Awoke today from a horrible nightmare, just terrible. I dreamed that I was in a house in ________(where Matt lived close to home), with my mother and my cousin Brad. My mother was yelling at me about my habit; she was trying to take my kit bag full of my needles away from me, which I fought vigorously. I grabbed my kit bag and ran across a beautiful field to my grandmother’s old house on _______ Rd. I ran down to the lake and tried to hide my kit bag in the old boat-house there. My mother and Brad appeared, as if they ran after me, and attempted to take the kit bag. I don’t know why this was so horrible, but it really was–put me in a depressed mood all morning long. I hated it.
Other things happened today, but nothing of consequence. This is all I care to write tonight.
Intake: 30 mg hydroco, 130 mg oxyco, oral
(Driving Matt out of Oshkosh and to his dream-achieved Madison apartment, I first heard of this dream. He told the dream in much more detail at that point. We both talked in-depth about dreams we had experienced, but this one was still upsetting a year later to him. Dreams, well certain ones, do speak to us, most certainly. This dream was haunting to him. Yes, it may have been induced by his earlier night’s thoughts on home and the addiction he was battling. However, if one looks at the symbolism there, the struggle there, and the fear there, one might understand better the mind of addiction.
Addiction, I am beginning to believe, is rooted in fear and control. Running away through a beautiful field to his grandmother’s house, Matt may have been surfacing in that deep river of subconscious–that darkly slow water that meanders through our minds and carries us along together with real-time of the unreal fabric of a slowly emerging consciousness. Have you ever stopped and dove into your river? Have you ever looked a bit deeper, a tad detached, or a slightly-outside in relation to the unreal side of reality? This is where we really exist and where addiction exists. It exists in the most intangible yet most perceptible true self. This is the self that lies down in the darkness, alone to find peace and rest, yet rest is not there as the river of our self, our essence, is all that is left once our physical bodies give in, and we may be pitifully aware of our imperfections to the point of unrest. We are alone with our true essence, there, floating or sinking, moving or caught in an eddy, cold or refreshed, experiencing metaperception of our lives as they flow.
Addiction is the response to that river. Too deep and dark we become afraid. Too fast and cold we become unsure of the course and try to control the minutia. If this sense is too strong, if those who feel too deeply and sense too emotionally, it then flows into waking life. But, that is not acceptable and not compatible with the job of conscious life; therefore, it must be dulled and subdued. Sensitivity to noise has a drug as does sensitivity to touch. But, sensitivity to the spiritual essence of life only has something that dulls the senses–depressants. A deep sense of our own fallibility, our own sin, our own humanness is painful and cruel to those o fus who sense this. Matt sensed himself and the world around him intensely. He turned to something that made him feel less human, less lost in the river we all are traveling.
I am beginning to believe that his addiction to something that dulls the senses was a response to his ability to feel completely the ills of life. I wonder if other addicts also feel this sense of fear and loss of control by the dark river, deep water, powerful current that carries us along. Are those who feel this in true reality actually more blessed?
Considering Matt’s fear, his cousin who took him hunting/fishing/dirt-biking and myself, who encouraged and coerced him to reconsider his path, were the two enemies he was hiding from, the two who threatened his addiction, who chased him through the beautiful field. However, we were not really us but a part of Matt. We were a part of him that was trying to attack that area. Was this his fear of the part of him that said “grow up”? Was grandma the part of him that wanted to stay a child, wanted to hide from continuing on the river toward the unknown of adultness? I am not sure, but I do know that this dream brought his head to the surface of the darkness enough to breathe in the cold, dank air of reality at the same time, and the mix was melancholic, the glassy mirror at the surface an area too frightening to cross if even in a dream.