Welcome Back to Dreamland

I woke up screaming.

Again.

My therapist calls them night terrors, but I call them a return trip to Dreamland.

Dreamland is an atrocious place where ghastly predatory creatures roam in the deep dark woods. The dreams are so real and horrendous that words cannot grasp the true wickedness that comes while I am sound asleep.

I know I am not innocent. There is a damn good reason why I’ve been remanded to Dreamland. Penance is a hard price to pay at times.

“Alright Martin, have you had any night terrors this week.” My Therapist Amanda Rooks asks me at the start of our session. She is a very competent therapist, but it seems we always start at the same starting point, and I hate it. I’m not saying she’s obsessed with this concept of my Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) as being the main reason I have these night terrors, but there is something deeper. Something much more disturbing, I feel that triggers them.

I have little doubt that PTSD is involved, but somewhere in that foggy never-never land there is a hideous creature who owns my subconscious in between the waking world and that of a place I now call Dreamland. 

Most mornings I wake when my alarm clock buzzes. I have a ritualistic routine that I have developed in case I go off the rails a bit. My wife Justine is used to my morning odd habits like touching the cold wooden floor with my bare feet before I slide my feet into my slippers. 

I know it’s odd, but I want to make sure the floor is solid under my feet before I stand. There have been mornings when I have not been sure whether gravity or solidity are in their rightful place. I know this is crazy, but my experience has proven it is better to be sure than to rely on things that may or may not be certain. 

“Why do you doubt the reality of your own existence?” Amanda asks me while holding the pen in her right hand and resting the yellow legal pad on her knees as her feet are tucked in under her. She has shed her shoes on the carpeted floor in front of her chair. This seems to be her favorite position for our sessions.

How can I answer that? I started to shake overcome by the gravity of what she is asking.

“Do you need some water, Martin?” She asks.

“Yes, please.” I managed to say.

She pours water into a paper cup from the jug of sparking water set near her desk. After handing the cup to me, she sits back down holding her pen and pad. “What makes you so uncertain?”

“I don’t know.” I gulped the water down in one swallow. “It’s that place…”

“What? Dreamland?” She suppressed a smile. Everyone thinks I am crazy. Everyone smiles at me and then has a good laugh with colleagues once I am out of the room and on my way home.

Even my grown children Andrew and Paige think daddy is off his rocker. They are both in college and Paige claims she is now engaged. She believes that she will be free of me once she has married Bret. 

Andrew knows better than bringing some of his college buddies home, because he thinks I’m nuts. Before he graduated from high school, Andrew found me in the closet crying. I had just returned from Dreamland. He just looked at me. I tried to explain, but I could see the doubt in his eyes.

“It’s okay, dad.” He tried to assure me, but I could see it in his eyes. It was not okay.

I spent three months last year in the psychiatric hospital after my break. Paige came to visit. She sat there with the same look on her face as Justine questioned the doctor about post discharge care. 

Dreamland is where all the bad things hide. I began to go there after my accident. No matter what pills they give me, I still wound up there. There is this dark road where these strange creatures wait for me in the shadows. Some of them have long fangs. Some have green probing eyes. Some have claws that could shred a large tree in seconds flat. Some have all these things. I never know which of them will confront me when I’m there. One thing I know, Dreamland will always be dark.

The roads I walk on are a labyrinth twisted paths through the woods. The canopies of the trees block out the sunlight and always keep the forest floor dark. You can hear the various sounds from the inhabitants as you meander down the rocky paths. My mind is quite capable of imagining all sorts of bizarre landscapes and the auditory grunts and groans from concealed caches. Above there are screeches from the raptors of the sky ready to swoop down to wrap their talons around unsuspecting prey. 

That’s when I come to the sign. Scrawled out in rough lettering, the sign reads: “Welcome Back to Dreamland.” That’s when I know I will not be able to escape. There is no exit. 

I have been careful not to mention this fact to Amanda during one of our sessions. She would want to know all the horrendous details.

I am seated in a chair in her office. There is no escape here either. Her bookshelves line two of the four walls. A window takes up most of the third wall while her desk is shoved in the corner of out-of-date paneled walls where all her certificates and diplomas hang to attest to her qualifications. Amanda was recommended on my discharge plans. Sometimes I feel as if I have stumbled into Dreamland when I come in for a session.

Amanda is by the book when it comes to administering therapy, but there are times I swear there is a flash when I blink and see a gremlin sitting in her chair. When this happens, it comes as a shock to me, but I don’t want to give my delusions away. When I was in the hospital, the doctors were cold and uncaring. They poked and prodded, asking me all kinds of questions I did not want to answer. She asks some of the same questions, but she doesn’t press me for the answers. 

“Martin Haverstrom.” Dr. Jenkins reads my name off his clipboard.

“Here.” I raised my hand. I was sitting with three other patients playing Pinochle, but not one of us knows the rules and the game has become utter chaos.

“We need to ask you some questions.” His serpent-like smile resembles one of the trolls I have seen in Dreamland. 

“What kind of questions?” I ask as I walk toward him. 

“In my office.” He points to an open door. I follow him.

“We have your report.” He tosses the clipboard on his metal desk. “Have a seat.”

I have learned to obey the requests of the staff, so I sit in the uncomfortable metal chair as he requested.

“You were rescued from the Marriott Hotel twentieth story balcony. You were attempting to jump off of.” He read it verbatim from the report.

“Yeah, so?” I shrugged. There was no argument from me about the incident. The police were called. An officer managed to get me in a hold I could not wrestle free from. The second officer put me in a strait jacket.

“What made you want to jump?” He was even trying to be therapeutic at this point.

“I was tired of the dreams and everyone asking me about the accident.” I hissed.

“Your son died in that accident.” He shook his head.

“Yeah, and I wish it had been me.” I replied after some jerky involuntary gyrations. I felt as if the Dreamland controller had me in his claws. I saw him write something on his clipboard.

“What are you writing?” I asked him.

“Just some observations.” He shook his head.

“What kind of observations?” I stood up defiantly.

“Sit down Mr. Haverstrom. Sit down.” I saw his finger over the red button on his desk. The orderlies were in before I knew it. One of them pinned my arms behind my back while another got out the strait jacket. 

The electroshock treatment that followed, put me to sleep for over twenty-four hours. 

Dreamland came to me whether I wanted it or not. 

As far as accidents went, it was rather a mundane mishap except for Brian’s death. I tried to beat the light change, but I was just a fraction of a second too late. The car that t-boned me. Striking my car on the passenger’s side where Brian was sitting. Even wearing his seatbelt, he did not have a chance.

I still suffered some cuts and confusions in the collision, but I was released after being treated with gauze and bandages. Justine was there to drive me home. She wept the entire ride mumbling about her lost son. I stayed silent, because anything I said would be like rubbing salt on into an open wound. I would have to suffer my grief for my son in silence, because I saw the way she looked at me from the corner of her tear-filled eyes.

Still wearing my bandages, I appeared at the preliminary hearing for my citation for running a red light causing the death of my son. 

“You did this to him, Martin.” An ogre spoke to me in the courtroom.

“You will be coming to Dreamland tonight.” The old hag with the open sores across her wretched face chuckled.

“Get out of here.” I mumbled.

“Who are you talking to?” Justine asked. She was wearing her black pants suit. She wore black to mourn her son. She sat there with her arms crossed and never once peered over at me. She didn’t even glance over as they read my sentence. Six months in the county lockup.

Much to my surprise a man stood up after my sentence was read. “Good afternoon, I am Doctor Young from Community Mental Health Center. I would like to consider remanding him to the center for treatment that will benefit this horrible situation. I believe it will help him more than jail could.”

“I will consider it.” The judge banged her gavel. “We shall meet in my chambers.”

After listening to Dr. Young and the judge conversation of which I played no significant part in, they agreed I would be treated at the center in lieu of my jail sentence.

I never stopped running when I entered Dreamland that evening. From the broken chain on the gate until waking the following morning, I ran from all the demonic creatures chasing me who inhabited the deep dark woods.  Ghostly faces sprang at me from every direction. Jaws open wide in sanguinary grins. The moon cast a bloody shadow on me. 

“Martin, wake up.” Justine jostled me.

“What?”

“You were moving and groaning.” She said with a concerned expression on her face.

“Sorry.” I shook my head to clear the haunting images I had just encountered.

Brian’s funeral rattled. Most of his class from school was in attendance. I felt them cast their eyes in my direction. Their eyes, their horrible eyes seemed to accuse me of a crime I could never repay. How many parents are at fault of causing the death of a child like me? We were supposed to protect them, but instead I killed him in a moment of carelessness. I tried not to look in their direction, but I felt as if I was being judged by them once again.

Dr. Young meets me after the solemn service.

“Martin Haverstrom?”

“Yes.” I nodded in acknowledgement.

“I thought I’d have a word with you.” He nods back.

“I am kind of bereaved.” I tried to explain to him.

“I understand, but I thought it would be beneficial if we just had a word.”

“If you insist.” I shook my head.

We stood near a stone statue of the Blessed mother and child under an ancient oak tree. We sat on a bench. “I just wanted to say how sorry I am about your son. Condolences.”

“I appreciate that.” I tried to smile, but it felt more like a grimace.

“You will come to the center tomorrow as you were scheduled.”  He informed me.

“I don’t know. I don’t remember agreeing to this.” I felt an uneasy feeling trickling down to my stomach.

“You have a legal obligation.” His chuckle sounds like a tire with a slow leak. 

“You’re wasting your time, Dr. Young.” I shook my head, smiling as I did. “My son is gone and there is nothing you can do to make it better.”

“I understand.” He twists his face into a scowl, “But if you refuse, you will be arrested and taken to jail to finish your sentence.”

“So be it.” I stood and walked away.

The next morning, as promised, the police came to haul me away to county lockup.

“Why did you refuse treatment with the center?” Amanda asked as she chewed on her pen.

“I don’t know.” I shrugged, “It was the way he looked at me after Brian’s funeral. I guess I just didn’t want him to make me feel worse than I did.”

“Why did you feel-“

“Look, I am getting fed up with all the questions that I don’t know the answer to and probably never will.” I felt tears begin to form at the corners of my eyes.

When we were waiting for the ambulance to get to us, Brian looked up at me, “Dad, I don’t feel my legs or arms.”

“It’ll be alright.” I assured him.

It turned out to be a lie. When they arrived, Brian stopped breathing. There was no way I was going to tell Amanda that. His peaceful resignation was a private moment between us, punctuated by his spirit rising from his body. I saw it. It was an energy force, as best I can describe it, and I knew right then he would be taken care of. 

I had no intention sharing this moment with the pen-holding professionals who were focused on putting a label on it. They must put a label on it. How else are they going to treat it? Every illness needs a cure, right? What if it’s chronic? What if it’s incurable? 

“Mr. Haverstrom, are you listening to me?” Amanda is frustrated with my lack of attention. I seemed to have momentarily blocked her out and now she is angry.

“No, I was just-“

“In Dreamland?” Her voice has melted into frustration. “You speak about this place as if it’s real.”

“It is to me.” I sigh.

“You are delusional.” She stands dropping her legal pad and pen. “This session is over. I am going to recommend that you seek treatment for your delusions at the center. Someone there can help you more than I.”

When I get home later in the afternoon, there is a note left for me from Justine. In the note, she told me that she is moving out and indicating that she wanted a divorce. The silence was deafening. Even when I turn on the television, I cannot fill the empty spaces I’ve been left with.

Delusional? What is that? Aren’t we all victims of our own delusions? What is the difference between delusions and the reality we think is in front of us? 

When I go back to Dreamland, what I see is real to me even if it is monstrous in my own mind. It is my reality. 

I have heard wise men and women question whether life is really a dream. 

Is it?  Is life a dream? I have often wondered that myself in these quiet moments of internal investigation.

When we wake up, is what we are experiencing reality? Or is it just the continuation of another sort of dream?

You see you can really drive yourself crazy thinking this way. When you put your feet on the floor in the morning, what happens if the floor is no longer there to support you?

The police will be at my door in the morning but even knowing that there is space that is unoccupied. An optical illusion that begs for substance. 

Who is to say when I am led out of my own home in strait jacket by the police and placed in a rubber room where I cannot inflict harm on myself. Have entered an unoccupied space? 

Sitting in my favorite chair, I hear the white noise echoing in my head. 

I lean back and feel myself falling into the darkness. There will be no reprieve, no salvation or redemption this time.

“Mr. Martin Haverstrom, welcome back to Dreamland.”

It begins as a single voice and progresses into a harmonic chorus.

It is so good to be home.