Chapter 1: Troubled

I could easily tell you who I’m supposed to be. Telling you who I am is another thing entirely. Self-discovery is the trickiest thing of all. I like to think of myself as a painting. You could stare at yourself for hours, attempting to find the meaning in each tiny detail. What you don’t see is the bigger picture. Look again. What do you see? Is it the shell youcall a body? Is it the mask you call a face? Most people have their physical self figured out. A few are in touch with their inner selves. I am yet to do either. I am uncomfortable in my skin, and even more so with what lies beneath. They say the trick to solving any problem is to find a fresh perspective. That’s when you see the cracks in the canvas. That’s how you discover who you really are. So who am I? My name is James, and I am stuck in the real world.

I’m a dreamer. That’s what they say. I’ve listened to other people’s advice almost all my life. I’m told that it’s foolish chasing dreams.I’m told that dreamers are destined to wake up and discover that life has passed them by. Most people say that dreams are only dreams. Most people are vastly unintelligent. I mean that in the nicest possible way. We have no idea how our brain works, or what our dreams are trying to tell us. Worse still, we are too scared to find out. That’s what makes us truly stupid. We stop wondering altogether and we move on with our pointless lives. Ignorance is bliss. Stupid is the Bodhi tree. True stupidity has nothing to do with your brain. It’s the inability to believe in more than what the physical world presents you with. At a biological level we are pretty much the same. Everyone’s mind is a scary place.It’s all demons and dark matter. It’s our dreams that make us different.

When I was 16 I first dreamt of The Shadow. It was the most vivid dream I‘ve ever had. I can’t recall a single dreambefore it. Three years later and I still see It. My dad was hopeful the dreams would stop when I finished high school. They haven’t. In my sleep I’ve conjured a paradise for evil things. I see twisted faces, crueland carved with ink. I see snarling four-legged beasts, and clouds of veiled fury. All this you might say is a recurring nightmare, and not at all unique. You could say that I’m simply suffering from crippling anxiety. To this I’d say you’re right. What separates me from you is that my dreams are real. Stay with me here. Now you’ll probably say I’m delusional.And to this I’d say you’re right. Then again you can’t self-diagnose craziness. I might be completely insane. But maybe, just maybe, I have created my own world. Either way, I’m more unique than most. My dream world is very different to the real world. It’s also quite similar. Both are home to men and monsters. On the surface, good and evil are often hard to distinguish. Some people are just a little darker than others. Over time the evil bubbles through their skin, and begins to affect their actions. There are many evil actions in my dream world. It’s all become twisted. Faced with overwhelming darkness, the good men became desperate. They grew weak, turned on each other, or gave in to temptation. They were swallowed up by this faceless evil force. The Shadow is taking over.

I fear there’s nothing I can do but dream of something different. The world in my head remains pure, but that is slowly changing too. I never become involved in my imaginary battles. Though, the word battle suggests that both sides stand a chance of winning. A more accurate description is this. I witness massacres nightly in my sleep. I sit nervously on the bench as I take in the bloody spectacle. Like the cowardly lion, I commit to nothing. Above all else, I never intervene.

Unlike most people, I remember every tiny detail of every single dream. Some would consider this a gift, though the subject matter lends itself more to a curse. I dream what I feel, and I draw what I dream. I curse my cruel creations. I don’t tend to sketch puppies or golden sunsets. My walls are plastered with strange, horrible artworks. I draw battle scenes, dismembered bodies, and tangled tribal patterns. The patterns are carbon copies of the ink-stained bodies of The Shadow’s army. Thick black lines, sharp edges, and no real meaning. They’re almost like birthmarks; war paint marking them for one purpose only. Destruction. I have accumulated a dozen or so scrapbooks containing mind maps and Venn diagrams. These creative exercises help me differentiate the two worlds. The circles intersect far too regularly for my liking. From a psychological perspective that’s not hard to explain. Your unconscious mind is simply a reflection of your daily interactions. If you’re living under a black cloud, your dreams will be even darker. Such is the nature of these dreams I mostly keep them to myself. The biggest mistake was telling anyone about them. Especially my dad. He doesn’t quite know how to handle me. I’m a little too outside the box. I wish I wasn’t. I honestly do. I can’t wait to be old, flatulent and boring. I’d just about kill for some normalcy. Actually, now I’ve thought about it, I change my mind. If I wound up like my dad I’d probably kill myself, figuratively speaking of course. Don’t worry, this isn’t one of those stories. Not really.

There’s no easy way to describe the way I feel. It’s like I’m constantly stuck on the edge of a panic attack. I could go one of two ways. I could totally lose control, or go back to feeling comfortable. It’s like a silent war between my mind and my body and I can’t decide whose side I’m on. Staying neutral tends to keep me safe. Call me Switzerland.

I think I have a brain tumor. Random start to a paragraph, right? Perhaps I should elaborate. Today I think I have a brain tumor. I woke up with a migraine. I drank three glasses of water, took two Tylanol, and it didn’t go away. The prognosis? Metastatic Brain Tumour. It all makes sense when I think about it. Yesterday I found a funny spot on my shoulder. I think it was Melanoma. The most common types of cancer that spread to the brain originate from the lungs or skin. I didn’t treat the Melanoma and so it spread to my brain. Tomorrow, I might have Ebola. It doesn’t really matter. The affliction is beside the point. Beyond all rationality, I am convinced that I am going to die. 

Sometimes I feel like my head is semi-detached from my body. It’s like when you cut the string from a balloon and it floats away to sea. One day that will happen to me. What would be left? A sad pathetic child clutching to a useless string. The balloon is my head, you see. I feel like I always have to explain my metaphors. I guess that means they’re not very good. The weirdest thing about how I feel is this. Every day I wake up and I feel stale. But at the same time, everything and everyone seems new and unrecognizable. My dad, my little brother, my bedroom, my clothes. My own reflection in the mirror seems distorted.

I wish I could dream about normal things. I’d love to dream of flying, or that I was swimming with dolphins. I would feel nothing but relief if I woke up to a wet spot in my sheets. Then I’d be just another horny kid. I wish I dreamt of anything different. The dreams are never exactly the same. I mean the characters are the same, and the setting never changes. But I’m never in the same place at the same time. They all seem sequential. Each time it’s a new episode. That’s what makes them seem so real, and altogether puzzling. It’s like waking up and living each day as you would in real life. Only it’s in reverse.

During one experience, my body began to violently convulse. If not for dad arriving home from work, I would have choked on my tongue and died. He said my lips were turning blue. When I woke up, my body was paralysed and my mouth was full of blood. It soon passed, but the visions didn’t. They got worse. This gave birth to a litany of similar scenes. At first they thought I had Epilepsy. But then I started falling asleep during classes. My seizure was diagnosed two weeks later as Cataplexy, a common characteristic for patients with Narcolepsy. That is, I fall asleep at random times in random places. Cataplexy is a weird little condition which causes me to lose control of my own body when severely stressed or angry. My muscles tense up. My face becomes all droopy. I’m like a Mastiff-human hybrid. They often occur in embarrassing locations, and I have no memory of them happening.

That still doesn’t explain the dreams. Many have tried to speculate on that particular topic. My dad thinks I’m troubled. My first therapist thought I was special. I think special in therapist terminology means straight up weird. I say weird because I’d like to keep this journal G-rated. It really means fucked up beyond repair. God dammit, now I’ve done it. I apologise for cursing just now, and in advance for any future lapses. I tend to swear way more than necessary. It’s another curse of mine. That therapist I mentioned before said I used swearing to get back at bad people as a form of non-violent retribution. I know that reflects very poorly on me. But before I continue, it’s best if I lay all my cards upon the table. My story is not G rated at all. It’s quite difficult to tell, and no doubt even harder for a listener to comprehend. That’s why I write it all down.While I’m on the topic, I’ve strongly considered the possibility that no one will ever read my story. No one has the time to read these days, unless it’s a stupid fucking blog, or some self-absorbed Twitter dribble interspersed with multiple hashtags. The silver lining in that cloud is that I can curse as much as I want without offending anyone. My story features no shimmering vampires, nor does it involve magical train platforms, or blue eyed seekers. My story is about me and my problems. Like Jay Z said, I’ve got 99. The missing 1 will pop up later.

I’ve come to understand that fighting in dreams usually represents the subject’s inner turmoil. To witness two warring tribes is the mind’s projection of the emotional battle within one’s self. The evil side reflects feelings of anger and mistrust. The good side reflects the subject’s desire to be heard. My old therapist said the more one refuses to raise his voice, the fiercer the battles will grow. Eventually the darkness will swallow up the light. He always referred to me as a subject. I’m not sure if I was an experiment, or the sufferer of some terrible affliction. Perhaps I’m both. It all seems suitably odd for my current state of existence. Suitably odd seems to roll of the tongue nicely. I think I might write that down. You’ve probably noticed I like to write things down.

In my humble opinion I’m quite good with words. I consider it my one and only blessing. It helps make sense of the random thoughts swirling around my head. Better still, It somewhat alleviates my perpetual state of confusion. That’s me in a nutshell. Confused. I’m not confused about my sexuality, nor my moral standing on pressing world topics. What I’m really uncertain about is why anything really matters. We worry about world hunger, about global warming, about the world economic downturn, and about Kim Kardashian’s fat ass. Therein lies the problem. Nestled between the headlines of “Ebola Epidemic in Africa” and“Ukrainian crisis”,sits“Bad Celebrity Boob Jobs.” I’m not downplaying the seriousness of Ebola. And I’m not saying the current conflict in Ukraine is not a political hotbed of controversy. I just don’t care. When these stories share the spotlight with fad diets and who Harry Styles is currently screwing; it all starts to lose its relevance. In any case, I don’t see myself visiting Africa any time soon, or Ukraine for that matter. Or is It The Ukraine? See what I mean? I really ought to know that. But the fact I don’t affects me in no way whatsoever. I guess that settles it. Nothing really matters. As long as you ignore it long enough not to give a shit. I’ve been writing so long now I’ve forgotten what I originally intended to talk about. Those swirling thoughts have tripped me up again. That’s right, I was talking about therapy. My diagnosis gets much worse than textbook confusion.

Dr Rowland loved to explain what was wrong with me.What he never did wasoffer a solution. Did I already tell you his name? I didn’t, did I? I forgot to introduce my therapist. I told you I was bad at this. I should rip out the page and start again, but that seems like too much effort. It’s also good for storytelling purposes. It emphasises my scattered ways. Like I said, cards are on the table. A small part of me likes being honest. Here’s an honest truth, as redundant as that phrase truly is. What exactly is a dishonest truth? Anyway, the honest truth is that by the end of my story Dr Rowland is of little to no consequence. His assumptions prove to be waywardly askew. That’s another redundant phrase. In his final report, he concluded that I am indeed a coward. A coward with zero initiative. You see, to dream of others fighting means that the subject does not face his own problems. I passively participate in everyday events. I am too afraid to make a change for the better. I am a spectator in my dreams. I am a spectator in the real world. I am life’s cheerleader. All I lack are pigtails. I must admit that Dr Rowland had good intentions. It’s just that he’s a douche of epic proportions. Sometimes I think he screwed with my head for his own sick satisfaction. Therapists are whores. They offer head-fucks for a nominal fee. Most of my sessions were non-consensual. Dr Rowland really had his way with my brain. I noticed something just now. Isn’t it funny how words are so different when they are miswritten rather than misspoken? They can take on very different meanings. The word therapists for example. It’s a rather innocent word when spoken, even when stuttered. Type it on a computer and it can become something very different. One misplaced spacebar and you know what it spells? The rapists. Not so innocent now. Quite fitting for my analogy, don’t you think?

One technique Dr Rowland taught me was to keep a dream journal. Replaying my episodes during sessions, he’d help me deconstruct them piece by piece. He wanted me to see them as nothing more than frightening static images. In this way I could treat them as the childish nightmares they are. That was the plan. His ultimate hope was that with his guidance, I’d gradually work through these emotional issues. I’d finally beat my depression. The only thing is I don’t feel depressed, nor do I have emotional issues. Well, no more than your average 19 year old in the midst a quarter-life crisis.He constantly brought up the fact that I wet the bed til age 10. He said it was caused by anxiety. This anxiety wasn’t properly managed, and it carried into my teenage years. Being older I could control my bladder, but he suggested I keep a strict bathroom schedule to avoid further embarrassment. Like I said before, Dr Rowland was a giant douche. In fact, I’m sure he still is.

My dad discovered my dream journal. Let’s just say he was slightly disturbed by its contents. I believe the words he used were, “I should have paid you more attention.” My dad likes to think he can fix every problem by paying its due diligence. The only problem is he never has much time for me. He says I need to get out of my own head and into the real world. He said Dr Rowlands’ methods were only adding to the problem. So out with Dr Rowlands, in with Dr Shaw. Dr Shaw was very much the same, only she had an additional X chromosome. She also had a neat pair of breasts. I don’t tend to focus on much else when I attend her sessions. For $60 an hour, one expects a few extras. She obviously read the same Idiot’s Guide to Psychology as I did first semester. Her methods involved writing “dream wishes” on post-it notes and placing them under my pillow at night. I took her advice and began jotting short key phrases to prompt certain dreams. They included flying, swimming with dolphins, and Dr Shaw’s breasts. None of these trigger words seem to work. Instead, I still dream about It. I dream of epic, cataclysmic storms ripping apart beautiful landscapes. I dream of a life-taking fog that swallows up hundreds of people.

Sometimes when I sleep I have better dreams. I often dream of a girl. She’s the only girl I see in this world. There’s probably others, I just don’t notice them. She is such a stunning creature. She’s so human, and so alien. She is literally the best of both worlds. I’ve never seen such a lovely face. Her high cheek bones are framed perfectly by raven locks. They cascade to her shoulders in thick droplets.Her expression is harsh, but warm. A long, sweeping fringe covers her left eye. Her right is as deep and brown as a flood blessed aber. She hides herself, and I don’t know why.  Hers is the face of flawlessness. Her long athletic body moves confidently through her world. Despite all this, she exudes such sadness. She reeks of pensive sweat. She looks so unhappy from far away. But when her eyes meet mine her entire face illuminates.

Sometimes I get the feeling that she needs me more than I need her. I say that, but I sketch her endlessly. It’s always in black and white. I sketch her in this way not because she’s simple. She is far from it. I do it because are no colours in the world which do her complexion justice. It is the perfect blend of sun-kissed olive, and opaque ivory. I know that makes no sense. It’s like calling someone half-white and half-black. I’m no paint expert but that would make someone grey. It’s a confusing piece of imagery. It’s also not exactly PC to call someone grey. The point I’m trying to make is this. She is beautiful. And she has to be seen to be believed. She has the perfect face to draw, so graceful, in a way that only I can see. She is my secret. I am hers. She reminds me why it’s worth persisting with anything in my life.

If dreams are a mirror to the soul, she reflects the good inside me. She’s such a troubled girl and maybe that’s why I love her so much. She is everywhere and everything. She inhabits each space like a perfect symphony does an empty room. She resembles none of the girls I see strutting the halls at college. The ones who dare not dream of knowing me. It’s because of her that I can’t completely abandon this dreamlike world. I have this fantasy you see, that we are both meant to rescue one another. I think I love her, but I can’t be sure. I’m not too familiar with the feeling. 

This girl guides me through my dreams. She comforts me and smiles at me. She directs me through simple hand gestures. She never really talks. I wish she would. Her voice would be angelic. I don’t know her name. I always ask her. But when she moves her lips, her words are deathly silent. I know she wants to talk to me. She’s just scared to. Her lips seem to form the words “show me.” That’s what I call the girl with no name. Show Me. We’ve been through so much together. In one dream not too long ago, there was a terrible storm. A twister was coming straight for me. I would’ve died if she didn’t save me. She literally dragged me by the hand to safety. When I woke up, I swear I could see the imprint of her fingers around my wrist. Like I said, they think I’m troubled.

Show Me is literally the girl of my dreams, and in my dreams she remains. At least I get to share her world from time to time. What a world it is, when The Shadow’s not destroying it. Everything brims in technicolour. The water is not blue, but turquoise. A sea breeze smells not of brine, but crisp morning rain. You don’t just touch things, not in a purely physical state. All your senses are one and the same. You still have a body, but it doesn’t experience things the way it does in the real world. You can see music, you can taste a sunrise, and you can hear each colour. Everything that appears to be a mirage, is not. Desert plains below your feet, suddenly shift to gentle swaying grass. If you wish it so, it comes to life.

I am sure this place would be heaven, if not for The Shadow. It is deep within the blackest corners that this evil lurks. It never remains in one place for long, allowing it to shift like sand. It is the only pock mark on the beautiful face of Show Me’s world. This dark force often manifests itself as the tattooed warriors. These are the ones who always win the battles.When I think about it, calling them warriors seems too complimentary. They are anything but. They are cowards, monsters, hideous beings. They don’t bear the slightest resemblance to Show Me. They fight not for glory, but pure consumption. They ingest the sorrow of the compassionate tribes they conquer. They live on fear. I am not afraid of them, because Show Me won’t allow it. She slaps me in the face to wake me from their advances.

The monsters haven’t noticed me just yet. My raven haired beauty provides me with an invisible protective bubble. But as hard as she tries, I am growing fearful. I am fearful she won’t be able to protect me forever. I am fearful of the day they finally do notice me. I used to think The Shadow was invading my dreams. Lately it seems the other way around. I truly enjoy every single second in Show Me’s company. I pray before I sleep that it’s her face I see and not The Shadow’s. I know she’s too good to be real. I’m sureher world is not real. But everything seems perfect in my dreams. Nothing in the real world makes sense any more. Maybe I am troubled after all.