My Dreams and Lucid Dreaming

EDIT: I took the trigger warning off. Please notify me if you think this was wrong. I will put it back on otherwise.

When I lay me down to sleep, there be demons in my dreams, sword in hand I slay them well, their blood I spill yet no victory is at hand…

That’s my version of the poem that so many people say for good dreams. That’s my every night. I am not certain why but I dream about demons and these aren’t nightmares. My nightmares tend to be the dreams where hoardes of demons aren’t trying to disembowl me. My nightmares tend to be more terrifying than that but sometimes it is just simple acts of grocery shopping that have me in a panic and wake me. Never once have my dreams about demons. I find them comforting.

The demons, I know them well. Some are fallen arch angels in the process of becoming demons. I used to fight alone. That was when the dreams were more frightening. Until I was around twenty it was me against endless demons, me fighting my way out of hell into a world that was just like hell. No one understood me there or here. In my dreams I have gone to heaven, and found it is the same as hell with pretty paint. This is very much Kat’s Inferno, and Dante by the way ended up in hell according to these dreams chained in the pits where half breed train for the amusement of the Devils.

My dreams of demons paralell my life. I almost wrote lives and that may be an accurate statement. In this world, which I have explored via writing with a friend of mine, humans who have died and gone to heaven or hell can reproduce. They can have children. THeir lives continue but there they die and are reborn on Earth, the human realm, Midgard, you know the names. The children born in hell are mortal, and if they die stay in heaven or hell. They age and grow and once dead resume living where they left off. This can be detrimental to life or advantageous.

In my dreams sometimes I am in this body, sometimes I am a strong warrior woman who has done more than kicking ass. In the stories my friend and I write together things changed significantly before I met Him. Her half breed demon and my human that isn’t really the same as other humans and may be the key to stopping the destruction of everything but he might also be the key who knows yet… well they found love too. It was a straight forward sort of romance, his psychotic girlfriend determined they had feelings and both laughed it off. It was allegory in a way for how I feel about M, though he and I are not romancing one another because reality doesn’t work that way.

The cast of characters has entered my dreams. Bren, in hell known as Kraven is a Royal Breed with a more pure demonic lineage than some others. He is half human and half demon, his demonic powers stem from Wrath. Yet this character is one of the most gentle that I have had the pleasure of writing around. I don’t write him, my partner in literary crime does. Then there are his children of sorts, the twins and Milli also demonic human hybrids. Also learning how to control their powers so they can just live normal lives. I think this is why I truly enjoyed Being Human so much, that show paralells the exploration that this friend and I undertook. We’ve been writing at this for two years now. We had a year long break while I tried to not get murdered and she dealt with other issues but the story continued and our ideas matched almost perfectly. That happens a lot. One of us has an idea and tells the other and then the other person finishes the sentences. Sometimes I think we’re related. Actually I am 90% positive we are probably cousins. We look a great deal alike, think alike, and at the very least we have matching creative minds. Soul Mates of the Pen? Who knows.

The cast of characters includes Mo, a demonic kitten who also tends bar. She tends to be comic relief but is also very serious. If you don’t tip her expect to die. The bar itself was for a time a character but the cast has moved on. There’s Marge who is parts of everything that makes me me but she is also extremely muscular and can do the things I can’t. She is far from perfect, I am way smarter than she is. There was an exchange in building her of essences. Able bodied but a loss of certain skills that I think make the world easier. Then again she can walk around unless it’s the dreamself that she is built on. Then there is the character who has come to play recently.

He came directly out of these dreams and I think is related to my father’s existance. New memories came out just after Michael the arch angel made his debut. He is cruel, he is hateful, and he is not really an angel but the demonic shift has yet to show. He is cruel, he is a rapist and a big fan of Eugenics. I wouldn’t be surprised if once in Hell he goes to hang out with Hitler for a time, just to shoot the breeze and talk about the lives they’ve ruined. It turns out he’s behind the Death of God. Yeah, sorry about that, but in this world the Christian God has been dead for a long time and the four Arch Angels have been running the show, and doing it badly. There are people cast out of heaven who are not guilty of anything and retain their goodness, the evil appearance we expect from demons also rarely shows in this world. Ugly doesn’t mean bad. Not everyone is beautiful but the heroes are the ones with scars and foibles, the more evil someone is the more beautiful they seem to be. I think this is my mind rebelling against the perfect people.

So Michael has messed up a bit, he decided to attack his child and found that if you don’t raise them and then attack them you don’t know their power. More allegory. In my dream they fought long and hard before he was dewinged but I couldn’t kill him so he was marked and sent away. In my dream it happened just that way. It was strange to me how it matched up and it wasn’t merely my doing in the story but was another person’s idea to banish him in the same way. I had left it open, as the story doesn’t always match my dreams nor should it. Then it would be boring and what would be the point in the partnership?

This world of mine, it has been there for as long as I can recall. This is the first time since I was 8 and in an institution that I mentioned at all except to M that I dream about demons. My batman dreams are gone. Those and Batman were all I dreamed about for years. I can be thinking constantly in my sleep but if I fight a few demons I am rested. I miss the batman dreams but I think I out grew being a damsel in distress, as in those dreams someone else did my rescuing. No one has rescued me in a very long time. At the most they have helped me save myself. (That’s M again.)

There is another character that is new to the party, he is also an Angel, or was. He was cast out without guilt. He is the most repressed character I have written and does his best to do good. This ends up with him being up tight but yet he is learning to fight and in my dreams which are far ahead of the stories he becomes Michael. This was already discussed, we agreed that Michael isn’t the actual name of the individual but the person. Based on it’s definitions. Michael in this world is now second only to god after the fall of Lucifer, the primary devil and Gemini sun to god. Michael by the way means he who is like god. Therefore, the title explains the individual. Drayfus was tortured by his own comrades and now is staying with a brood of demons. There is also a gypsy wolf witch that employs medicine and has visions but she is very much a background character, often she comes along to save their butts if they ignored her warnings.

The other thing is this world is full of M names. Mariah, Michael, Milli, Marge, Moira who changed her name to Iliandra (another demon) and so on and so on. Most of the characters are M names. That’s mostly my fault too. It’s just what is in my head.

So I dream about demons, that’s the point of this. I have decided to declare it to the world as a challenge to myself. To often I shame myself for it despite the fact that at times this is my happy place. My sword of choice is actually a double sword, slight curve that feels good in my hand. I know it’s weight, I know it’s textures. So why is it that dreaming of demons when I am fighting them is something that is bad according to doctors? I don’t really understand, but I also don’t want these dreams to stop. I know it was built out of the things I was taught and the questions I had. I was born in hell in these dreams as is Marge. Marge is not feminine in the traditional way because I don’t understand that femininity. Now female villains always are written as if they were born for the male gaze. They can still be tough and fight but in my dreams the evil females are more perfect towards that thin narrow spot that is deemed “perfect”. I think I dream them in photoshop sometimes… The heroes are imperfect, they can fart even. Male or female they aren’t handsome, they aren’t beautiful. Yet they are.

I know I have to sleep now, but now you know what dreams await me, unless it is one of those dreams that scare me, without the hoardes of demons. I don’t really understand why demons don’t scare me because shouldn’t they? Who knows. So what do you readers dream about that doesn’t match what is expected?


I haven’t had nightmares since my father died. I didn’t notice they were gone at first, because I tend to only have nightmares when I am tired or when I am stressed. Yesterday I was tired and stressed. I curled up to sleep, taking the time to play some music for William so he would sleep and allowing Sprite to lay sprawled over my hips, which pins me in that position until she moves. This is comforting to me. I drifted off into the twilight that comes before sleep and felt the slight pang of fear, wondering what my dreams would bring.

I remember most of my dreams in vivid detail, and last night I simply dreamed of Super Heroes without villains. They had nothing to do and it was a strange mix of Batman and Hal Jordan from the DC universe sipping tea and staring at one another. There were no words, but it appears that the heroes who inhabited my dreams, fighting off the dark monsters have won. I think it was pomegranate tea.

I remember the smells, and as I crept through what my brain deemed Wayne Manor I found only happy things. It was strange, and when I woke, after a 12 hour dead to the world sleep my first thought was, “Huh… I wonder what that was about.” What does it mean when your heroes run out of villains?

After some rumination I decided my brain is well aware of my ability to fend for myself. The one threat that I could not cope with due to the fear, the flashbacks, and the training from infanthood, is gone. My brain embraced this. One of the truest tests of this is finding silence, nothing but happiness even with the Batman in my brain.

Yesterday I ran into people from the last four years, and I found myself frustrated by the repercussions of those roommates. The credit being taken for my work had an effect, and left me aching a bit. The happiness however, at the true friends that I still have was overreaching.

I went to an SCA event for the College of Blaiddwyn, and I pillaged. My medieval persona (who I dress up as) is a norse female who happens to love Pillaging. I start with a fellow viking, a specific individual and then pillage the rest in my own shallow representation of history. I told stories as well in a competition. It was beautiful, it was fun, and I came home with a sense of satisfaction that I only obtain in the SCA. I missed it.

I will upload videos of my stories and some pictures for you all to check out soon. You can appreciate the awesomeness of my hobby horse on the scooter, I named him Wilbur. I found bits of myself i thought were gone forever. Perhaps it was this wholeness that allowed Batman to take his tea. I wonder if he uses cream and sugar.

With fulfillment comes peace. I forgot who said that. Perhaps it was my Sensei, but, I was fulfilled in a thousand ways with in the last few weeks. A lot of that fulfillment is from writing this blog. Though I may become a more sporadic poster, I am alive.

I look forward to telling you of my adventures with the two young women who are marrying one another, with in the SCA, and as I begin to persue the only job I really know how to do in a classic profession (Public Speaking). I specify in a classic profession as I can do many things, and always have layered my life with the things that please me.

Now for the first time in my life all I choose to do is for myself, or my person. For the first time in my life it is mine and mine alone. Even with a commitment to share my life with people I love, it is my choice. When I started this blog a month and a half ago it was at the start of this adventure. It has just begun but in that short time I have come so far, and i am bringing you all with me.

I can’t do this alone, yet, it is for me that I act. I haven’t felt such power since I started dancing. Dance, sing, and find what gives you this strong sense of peace and joy. Change what needs to be changed for the better, and love yourself. A lot of the private correspondence from this blog comes from people in need of love. The best person to find that love with is yourself. I know it is a cliche, yet it is cliched because it is true.

I also offer you something that my neighbor and Sensei taught me. It comes from the Buddhist tradition. He said, “The strongest Love is Wishing love.” What is wishing love? “Wishing love is the love in your heart that comes with each breath. The joy you feel for life, and the love for anyone. I feel wishing love for you. I feel wishing love for my wife. Wishing love is the love for all people and living things. I even feel wishing love for the people who made me cry.” Why? Why love? “Love is powerful, Little Lotus. Love can help you survive anything. When you hurt in here.” His hand on my heart,”Remember that I love you.” He kissed my forehead and sent me home. I wondered then if I could feel wishing love.

I feel wishing love. Remember, when you are afraid, I love you. When you are alone, I love you. I love everyone in this world. I loved even my father with Wishing Love. I will never forget the pain, but I will also never forget the first moment of love. I will never forget the strange sensation in my heart. It felt as if I could do anything. It still does and I can. So can you.

Wishing Love-
I will cry for you
I will live for you
I will laugh with you
I will love you.
I wish you love
I give you love
Wishing Love
Potent Love.
I wish you life.
I wish you joy.
I wish you mercy.
I wish you peace.
I wish you guidance.
May you find those who can lead you in the path of life, until you can lead another.

Violence (Trigger Warning)

I keep rewriting this post. Violence is bad. We all know this. Violence is often celebrated in our culture. In the US most of the television shows, even for children, include some sort of violence or attempt to teach children what boys do and what girls do. Girls like fashion, pink, and hair. Boys like to fight, are great leaders, and work. Bull pucky. The media also rarely illustrates that women can be violent.

I am capable of killing. I am not capable of murder. I know that if I had to kill someone to defend myself or the ones I love, I could. I discovered this when I was young. I am very loyal, it is a part of my nature to protect people. This does come from my history with violent abuse. If I could take the pain then I could save my sister or brother. They used to do that as well. Each one of us did our best to be the only one in pain. I am capable of killing, but, I never have.

I have had run ins with so many things, my life sometimes reads like a fiction novel. I never used to think about writing nonfiction, so afraid of being told I had dreamed it all. My biological mother and I talked on the phone today, partially about violence. The violence of doctors.

When I was eight I began to see a psychologist. After the first meeting they handed my mother a prescription for Zoloft. The pills made me sleepy. I hated taking them, because I couldn’t think. My father was still around, and taking the pills at his house always meant more pain. My reflexes were already slow, how could I fight back? I mentioned this to my doctor and the threat came. “If you do not take your pills you will be locked up with the other worthless children.” This doctor was a man, I remember falling silent, wishing to tell my mother. He threatened too that if I told her that she would be sent away, abandoning the others. I took the pills.

This man is no longer a doctor, he tried this on a competent adult a few years ago. There was a scandal, it made the papers. This was just after I fired him. He was the first doctor I fired. I spent years after that taking more and more pills. At one time I was on six antidepressants, an anti psychotic, an anti epileptic medication that they thought would make me not depressed, birth control pills to try and force my body to have a period, and a few other things.

When I threw up, I had to take a second dose. Doctor’s orders. There are chunks of my life lost not just to suppressed memories but to my brain shutting down from the constant overdose. Most of the medications I was on were not approved for children, just adults over the age of eighteen. I reacted to most of them. Being allergic to so much, that is no surprise. Throwing up, bleeding with each dose, and hallucinations weren’t big enough side effects to be taken off of the drugs.

I was more violent during that time, as they tried to fix a chemical imbalance that did not exist, due to the drugs. They are not the only reason I lashed out at the world. Abuse does that, it teaches people to strike before they get hurt. I barely remember assaulting my best friend in High School. She touched my sandwich and teased me for it. I remember the anger and seeing her on the floor but not the act of hitting her in the head with a chunk of wood.

This was caught on film, there were witnesses. I went into a psychotic rage over food. I have some serious food issues, and I thought she was going to take my food. The fear of being deprived was so strong, that I had to protect myself. This was what I knew, I never knew people could share. I was a beast, primal in my reactions. She did not suffer permanent damage but was hospitalized for it. This lead to the only psychiatric hospitalization that benefited me. Hospital hiding the institution, feeding on itself and drugging children. Teaching them first hand who Nurse Ratchet was.

The reason being I finally needed help. I was shunted around the state, with my history and diagnoses no one wanted to treat me. It feels familiar at times with doctors, sending needles into my heart. I was misdiagnosed with mental health conditions. One to explain every disability. I was accused of things, such as self mutilation that came from my disabilities. I was lazy, I was stupid, I was just not good enough. Years of that, a decade in fact, of being told how worthless I was by doctors and I did not trust them.

I was sent to an experimental facility. The Ranch, as my family calls it, was a peer support program. We did see therapists, and we did have medication given to us but we lived in a boarding school environment. The program depended on it’s recipients to function. This made a difference, as I found people my age I could talk to. This was a first. I also learned I was not alone. At the other facilities you were shoved in until you behaved for three days or so, then went home. In and out like a yo yo.

Each of the children at the Ranch had been in and out as well. Most were not from New Mexico, but a few of us were granted access to keep diversity up. There was violence there, though there was also nature. The Ranch is the only place I have ever been able to drink the water. The water came straight out of the ground. The first thing the doctors did was take me off all of my meds. They gave me two months before they started me on another. They came so close to freeing me from my shackles of medication. The medicine they put me on did change things, it seemed to reverse some of the damage to my brain from the drugs that came before. I stopped losing my hair, I gained some weight and lost some girth. I even began to smile sometimes.

I also met horses. I was one with nature there. There was silence at times, and there was bonding. That was where I learned I could love. The fact is, my father was a diagnosed psychopath. Even knowing this these “great” doctors did not seem to consider that my behavior was environmental. The ranch is where I learned about PTSD. It is also where I learned that flashbacks were not just my burden.

One of the other dorms, full of boys, found a dog. I was triggered when the dog came to us bleeding. The flashback lasted for six hours. I relieved my father killing people’s pets because I liked them. I still cannot go into detail on those horrors without triggering myself. This poor dog was hungry, lost in the middle of no where, and then was assaulted. When he came to our dorm, my brain left. I woke up, and found that the world had for once stopped for me.

This was my turning point. It wasn’t being threatened with institutionalization in the adult hospital, it wasn’t the new drug. It was coming back to myself and finding that every girl had stopped what they were doing, had sat in a circle around me and the dog to which I was clinging and waited. When I stopped screaming, apparently I had been, my roommate asked what happened. When I told them, no one told me I lied, no one told me it was my fault. The first time in my life, someone hugged me and cried with me. No one punished me for needing help, a first in my life.

I was on the cusp of adulthood when this finally happened. I was about to reach a point of no return, trapped in the system. They saved me from my violence, and I saved them in turn. I love each of those girls still. Someday I may cross their paths again, though I do not plan to admit it to them if I do. We each deserve the right to deny our childhoods to an extent.

I spent my childhood dying daily. I am certain that not every therapist was bad, I do not remember them if they were not. I only remember the incidents of threat, of lies, and of burden. Child psychologists often can get away with crimes and breaking the rules of conduct that their profession has. Not all of them do, but, an adult has power over a child. A psychologist is alone for at least an hour with a child, and some of them abuse this power. I had one who found out I would turn on her like a dog hit one too many times. She spent the sessions telling me about her husband’s erectile dysfunction, and telling me I was fat. The male doctor who gave me the pills threatened me each time with different torments. One of the other psychologists took part in encouraging the children at my school to burn me at the stake.

It is no wonder that I hated the world. Until the ranch only a few teachers had ever shown me adults could manage to not hurt me. Each of them saved a part of my soul, saved a fragment of hope from the violence. My mother did try, but, it seemed hopeless that any of her children would turn out to be a healthy adult. How could we? She wasn’t. We only knew violence.

Perhaps the violence I know tempered me? I doubt it. I believe it was the small bits of love I could find. I do not believe the Ranch did all the work in saving me, I think instead they unburied the ground work set by another.

After Toastmasters I will write of my first Sensei, I will tell you of my time as Little Lotus and how the Batman was my father until I was six. It sounds silly, and the fantasy was. It still held violence but my Sensei taught me ways to thrive, not just survive. I will also write about my experience with hate and nearly being burned as a witch.

We, the subjects of oppression are forbidden anger, we are forbidden violence. Even when it is used against us, violence is often attributed to us. Those with mental health issues, mental disabilities, and physical disabilities are vulnerable to violence in unique ways. When defending ourselves we are demonized. Women who show anger are told to simmer down, they are told that their anger is inappropriate. Some are raped to control their power, to try and punish them for anger. Persons of Color of any gender are also forbidden anger. The stereotypes tell how violent they are, and yet when a man is shot down for his skin color and people get angry, the murdering cops get away with it because the people get angry.

Violence is all around us, it is on the TV, it is in books, it is in my beloved comic books. Violence is in our history. It is sadly in our future. I mourn for all the children and those who once were children who know violence. The kiss of violence is the scar of fear, the spectre of disillusionment, and the taste of bitterness that shatters dreams.

Violence is the most horrifying entity that has ever been introduced into society. Violence is not a part of human nature, it was taught. We learned it from somewhere. Violence is not never ending. The cycle can be broken. I have broken the cycle in my family. Even when attacked I try to protect myself without violence. How do you survive violence? How do you endure?

Anger is violent. Violence is a poison. My antidote for violence is to sing, to write, or to create something. To be violent is to become what you fear. Fear can turn to anger, anger turns into violence. The cycle swirls around. I created this post not just to educate, but to share. I want to share my peace. In order to do that, you must see my pain too. I fear these words most of all, therefore I offer them up to transform and fly into the universe like butterflies, unlocking the caged minds of others. I write these words not with anger, but with sorrow for who I was, mourning for the death of innocence as I knew it, and with love. The love is not just for myself, though I truly love myself. It is Wishing Love, I wish love upon each and every person in this world.

I wish love upon you, for whoever you are you do deserve love. I may know you, I may not. I embrace you with my soul. I offer you a haven of knowledge, a haven of peace, and a haven of change. I am a butterfly. Here you too may learn to fly.

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