Fast and furious, I raced down the halls. It felt so strange. It was normal for me to be mad, but it wasn't normal for me to be crying. The tears streamed down my face like water from a tap, consistant, non-ceasing, and terrifying. My stomach dropped as I ran, my pulse grew rapidly. It occured to me that I had no clue where I was going. I was no further than I was three minutes ago. Then I woke up.
I woke up in a muddle of moist sweat lying prostate on my bed. I looked at the clock. Six-fourteen in the morning. I got up and walked to the staircase. I stopped at the sound of arguing and paused at the top step, listening intently to the heated debate below.
"I don't want you publishing that." I heard my fathers voice on the bottom floor.
"It's mine to publish! You didn't write it!" My mother screamed. The rage and annoyence built up in her voice.
"If it is against my friends, my business, and my company, you cannot use my name or reveal it to anyone!" He retorted.
Normal. My parents fought like crazy. Most mornings I just sat on the top step listenening to them fight. They were relentless. This time I got bored and went back to my room. I pulled out my laptop and searched what running from danger means in dreams. Various sources said that it meant "you are constantly running away from your fears and attempting to dodge your losses."
What were my fears? How was I running from them? I'd heard from many people that dreams are significant. My mom's friend Abigial calls dreams "unopened letters from God." She always tells me that to open them, I have to discover what is trigering the dream. If I can figure that out, Abigial says, I can open up to the concept of change and learn what part of my life caused the dream. My friends didn't talk much about their dreams. My friend Kayla Tyne talks about dreams she's had about boys, but its not unusual for her to talk about boys in general. Jenny Holliday, another one of my friends, says she doesn't remember, but I sometimes wonder if she does and just doesn't talk about them. Maybe hers are about boys too, but are too, well, detailed. No, this dream was too deep for most of my friends to understand. I would probably lose their attention in the first few sentences, and I don't know if I would want to hear their responses. I would also be embarassed to talk to them about something that seemed so personal. Then, of course, I could have talked to my parents. That's a laugh. Explaining dreams to my father would be like telling Dr. Seuss nothing rhymes with orange. There was always a new arguement, just like there was always a new word. Then there was my lovely mother. She's great and all, but telling her about boys or my dreams would be like explaining gay marriage to a two year old.
When I couldn't figure out anyone to talk to about my dreams, I'd call Abigail, and she would help me sort it out. Sometimes sorting it out meant finding a new thing wrong with yourself, and I'd had enough of that. Too many people told me what was wrong with me. One of these days, I used to think, someone's going to tell me something that's right about me.
I had that thought for a few months. Those months were filled with finding new friends, losing old friends, and discovering boys. Before then, I thought all boys were just some kind of different species; a kind that didn't like to talk a lot or liked to play sports way too much. But in those months, I learned lots of new things about boys, my family, my friends, and ultimately myself.
