Why Aren’t You Sliding?
After all of the nightmares I created for myself in my waking life, it was a dream that changed everything.
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THE DREAM:
I am inside an enormous, very crowded drinking establishment.
The place has a four-story-high sliding board centerpiece. Its top touches the ceiling; slick, smooth curves swerve atop the crowds below, delivering a dramatic and exciting ride.
Surrounding the giant slide are dozens of bars: glossy wooden platforms with varying themes. One bar is rodeo-style with mechanical bulls. Another is a nightclub, another a hotel bar, another dark and dingy, smoke-filled. Another is a pool hall; another has darts and a bowling machine. Another has a band playing, with swaying young adults waving their drinks above their heads. Everything is in one warehouse-sized building.
All the people look familiar; these are people I know. They are dancing, chatting, drinking, laughing.
Nobody is on the giant slide.
I’m as happy as a kid at Christmas in this place, with the music playing and the thrilling slide in its center. I run back and forth to the various bartenders and get drinks, which I then carry with me to the slide – and I am there for the slide, more so than the drinks. I climb like an ape to the top of the slide and then – WHOOSH! – I zoom down to the bottom, taking the curves at breakneck speed, enjoying the wind in my hair as I fly. And as soon as I reach the bottom, I leap up the ladder to the top again.
I run back to the bar – there’s Larry! ‘Hey Larry!’ – I kiss him, and zip away with my drink. Then – zoom! – I’m up that ladder again and flying down the giant slide, laughing all the way. I go back to Larry after this ride and say, ‘Hey! Why aren’t you sliding?’ And Larry laughs and shakes his head at me, like Larry always did.
The next time I ride, I land in a grocery cart – just an empty cart, so that when I go flying off the end of the slide, the cart catches me. I assume that I can use it to get to the bar faster, and get back to the slide faster, but neither happens. It doesn’t move, so I climb out and walk. I grab my drink, go up the slide, WHOOSH! down the slide, CRASH! land in the cart – then I hop out and do it all again.
And again.
And again and again and again.
Then suddenly, there’s Bonnie at the bar – ‘Hi Bonnie!’ I yell. ‘You gotta try this! It’s so fun!’ Bonnie looks at me, her mouth agape. She says, ‘Kirsten, look.’ And she points at my mid-section, which makes me look down at myself, and I see that I’m not wearing any clothes.
I appear to be tattooed head-to-toe, covered in scrawls.
But upon closer inspection, I realize that the “tattoos” are actually innumerable bloody gashes on my body. I’m completely covered by giant black and purple bruises; slashed, torn skin; crusty scabs; deep scrapes and gaping wounds.
Not one centimeter of clear, unharmed skin remains. And I’m standing there, drink in hand, numb.
I can’t feel a single thing.
I realize: THIS is why no one else was sliding. Because this is what I’ve been doing to myself.
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I woke, gasping for air, my battered body still visible in my mind’s eye.
My therapist and I had analyzed dreams for many months; I didn’t need him to decipher this.
I told him about it anyway.
Dr. C said, “I can’t see you anymore until you stop drinking.”