“Leon: You scraping so hard like you ain’t ever asked yourself this before. I said, do you wanna be here right now? And I don’t mean, like here-here, but I mean here in the cosmic sense, bro. Like, existence could be beautiful, or it could be ugly, but that’s on you.
Elliot: How do I know which one’s for me?
Leon: Dream. You got to find out the future you’re fighting for. Sometimes you got to close your eyes and envision that shit, bro. If you like it, then it’s beautiful. If you don’t? Then you might as well fade the fuck out right now.” (paraphrased from Mr Robot)
I haven’t really dreamt since 2016 or so, when I got my full-on kick of Seroquel (an antipsychotic, to go along with my mood stabilizers and anti anxiety meds, among others) every night that help me sleep. Generally, it’s a pattern of taking the meds, my brain goes numb in about 30 minutes, I climb into bed, and wake up the next morning, as if nothing happened… maybe the sun is up, maybe not. I’ve yet to be able to adequately explain it to any therapist, let alone write about it.
They say dreams are a necessity for life; to help process memories of the day, especially the complexities that you may have encountered.
The hospital is all routine, so I’m not certain there’s much to process there. DBT sessions require deep thought, and with me no longer dreaming, I’ve spent months there without showing progress. On my own though, who knows what I’m missing, besides the day-to-day of living (if that’s what I can call my “life”).
I often can only remember that I had told myself to memorize something, but that’s all: a reminder without context. A sense of purpose on a never-ending piece of string.
DREAM