I was troubled last night by a bad dream. Not a nightmare, exactly... at least, not in the classical sense. I had it over and over again last night, every time I fell back asleep it returned. It was inescapable.
In the dream, I was in bed, in the dark, and one of my dear friends was standing in the doorway to my bedroom (it was the bedroom in the new place, which I think may bode well for my emotional state). I was kind of a little-girl me, skinny and knock-kneed, barely a bump under the comforter (maybe that says something about vulnerability?) in my lacy nightgown, the kind mom used to make me wear. He stood in the door and harangued me, telling me how selfish and cruel I was, that I was a terrible person and only brought suffering and unhappiness into the lives of people I knew, that the world would be better off without me, that I'd ruined Michael's life and my mother's life, and that none of my friends actually like me, they just hang out with me for Michael's sake, that I am a horrible shell of humanity, on and on, his voice getting louder and louder with each accusation, until he was as loud as a jet engine, shaking the walls and hurting my ears. He said that was why he didn't spend time with me anymore, that I had hurt him too desperately, and all the time I had spent wallowing in self-pity, wondering why, was because he didn't tell me all of this before, because he knew I would only take it out on the people around me; his friends.
Each time, I woke up as he stepped into the room.