level was high even though I had awaken from a deep sleep. I dreamt of my grandeur illusion. It went like this- I’m in a cold ethereal room with my head pressed up against a metal stand. A nurse with a white pointed hat pinched at two corners and a protruding tummy pressed against a bathing sink wrings her hands. The drip from the sink’s faucet forms a crystal ball, the size of a Christmas tree ornament you find at Christmas time and then freezes. My eyes squint waking the morning gook from its stiff corners. I feel like I am falling off the edge of a cliff and bringing everybody down with me. A woman in a white jacket catches me and holds a long silver screw driver and screw in one hand. One doctor by my bedside laughs with another. “We have results from your MRI and want to see if you are Jesus Christ.” With the great force that penetrates my mind and body, I weaken and wobble. I stretch my arms out as if I was standing next to a cross. In my imagination, the cross is brownish gray, wooden, and splintery. Sore to touch. The screw passes further into my brain towards the back of my head. I am wired. There are two men strapped to a cross in a blurred background. I can’t make out their faces. I reach out to grab their hands and slide over rocks, gathering my strength to brake free. I want to wake up but the pain fails to alert my consciousness. My eyelids hide my soft green eyes. Tears rain like buckets down my breasts and body. “Father forgive them for they know not what they do,” I cry. My temples bounce together and the tears melt the sweat from my armpits. There is a myriad of things going through my mind: a charade of questions, nonsensical answers and a hot water bag full of poetic biblical gibberish. Drool presses against my face and sticks to my hair and pillow. I’m trying to get it together. I must have been thinkin’ about blood and guts. My stomach aches. I repeat, “Wake up, start talking to yourself.” “Take Three deep breaths, count backwards slowly.” “Think calming thoughts.” “Sing a song.” Now there is a thought. I sing, “I don’t know how to love him,” by Mary Magdalene from my Jesus Christ Super Star Album. I wake up. I’m not Jesus Christ!