Part 2

I think I can write again. What is weird is I often want to, but when I approach it; or even dive headlong into it, I freeze. Not freeze, exactly. I lose it. On the inside, my thought process will only go so far, then my mind falls into a sort of catatonia of self preservation. I cannot cross certain thresh holds, I imagine; there are houses into which I am not privy to enter.

   I have been dreaming of Christina nightly. Sometimes the dreams are very familiar, as if she is with us. In one dream she had to go, and it was very upsetting. Even now, saying that, I can feel my will and ability to write starting to dissolve. My limbs feel weak. Most of the time, I dream about her in flashes and images, wondering why, why, why. I awake and tell myself it is good that I am dreaming. When my sister Jeny's baby died, I had the most horribly dream about eight months after he died. I dreamed I was in a darkened surgical theater, filled with the towering and looming figures of robed doctors. They would appear out of the darkness in angular movements and threatening trajectories, only to melt again into the shadow. A general murmur, ominous and inhuman, undertoned the and entwined with the suffocating darkness. The darkness was a dusty silver grainy like an old movie darkness. Then there was a spotlight in the middle of the theater. There, one doctor held Drew tight in his arms, and turned and walked quickly away. Drew grinned at me, incessantly. I called his name. He disappeared into the crowd of lurching figures. I awoke screaming. I woke Christina up. I told her about my dream while she held me and rocked me. She told me that the mind will dream when it is trying to deal with things on the subconscious level. That made sense to me. I never had that nightmare again. It scarred me, though. I sleep in constant fear of when my subconscious will start to try to deal with those last few days in the hospital.