What a weird dream.

I was visiting my parents and we all decided to go out to a biker bar my parents sometimes frequent. Despite me being sober, my Dad insisted on driving home. So, from the back seat, I watched as he blew through a stop sign on one of the back roads he decided to take, knowing that the city pigs are normally stationed on the main drag that time of night.

It didn't seem odd at the time that I was in the back seat, though it's funny now. We were in the truck my dad had for fifteen years, an ancient red Chevrolet short bed, with a single cab. I guess that's the truck my subconscious brain still most associates with my dad. In fact, I still look for it sometimes when I pull into their driveway.

But back to the dream - Dad's just blown a stop sign, and, sure enough, thirty seconds later, the interior of the car was lit with party lights. Red-blue-red-blue-red-blue. My mom noticed, and started crying, knowing that this was going to be really bad. She's recently retired, you see, and there was no way in hell Dad was going to keep his job with a DUI. Even if he did, a successful DUI defense where they live costs $30,000-40,000. It would mean opening up a mortgage on the recently paid-off house.

But Dad didn't seem to notice. He continued at a perfect 34 miles an hour, head held just right, window cracked slightly to keep cool air on his face and allow the periodic emission of cigarette smoke.

"Dad," I finally spoke up, after we drove for about a minute longer. "Dad, there's cops. You gotta pull over."

This roused him a little. He looked up, slowly, into the rear view mirror. "Ahhh, shit," he hissed, "Alright. All. Right."

I sighed. This was going to be a fucking circus. Mom and Dad were both drunk. I was sober, so I would probably be allowed to take Mom home with the truck. The cop car looked like a county cruiser, and we were in the next county over from home, so Dad was going to end up in county lockup.

On top of that, I was carrying concealed, and by state law would need to notify the deputy first thing. Since the local Sherrif's deputies tended to go one to a car, he would probably end up pulling me out of the truck, having me stand with my hands on the hood, and making us all sit and wait for backup, since he couldn't disarm me and clear my weapon while also making sure the driver didn't take off or the passenger start gobbling the baggies of crack or whatever.

All of this is going through my mind as Dad pulls over into a parking lot. The deputy pulled in behind him, and dad came to a stop but didn't put the truck in park.

"Dad, no. Don't," I said, and right as the deputy reached the taillights, Dad took off.

"Dad! Stop! Right now!" but he was already jumping the curb, counting on the deputy having to go around through the parking lot entrance, not having the ground clearance that the truck did. He tore huge gouges in the wet turf as he cut right to the side street.

He screamed two or three blocks into the neighborhood, turning seemingly at random, and finally pulled into a driveway and turned the truck off. I realized what he was doing, and told him he was crazy.

"Dad, they're going to have your plates already. All this is getting added onto the charges. Stop right now. Turn yourself in. You're insane."

Finally he spoke. "Fuck that," he said, "It's all bullshit anyway. It's not even worth dealing with it."

I considered calling the cops myself, but before I could dig the phone out of my pocket, I saw the lights of the police car far in the distance, winking in and out of view through the slash pine. Dad threw it in reverse and headed home.

We were halfway there when we got picked up again. Dad gunned it. Mom hadn't stopped crying since she started, and I was furious. Between bouts of trying to convince my Dad to give it up before we all got killed, or someone else did, I wondered idly if the COPS crew was with the deputies (backup had arrived) chasing us. The county we were in was known for producing the best episodes of COPS, and this would certainly have been a great segment.

Two wild turns later, we hit a "T" in the road, and Dad didn't notice. We went right through the culvert, across the lawn, and smashed through the big front windows of a Pentecostal megachurch.

There was an abrupt transition in the dream here. I knew it was suddenly a few days later.

My Dad had been released without charges, on some unspecified technicality. The church had promised to not press charges or sue if we somehow made it up to them. I ended up promising to run a shooting school for the church youth. They were an apocalyptic sect, and were very interested in preparing for the End Times as they understood them to be.

I was as surprised as the kids were when the End Times actually started halfway into the first class.

Woke up at four and went to sleep on the couch. Slept there until I heard the girls getting ready for school. Learned that I got some quality sleep when I was on the couch and it made an amazing difference in how my Monday went. Normally I drag myself out of bed dreading the day. Today at the chiropractor one of the women asked if I was skipping down the hall. Had a call scheduled after my appointment that I felt went very well. A baseball coach who broke his ankle four times in high school believes that the piece Nike put on the outside of that model was partially or wholly responsible for the breaks so we discussed that and a few other things.

Took a bath, fooled around on Twitter, and got ready for my call at noon. Spoke with a gentleman who was a pitcher in high school, went to journalism school, didn't finish, worked as a journalist doing reporting, editing, web editing, and was able to land a great job working for SABR down in Phoenix. About forty minutes into our call I could no longer hear him. Perplexed, I eventually hung up and later discovered that their office had a power outage. Had an interesting and very enjoyable conversation with him so I'm excited for his interview on Friday. Tried to lay down for a while, but wasn't able to actually fall asleep.

It snowed here today so the roads are slick. Normally my oldest daughter stays later after school, but today I picked her up early on account of the roads. Cheerleading was cancelled and I am not heartbroken. I bought some hamburger and chicken at the store and dropped twenty dollars off for the principal's birthday gift that the eighth grade room mothers are going to pick up/put together. The majority of the time I am exhausted and sleeping on the couch showed me what I could be like if I was routinely well rested. I need to get more quality sleep so I have more energy and my husband wants me to sleep with him, but I have to get better sleep and hopefully he will understand and respect that.

I don't know why, but I never look forward to Thanksgiving at other people's homes. I go and I try to have a good attitude, but I'm counting down the minutes until I can make a graceful exit. I hate dinner time. I don't like sitting down at a table because it reminds me of the many meals I was forced to suffer through, or forced to leave, when I was younger and a prisoner in my parents' home. While I was free to attend school and lacked the bars on a conventional jail cell, both of my parents ruled with differing weights of iron fistedness. What I wore was the subject of a debate that ended with my dad throwing a boombox at me and me screaming that I would commit suicide before wearing the dress that he picked out for me.

The suicide threat was never carried out, but I spent many years trapped inside of my own depressed head. To get out required years of therapy, tears, journaling about issues that were not the real issue, and the aforementioned lack of sleep. When people ask where I want to go on vacation I tell them places like Hawaii or Florida, but in my heart of hearts I want a room painted a flat eggshell white that has a bed, a fridge, and some books. I want healers to come and talk to me, they can take notes on my condition and I can spend a couple weeks or even a couple months untangling the network of fear, axiety, and terror that is still a part of my makeup.

When I opened the bills from visiting the new MD that I was higher on before I saw that my bill was considerably higher than my husband's for what I thought was the same new patient visit I was angry and upset. Health, like grades, is not always a reflection of how hard you are working to get where you are presently at so right now I feel like I got slapped across the face for being a more complicated patient than he is through no fault of my own as I have made a conscientious effort to eat better, and live a healthier lifestyle than someone who used to follow a self directed diet based on how many custard calories he could get away with and not gain too much extra weight.

A lot of the time I read things that I don't understand. My mind is always going. When people try to talk to me, I can't stop my thoughts so sometimes I interrupt them when I mean to demonstrate my listening skills. Safety is my main goal in life. I want to be safe and I want to create safe places for others. My company inspects footwear for safety and I'm grateful for the opportunities I have to use this gift to give others greater freedom to go further than they could have without me in their lives. Today I am not invincible, but I am stronger than I have been when my sleep was stolen.

I'm writing something that interests me. I called my informal business partner and caught up with him. I didn't get everything done, but I have some energy and that excites me. I found a new app that will ask me how I am feeling throughout the day and that feels like a large step forward. Pontius Pilate was able to wash his hands, and I would like to do the same, but I am here and this is now and tomorrow I will email the man who may be my new editor and I have not sent a letter to my good friend Anna, but I am thinking about her sweet self and praying that she is finding peace where she's at now.

Until next time,


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