calling 911 with fat fingers

It's time for the next installment of "MK's bizarre nightmares," brought to you by Sertraline, a popular anti-depressant which works (most of the time) during the day, but seems to have a little too much fun with my synapses whilst I sleep. I won't spend this whole blog cataloging the exhausting nighttime wanderings of my brain, but suffice it to say that every night lately I've woken up either yelling something or punching D (I was defending myself against a huge 8th grader with a dull steak knife). Another similarity in these nightmares is the fact that I have my cell phone, but I cannot use it to call 911. My fingers are too big to only hit one button at a time, so I hit 965, or 9121, or any other sequence of numbers as the dangers escalate. I do have technical problems often with my cell phone, which makes me feel ham-handed and ridiculous, but you'd think at least once I'd be able to punch my way to the cops. I did get through in my dream last night, but I was put on hold and realized I had set down my bookbag with everything in it, in a room full of unsavoury characters, and couldn't get to it in time to keep those people from pocketing everything of value in the bag.

Last night's dream was especially bad, as it involved a person I thought I was feeling reasonable about, but really have not forgiven, not even close. He was so creepy in the dream and was so domineering that I felt like he would do anything in a desperate situation, but at the same time he was trying to convince me that he wasn't all that bad of a person. I just kept yelling at him, saying how much I hated his guts and woke up screaming, "Don't you have a conscience???!!" Well, it seems that the answer is no, in waking life, or at least it's so deeply buried that nothing short of a personal earthquake will bring it to the surface. But the dream wasn't done with me yet. I landed right back in the apartment hallway when I went back to sleep, feeling so weighed down by fear and evil that it took all of my strength to wake up again.

So today I'm in zombie headache mode, trying to convince myself that it was all just a dream and that surely I could call 911, and do even more, if I was in real danger. But the fact remains that I am still full of hatred for this person, even though I have not spoken to him in years. I have to let this go or it will fester, and I can't handle another week of broken, unrestful sleep and the potential of hurting my poor husband in the process.

We'll see how it goes tonight. Maybe I can get one of those giant-number old-people phones in this dream. Or, please God, I might have a good dream with no need to call for backup.