said was true, that I let my dreams die, but deep down, the part of me that builds the nightmare man into existence every night still pushes the blame onto others. Even as I watched the program about the shadow artist only an hour ago, jealousy, anger and vindictiveness still burned at the center of me. It’s an oily resin, built up over years of frustration, and it burns so hot it burns right through logic. But with the speaking of the truth, with the arguing of it to the creature that threatens my family, I can feel those dark corners being exposed, and I can feel myself scraping the anger away.
I think of Logan, on the other side of that door, the best thing that ever happened to me. Yes, he changed me, but he changed me for the better. I changed myself for the worse.
Shannon has raised my children. Every day she thinks of them first and last. Every day for years, all of her energy has gone into their well-being and happiness. And I blame her for not instantly knowing what she wants to do now that she has all these moments that don’t have an obvious purpose?
“My dream isn’t dead,” I say. “My dream is evolving. I’m not who I was at age nine, thank God.”
I can see the shadows absorbing the nightmare man, but something at his core holds. Something at my core still burns. It may no longer be valid, but it still has substance, that concentrated resin of disappointment and frustration.
He lunges for the door, slides his claws into the indistinct gap. He yanks, and it grows more distinct.
I grab the end of his cloak and pull, but his grip on the door is exactly as strong as my feelings of victimhood and persecution. I clench my jaw and close my eyes and pull.
And that’s when I understand. Because I can still see him. Because I can still see the edges of the door and the immense darkness.
How can I still see this with my eyes closed?
Because I’m looking inside.
That isn’t a door into the real world from the shadow world. That’s the door from my head. That’s the door the pills opened. But its outline has been there for years. It’s my door, and it’s mine to shut. Permanently.
My eyes still closed, I stop trying to pull the nightmare man from the door, and start pulling him to myself. The distinction seems small, but it is immense. My night terrors have always created a borderland. I drag him across that border into myself. I own my nightmare.
It feels like shoving my brain into a blender.
The nightmare man shrieks like a child. He spins and rakes with his claws and all his other icy sharp edges as I drag him farther and farther inside.
“You could have been something! You could have been wonderful!”
I don’t argue with him. He’s right. Who knows what I could have been? But then I wouldn’t be who I am. And even more importantly, I wouldn’t get to become who I will be.
I focus on the part of my brain that knows his presence and his pressure. I turn my closed eyes in toward it. I see the door. I step through it; then I shut it. It bulges as he heaves himself against it from the other side, from the inside, my inside, but I focus on it until the edges disappear.
It feels like I dropped my brain into an icy blender, and I drop to the ground.
I could have cast him out, but it wouldn’t have solved anything. It would have made things worse. He’s mine, my nightmare. And your nightmares motivate you just as much as your dreams. I’ll need him.
The door is gone. The darkness is perfect. I lie down, so tired, so tired.
A hand on my shoulder shakes me. Warm lips press against my face.
“Oh blech. Ash. Blech.”
I open my eyes and see Shannon crouched over me, cradling my head in her lap. I look around a dark room.
“Where am I?”
“Your top half is in Logan’s room. Your legs are still in Madison’s. You went right through the closet and knocked yourself out on a stud.”
I lift a heavy arm to my forehead and touch a bump that sends electricity jolting through my
I think of Logan, on the other side of that door, the best thing that ever happened to me. Yes, he changed me, but he changed me for the better. I changed myself for the worse.
Shannon has raised my children. Every day she thinks of them first and last. Every day for years, all of her energy has gone into their well-being and happiness. And I blame her for not instantly knowing what she wants to do now that she has all these moments that don’t have an obvious purpose?
“My dream isn’t dead,” I say. “My dream is evolving. I’m not who I was at age nine, thank God.”
I can see the shadows absorbing the nightmare man, but something at his core holds. Something at my core still burns. It may no longer be valid, but it still has substance, that concentrated resin of disappointment and frustration.
He lunges for the door, slides his claws into the indistinct gap. He yanks, and it grows more distinct.
I grab the end of his cloak and pull, but his grip on the door is exactly as strong as my feelings of victimhood and persecution. I clench my jaw and close my eyes and pull.
And that’s when I understand. Because I can still see him. Because I can still see the edges of the door and the immense darkness.
How can I still see this with my eyes closed?
Because I’m looking inside.
That isn’t a door into the real world from the shadow world. That’s the door from my head. That’s the door the pills opened. But its outline has been there for years. It’s my door, and it’s mine to shut. Permanently.
My eyes still closed, I stop trying to pull the nightmare man from the door, and start pulling him to myself. The distinction seems small, but it is immense. My night terrors have always created a borderland. I drag him across that border into myself. I own my nightmare.
It feels like shoving my brain into a blender.
The nightmare man shrieks like a child. He spins and rakes with his claws and all his other icy sharp edges as I drag him farther and farther inside.
“You could have been something! You could have been wonderful!”
I don’t argue with him. He’s right. Who knows what I could have been? But then I wouldn’t be who I am. And even more importantly, I wouldn’t get to become who I will be.
I focus on the part of my brain that knows his presence and his pressure. I turn my closed eyes in toward it. I see the door. I step through it; then I shut it. It bulges as he heaves himself against it from the other side, from the inside, my inside, but I focus on it until the edges disappear.
It feels like I dropped my brain into an icy blender, and I drop to the ground.
I could have cast him out, but it wouldn’t have solved anything. It would have made things worse. He’s mine, my nightmare. And your nightmares motivate you just as much as your dreams. I’ll need him.
The door is gone. The darkness is perfect. I lie down, so tired, so tired.
A hand on my shoulder shakes me. Warm lips press against my face.
“Oh blech. Ash. Blech.”
I open my eyes and see Shannon crouched over me, cradling my head in her lap. I look around a dark room.
“Where am I?”
“Your top half is in Logan’s room. Your legs are still in Madison’s. You went right through the closet and knocked yourself out on a stud.”
I lift a heavy arm to my forehead and touch a bump that sends electricity jolting through my
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