The nightmares have started again.

I didn't want to tell anyone. But I can tell you, quite safely.

I don't want to sleep when I have nightmares. but then when I fall asleep, I can't rest, and the nightmares find me. At least the couch doctor taught me about how to avoid a spoonful of cordial. My name isn't Mary Poppins, so I do not sleep better for a spoonful of sugar or whatever other nasty drugs, so I do not bother with that stuff. Too many little white pills and elephants in their tutus will come out and perform a ballet.

And most of the time, that is worse than my nightmares. In them, I can run for days through an empty house. I can hear the echoes of my footsteps. There are only a few rugs in the oasises of marbled or hardwood floors. There is no furniture. All of the curtains to the tall windows are sheer and billowing, moving in ways that are not reassuring to the troubled mind. All of the ceilings high- gothic arches meld into coffered vaults as I move from room to room, slowly at first, just exploring, and I keep finding more doors and more doorways, and sometimes I have to crawl through doors, and others open as I approach. Then I run faster. I must find someone. Anyone. I must find someone to talk to, who understands. But there is no one.

Franks says my whimpering wakes him at night. But he doesn't wake me. Why wouldn't he wake me? I do not want these nightmares.  ¶ 5:13 AM