Fear is a grey liquid
By: Brooklyn Adams
Tags: Mwc Death, Lucid Dreaming, MWC, PTSD

I’m no stranger to vivid dreams (as my friends and family can attest to; often having to listen to me retell my bizarre sleep stories over breakfast), but after developing post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) in my early 20s, the dreams had morphed into recurring nightmares; graphic, intense and traumatic in their own right. All of them centred around my mind’s imprint of the source of my trauma, who I’ll hereby refer to as the perpetrator. Almost every night I dreamt that he was chasing me with the intent to kill. These dreams were no longer something I itched to talk about, and I became avoidant and fearful of sleep.

Along with the sleep disturbances, PTSD bought with it severe depression, panic and anxiety disorders. But as debilitating as the panic attacks and other symptoms were, the sleep disorders hit me the hardest. I became disillusioned, unsure of what was real and what was my mind playing tricks on me. I was convinced that the perpetrator would somehow break out of prison and murder me. So convinced, that at my lowest point I made plans to end my life so that I could get there before he did.

The turning point was the night I hallucinated him sliding along my bedroom floor. I woke up furious. How dare he burrow his way into my sleep? How dare he make me question my worth in the world? I decided that I needed to take action. I had to take control of my dreams and I had to get rid of the version of him that lived in my subconscious. I had to kill the perpetrator, and if he could make it into my dreams then so could I.

I started by keeping a dream journal. I taught my subconscious to recognise common events and patterns from my dreams. I trained my brain in waking life to constantly check in with my surroundings. Can I tell the time? Can I read text? Can I feel objects? Am I dreaming? Am I sure I’m not dreaming?

And then came my first lucid dream.

I was in an airfield. Planes fired missiles at me as I sought shelter. I crept into an abandoned hut and as if on cue, the silhouette of the perpetrator appeared, brandishing a gun this time. Fuelled by terror, I ran to another crumbling hut. As I cowered in the corner of it waiting for the attack, I remembered to ask myself, am I dreaming? I looked down at my digital watch, and saw that the numbers were disjointed. Maybe the watch was broken? Am I dreaming? I walked over to a light switch on the wall and flicked it. Nothing happened. I stepped out of the hut and pointed to the sky. The sky turned orange. This was it! I was dreaming! I was conscious! I transported myself away from the airfield and to a peaceful festival instead, free of danger.

When I woke up, I was empowered. I had broken through and connected with my subconscious. But it wasn’t enough. Hiding from my trauma was not enough. I had to confront it and I had to kill it. Each night that followed I went to bed determined and ready until I entered the dream that changed my life.

I was a child in a classroom, taking an exam. I felt uneasy, I knew I was being watched. The perpetrator stood behind the door, looking in through the window at me. This time I noticed he had no weapons. Weapons were a common theme. Am I dreaming? I looked down at the exam and saw the words moving on the page. I saw the hands of the clock at the front of the room, moving erratically. I am sure that this is a dream. I stood up at my desk, and pointed at him as I looked him in the eye, seeing his face clearly. I could see every pore on his psychotic face. Tears streamed down his cheeks in a bid to stop me. I lifted my other hand, pointed my finger at him and held my gaze. His body shrunk to that of a child and his sobs became wails. I shone my palms at him and his skin started to wilt, melting into a dense, grey liquid until he was nothing more than a steaming puddle of sludge on the floor.

Was it really as easy as that? Had I just killed the perpetrator?

When I woke up, I felt lighter. I made my way to the shower for the first time in over a week. The depression which had sealed me in my bedroom had started to lift. I felt calm, in control, capable, strong.

During the weeks that followed, the panic attacks, flashbacks and nightmares lessened in frequency and intensity. I was healing.

The last lucid dream I had truly confirmed that I had won the battle and that he was gone for good. I was walking through a busy crowd when I realised I was dreaming. But this time I didn’t transport myself anywhere, I didn’t change the colour of the sky. I let my subconscious do its work, without interfering. The perpetrator appeared, walking towards me. I could see him in utmost detail. Again, he was crying. He kept walking past me, and that was it. That was the last time I saw him.

The battle was over.