I have trouble sleeping. That's not true. I have trouble staying asleep. I think after all of these years I am still listening for Mom, still in protective mode. This morning I awoke early. It was still dark. I had only been asleep about 3 hours. I didn't fight it. I sat up, grabbed my phone and distracted myself until I was drowsy enough to try again. I made it. Blissful sleep.
It was one of those sleeps that you don't realize you fell asleep until you wake up surprised hours later. Except, this was different. I was dreaming. I was driving in my favorite car, my minivan, from the early days of Mom's illness. I was on my way to meet Mom at a mall, an outside mall. There were people and cars everywhere. I didn't want to go. I was frustrated, anxious. My hands were violently twisting on the steering wheel. As I turned into the parking lot, the top two-thirds of the steering wheel came off in my hands in a mangled, rubber mess. There was only a small piece of metal left. Suddenly, Mom was in the car with me, yelling at me angrily, "Just park!", over and over. I was panicking, just trying to control the car. Somehow, I was able to get into a parking space. Mom was pulling me out of the car. I could feel her agitation, her desperation. She was dragging me into the crowd. Suddenly, she turned around and pushed me to the ground, straddling me. Her venom filled face was inches from mine. Her hands were above me, held like claws, when she whispered, "I'm going to kill you!" I believed her, closed my eyes, and waited for her attack. When it didn't come, I opened my eyes and watched her lean down to kiss me.
I woke up crying, not because of her, but because the crowd never slowed, just walked around us as if we weren't there.
