When I was much younger, I could almost guarantee tequila would yield some outrageous dreams.
It doesn’t really work that way anymore. But part of the reason I was referred to my psychologist was some really disturbing dreams stemming from an experimental treatment I was taking. Holy cow.
What I was taking, is a pretty-common OTC antihistamine, “Tavist” which fell out of favor because it really is sleep-inducing.
Long story short on the research study, my neurologist plucked me out of it after the dreams, but the other university doing the study 86’d it after it wasn’t showing results. (It’s a shame, really, because this is a drug from the 1960s/70s, which is incredibly cheap. Nobody really makes it anymore because it knocks you out so hard, but it’s cheap…)
I’ve continued seeing the psychologist after they pulled me off the drug, because I developed all sorts of rumination to deal with my various MS symptoms. If memory serves, I have the “Pure O” version of OCD. I cannot say enough positive things about the techniques my doctor’s given me. While, physically, my condition continues to decline, there are a ton of other things I can now do that would have been absolutely unthinkable just a few years ago.
But. Back to the dreams, themselves. I take notes on um, uncomfortable, dreams I have. The doctor and I try to relate some of the more-unusual things to both physical symptoms, and what’s going on in my life.
I often dream I’m in mud or snow, trying to balance on a narrow path. Checks out with my worsening gait, and the numbness I’ve had from my ribcage down for more than the past fifteen years.
Interesting stuff, too, as my eyesight has continued to deteriorate. I did dream in color. Now everything’s kind of an unremarkable blur. Lots of brown and gray, which fits with the muddy and snowy surroundings.
I also don’t see numbers on displays anymore. No digital clocks. No looking at my watch. No needle on a speedometer.
I do dream of driving, still, occasionally, even though I stopped doing that in, uhhhh, 2012?
But last night’s dream was strange enough that it prompted a note.
Walking through another strange environment. Me, an old friend, and Katie Herzog.
Somehow I absolutely shattered my carbon-fiber cane walking around. Putting any pressure on it would cause the collapsible shaft to come through the handle and scratch my hand.
Bathrooms stop before exiting this forsaken place (absolutely influenced by a video of Vulture Ridge). We’re waiting on a bench having a spirited conversation. Someone ended an emphatic statement with, “Period.”
I chime in, “double space.”
A woman passing by nodded. So I quickly polled the assemblage; ‘“two spaces between sentences?”
The older crowd agreed for the most part, but there was one guy who had no idea what I was taking about.
Katie, embarrassed, then started crying.
I think I’d stumbled across something in one of the Spencer Pratt campaign videos showing a whole park, “Vulture Ridge,” maybe inside one of the wealthier neighborhoods in LA.
Part of the world that’s completely foreign to me. But, despite my longtime opinion of him being a complete dourchenozzle, there’s still an affinity I have for SoCal pre-riots, pre-Northridge quake, pre bad politics.
I need to stop drinking coffee so late into the day.
As far as the drugs go, I’m strangely intrigued to get Aaron Rodgers high now that it looks like I’m finally finished having to take whiz quizzes.
But I really dislike the stench of burning weed. Tobacco I can do; some of it I actually like. Marijuana? Notsomuch.