I don't normally share too many personal things on this blog. I don't really know why. But I had another horrific dream last night.
I was in a large, tumble-down mansion. I was looking after a little girl, who is very important to me in real life, and her Great Grandmother and mine were both dying. I was trying to prepare her, and I could feel my heart leaping through my chest because I was trying so hard to stay in control, and strong for her, and I had to keep going into the room to nurse both of them. She was crying and terrified by what was happening and I was desperate to see both elderly women off with peace and love, but I was losing control, and being swarmed by my own feelings, and those of the little girl.
Her Great Grandmother died, and while I was comforting her, my own Grandma put her head under the sheets and fell asleep.
Suddenly the little girls' family arrived and escorted us out. I was running, trying to get outside to throw up, but was ushered into a bathroom at the top of a long staircase. I threw up, and while I was struggling for breath and control, I realised that someone else was in the room. I looked over my shoulder and a man in Victorian dress was sitting on a chair. His face was a gaping hole; like he'd received a terrible injury, and I knew he was a ghost. I got up and tried to run, but the bathroom door was bolted shut.
And then I woke up.
I'm sick to death of these dreams. I hate that I'm finding it increasingly difficult to let them go when the morning comes; like it's some-kind of personal failing, some weakness that they're even impacting me this way. I'm becoming absolutely reticent to close my eyes at night. I want to take my mind out and scrub it clean and re-insert it.