There is a recurring theme in my nightmares that’s repeated for 25 years.
I awake in the middle of the night to find the skin on my back swollen and weeping with some mysterious and painful infection. My house is full of people, only some of whom I recognize, and I plead with everyone I see to help me. They all hand wave and tell me, “You’ll be fine,” as they go back to sipping their drinks and chatting.
A tree is on fire in my front yard, positioned directly below a power line. I tell my husband and am told that it’s not a big deal.
I live in a house on a cliff and one morning, half of my house collapses and falls into the sea, leaving a gaping apocalyptic-sized hole in my home. I can’t find my husband for a long time and when I finally do, he glances at the hole and shrugs his shoulders, “It happens.”
I awaken in the middle of the night and my baby is swollen and blue. No one seems to be in a rush to get him to the hospital except me.
Every situation is the same, something bad is happening. I am in crisis, and no one seems to care.
I feel invisible.
Alone.
Begging for someone to do something.
