Metaphysics, An Internal Humvee, the Abducted Freed and the Wilderness of an Intrapsychic Alaska

My most recent "big dream" was a continuation of a dream motif--vehicles--I've had for some years. It began at my first recollection in college years when I dreamed that I could use a roll of 35 mm film and ink pens to transport myself. The film was unfurled and created a type of toy scooter that I stood on. If I held Bic medium point black pens in the proper combination between my fingers, and manipulated them just right, I could lift off the ground a few inches and move forward. This was pre-queled with waking notions as a child in which I would, from time to time, kick a particular rock ahead of me and follow its path as my actual path and transportation forward. It seemed as good a direction finder as any and I did participate in choosing my fate somehow.

The recent dream involved a Humvee of the color pictured here, but of much larger proportions. It was a vehicle I owned, and had for some time but had forgotten about. In the dream I was very excited to rediscover it. This dream came in response to a friend's request for healing. I don't remember the meditation prior to the dream. I fell asleep exhausted that night from work stress and extreme vicarious trauma.

It was a magnificent and fortifying dream--a curative, restorative and healing dream. I have felt better ever since. I rose up through the fear that surrounds me and am now able to see my still suffering colleagues with compassion. My previous and serious bout of 'compassion fatigue' was not for my clients, but for my co-workers. That aspect of compassion--having compassion for my colleagues--is essential to my work as a trauma therapist. When it was failing, I could barely tolerate going into the clinic. Now, I am up a few levels and am not suffering, but resuming my role as the informal morale officer which has always come easily to me.

I have had recent problems with being the natural morale officer. It is involved in my life long struggle to avoid the scapegoat role of any group I am in. With time and much practice, this has eased. It is still a point around which polarization happens, but now my 'tormentors' are more restrained. The polarization seems to happen when I am particularly happy. It has been a core healing for my life's work to not mind if others are differently attuned emotionally or if they take my happiness as an affront. I have almost become used to being emotionally separate in my feeling states--at least, I expect it, but it is still very troubling to be targeted and disliked for it. I've learned that if I keep it low key it garners less resentment. I have also learned that if I don't mind the targeting, the targeting goes away quicker. It is always better to leave one's taunters with their taunting sitting still in their own laps.

As for Alaska...I have, since early childhood, been interested in survival in the wilderness and under other extreme conditions such as being lost or homeless. I was fascinated by stories about Alaska and spent many hours daydreaming about how I would survive in my own Call of the Wild story. Of course, all children are interested in survival, but my particular interest, was in surviving the extreme scenario, many of which I witnessed and was a participant in during my youth. These included an explosion, a building fire, witnessing an arterial bleed, witnessing the immediate aftermath of an industrial accident, a high speed chase with gunfire, being taken hostage, witnessing the use of lethal force to free me and witnessing two attempted assassinations of my father—one of which involved my capture for an afternoon. Those were the high profile taglines. Along with those came the snapshots of traumatic memories embedded in the events such as: firemen in full gear, with axes, chasing me; a fountain of rhythmic blood taller than me; a dismembered hand; and hiding quietly, fearing my father would die and then consequently, so would my mother and me.

I enjoyed the challenge of imagined survival in the outback of Alaska. In my 30’s I decided that I would die in a small plane there.

I was taught survival techniques in extreme circumstances for a child. My father would practice with me, putting me in various holds meant to restrain me and having me reason my way out of them. He made it play and it was fun, but I learned a great deal—what to do if grabbed from behind and in various ways—from the front, each side, by my hair, with a hand over my mouth, when picked up...I didn’t realize until decades later that he feared I would be kidnapped. I learned to handle weapons. I was told that I should always use a shotgun when frightened because I wouldn’t have to aim, but I was only allowed to fire a shotgun once since I was so small. It knocked me down and bruised my shoulder. This was to teach me how it felt, he said, so I wouldn’t be surprised by it if I ever had to use it. I used a handgun more. My father would stand behind me and we would use all of our four hands to hold and fire the weapon at cans.

Shotguns were propped in the corners of our home. A handgun was on the entry hall table and another worn by my father in the house. At night, that one was on the bedside table. I never touched them without instruction to. I used to worry that my father would die every time he went to work. I especially worried if he were late coming home. A dispatcher would call to keep us informed since there were no cell phones then. This was during the time that we would often leave in the middle of the night to go to one of 2 other places that my parents called “our apartment” and “our little house”. My father taught me informational rhymes to jump rope with. They contained the addresses of the 3 residences, phone numbers, parents’ names and a code name. I still remember them.