Memories of you wont fade
Thoughts so fucking decayed
Your fucking game of charades
Your endless god fearing tirades
My dreams they all invade
Invaders M.S. 1991
I think I might have said that once I was out of home I stopped thinking about the place. Well that wasn’t entirely true. I did stop thinking about it in the ways I had whilst I was living there. I stopped thinking about when the next verbal berating would be delivered. I stopped thinking about whether something I did would be viewed wrongly and deserving of punishment and I stopped second guessing everything I did. In fact in many ways it’s fair to say I did the complete opposite of the things I would have done at home purely because I could, but I believe that was more of an unconscious decision.
Alcohol and sex were prefect examples. Neither would be allowed in a house my father loomed over, well not for a fifteen year old anyway. However I didn’t reach for my first beer while saying to myself, “Mum and Dad wouldn’t like this.” I did it because it felt right at the time. The same went for sex. I didn’t let Andrea have her way with me because such a thing would be frowned upon in the house I grew up in, it happened because I let it.
Well that’s what I thought anyway, however I’ve had people, both qualified and not qualified tell me different. They’ve tried to convince me that all my choices were made based on some kind of influence, conscious or not, of my father and his tyrannical ways. That was their opinion, it didn’t mean I had to accept it.
The thing was that while the thoughts of my past life were not controlling my waking choices they were trying their best to control my sleeping thoughts. It started out only a few weeks after me leaving home.
A dream so vivid that saw me entering the house of my childhood, walking through the lounge, the dinning room, the kitchen, seeing no one, hearing no one and naturally assuming I was alone. I then walked into my old bedroom expecting to see the shrine that my father had built after the death of Herod, my brother. Instead what I saw was a room trashed, the pictures of Herod on the floor, frames smashed, glass in shards and the prints themselves torn in many pieces. Medals, trophies and other such awarded items that weren’t there the one and only time I entered the room yet I somehow knew were Herod’s, scattered everywhere, on the floor, on the bed, even trophies slammed into the plaster walls. And there in the corner of the room with eyes as red as the demons he claimed were in the books he made us read stood my father, furious and just looking for a way to vent that rage. I turned and run for the front door of the house but with every step I knew my father was behind me and gaining. I could hear him screaming, blaming me for the mess, his venomous rage spitting towards me as I ran. When I got to the door I felt his hand on my shoulder and then woke up.
There was other dreams like that, other dreams where I woke up in a fit of sweat and fear so close to being caught by my father that further sleep would escape me. I don’t believe I woke up screaming but I do know that several times I had woken Andrea by the time I was conscious enough to know what was going on.
The first time I woke Andrea she tried to console me, tried to ask questions and tried to help me but of course I refused everything. I’d had nightmares before in my life having them just because I’d left the source of those nightmares was nothing out of the ordinary and as far as I was concerned that meant I needed no help in dealing with them.
The third time, in as many days, that I woke Andrea I decided to tell her what the nightmares were about. I didn’t reveal anything that would give away my forgotten identity but I did tell her that my father was the source of the nightmares and that what he had done to me would eventually fade. How little did I know.
For many years I knew no different but for the months leading up to when I left home I started to suspect that my thoughts where decayed. That the thoughts forced upon me, because I wasn’t allowed to have my own. The thoughts of a religious zealot who had failed to become what he wanted to be and tried to force that on his children. However when my mind finally started to open up instead of those thoughts filling my waking mind they had started to invade my sleep.
My sleeping patterns change dramatically once I started working for Power Touring Company, sleep became a powerful and sort after thing because it rarely happened during the hours the human body seems to believe it should. To invade what sleep I was getting with decayed thoughts of my past life was effecting me beyond what was reasonably fair. So I’m sure you can guess what came next.
I’m not sure if Andrea was more concerned with the way I woke or the lack of information I would share, she was despite our often harsh surrounds and rough way of life a caring soul, at least with me. But it took her less than a week of seeing me wake up the way I was before she was trying to help me sleep. Sex put me to sleep but didn’t stop the dreams. Alcohol put me to sleep but didn’t stop the dreams. Marijuana put me to sleep and changed the dreams. Suddenly instead of nightmares of decay I was having dreams that kept me asleep, kept me calm and woke me refreshed.
Before I knew what was happening I had developed yet another habit and I wasn’t even a week into my sixteenth year.