Phobiamares

I might have mentioned before that I'm a teeny tiny bit claustrophobic. I trust telling you this information because I know you're not a criminally insane person looking for ways to torture me. (And if you are, you should know that I'm deathly afraid of being fed creme brulee on a beach chair next to the ocean.)

On the weekend, we close our blinds AND our room-darkening curtains. Ahh. Sleeping in pitch black is so blissful. You'd think I'd have had dreams of sleeping like the dead and awakening fully rested. Instead, I had a phobiamare. It was smack in the exact middle of the night. That time when you are so dead to the world that raccoons could sneak into your room and pilfer all of your sparkly things and you would never notice.

That time when a nightmare can sneak into your dreams, and you definitely WILL notice.

The nightmare was short... Probably only a few seconds. I was plopped into a metal room I had never been in before with my back to the door, which was unfortunate. Half a second later when it slammed shut, plunging me into total trapped darkness, I had no idea where it was.

I gotta say, it freaked me out a little.

And by "a little," I mean that I full-on panicked. Being trapped is WAY worse than spiders. I jumped out of my bed (in real life) and felt around for the door. I started with the wall just two feet from my door... except I searched the WRONG direction (which really isn't all that strange when you think you're in a room you've never been in before). Of course the door was frighteningly absent. I could feel the all-out-crazy-person-panic bubbling so very close to the surface. So close, that I knew that any moment I would scream with all I had, and then proceed to escape by any means necessary, including beating a hole through the wall to free myself. I was trying desperately to hang on to that last shred of sanity and luckily, I was still able to form words.

Loud words.

"I'm trapped! And I'm about to loose it!"

To which my husband (in real life) said, "What do you need me to do?"

"Help me find a way out of here!" (I apologize to the people who live on my street and the street behind me if I woke you up.)

Like a knight in shining armor, he leaped out of bed and opened the door before stumbling back into bed (exact middle of the night, remember).

The light in the hall sang to me like a thousand angels. I ran into the glorious light of the moon, sank against the wall as I fell to the floor, and breathed heavy for 15 minutes before I could bring myself to return to bed.

The dreams I have that spill into real life usually involve spiders coming in hordes to crawl on my bed way more often than being trapped does. (Which brings to mind one of my favorite mental images of all time. One that involves my mom getting wrapped up in her blankets and dreaming that someone broke into the house and was pinning her down at the EXACT same time my dad was dreaming that the bed was covered in spiders, so he was standing on the bed, alternating feet in an attempt to not leave either one on the bed for more than a few seconds. This, of course, happened right when my mom opened her eyes to find that someone was, in fact, on her bed. Although I totally and completely understand their dreams, I will forever giggle every single time I think of it. Sorry, mom and dad.)

So I blame my phobiamares on genes. That and the Red Vines I gorged myself on right before bed.

What about you? Do you have phobiamares that you just can't shake when you wake up? Go ahead. You can trust me with your secret. If I'm going to torture you, I'll probably do it by chanting a never-ending story.