Jade Driscoll † To My Psychiatrist: A Non-Exhaustive List of My Recurring Nightmares

I. I am visiting the grandmother who wishes I wasn’t her granddaughter. I’m in the blue Cutlass Sierra that Mom had when I was a kid. At the crest of a hill I must descend to reach dear old grandma’s house, someone stops me. The hill has disappeared, they say. But this makes no sense, and the blue Cutlass Sierra edges down the hillside and drops into a pit of nothingness. I’ve never seen myself emerge from the pit. I think my grandmother is happy.

II. I have a pet fish. He looks like Lucky, the neon-yellow fish I had in high school, except this fish jumps out of the tank when I open the lid to feed him. I watch him flop on the carpet before I spur into action, trying to save the fish that’s trying to die. He slips through my fingers dozens of times before I succeed. Instead of sliding him back in the tank, I drop him in my mouth. I force myself to wake up when I realize I am hurting him once again. I always cry.

III. I am being yelled at for something I didn’t do. No matter how much I try to defend myself, no matter how much I try to tell dream-me to get stronger or to change the dream to give me a voice, I remain hoarse. My throat shreds itself raw as I beg to be heard. I am conscious enough to know that I shouldn’t have to beg.

IV. I am reunited with the boy I loved when I was fifteen. Every time he opens his mouth—to say he loved me back, to say he’s been waiting— we are separated. Someone interrupts us. The building catches fire. Aliens attack. We are physically harmed until we leave each other’s sides. I am beginning to forget what his voice sounds like.