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Sorry about the melodrama, I'll try and be brief. This is what I dreamed:

I was, again, in a hospital for some reason mental rather than physical. There had been noises from a room that should have been empty at the time, and so a nurse knocked and asked if anyone was in there. A girl around 16 years old in a white nightgown with flat, mousey brown hair, glasses and a round face came out and said my name.

The reason this scared me as much as it did was that the girl was clearly not real, and she knew my name. Later I would figure out what she was.

The scene cut and I was talking with a shrink on the edge of a bed, strangely enough, and crying on his shoulder. I was talking about the old man who'd started appearing in the same room the girl had first come out of, giving him the descriptions a nurse and a doctor had given me. He comforted me, then somehow we were under the sheets and he started moving down, still talking
"But why would you need another copy of you to make these copies? It doesn't make any sense."
"So I wouldn't remember doing it."
He stopped, thankfully, and said "My money's on a pregnancy."
I got mad.

First, this pissed me off because he implied that the insanity was my cover for an unwanted pregnancy, which is not cool. The frightening relevation of this mess was that the people appearing were splinters of my personality that had broken away, escaped my body. The worst real world relevation is that yeah, I was using all the guys in my life as shrinks for a while, and while they may have honestly wanted to help me, they were still, consciously or not, using the weakness to try and get me in bed.

It began in the men's room. The girl who had first walked out and said my name walked out of a stall just as another man walked in. She ducked back inside, and my perspective became hers. The man looked in, straight at her/me, but couldn't see her. Next was a little sandy haired boy, not a day over nine, in the girls room. A girl a year or two younger saw him and screamed. A doctor went in looking for him, but again, I was through his eyes as he ducked into a bathroom stall and dissapeared from their sight.

There were more, but rather than take me through every experience, I was shown snippets. The old man, the girl, the young boy, the floating tools, everything fucked up in that hospital was my doing, pieces of my broken mind that had broken off, let loose on those who didn't believe me, didn't listen, who were trying to take advantage of me.

It was the standard wish for power dream, the supernatural kind of power I've wished for all my life. It also harkens back to the Anna vs. Lllama vs. The Ugly Side of Me scenario of the summer of Jason and Mars. Beyond that, the silly jokes of the people in my head. I've been wishing for traumatization most of my life, because I know the kind of power I want can only be unleashed when the shit really hit the fan and you've got nothing left. I've over-reacted, manipulated, and thrown myself into as many horrible situations and mental fuck ups as I've been able and come out much the same. I never learn, never change, that's why things had to happen. I still think from time to time that I died on February 12th, 2002 and that the person I am now deserves to live. I suppose there's always the chance that I really did die and that all of this is a figment of the imagination of a soul that has passed already, but anyone could say that really, so I won't let it dictate how I live or think of myself.
I started going down the same old path again, after all that's happened, I started. Bish stopped me. It's the best thing I could have hoped for, more than I deserve. For the first time there is someone realy with me, I've finally let someone inside all the defenses. For the first time, I've said I love you and meant it with all my heart and soul, and it just keeps getting better, because he loves me too. I trust him, and see he trusts me.
Shadows of the Past still haunt me. Visions of Hank, of Brandon, and once even of Sean scream out to me the obscenities of physical expression of one's feelings. I don't know what Bish thinks when I jerk away from him. I won't tell him what I remember, in part because I'm not sure if it really warrants all the stress and angst I've put myself through, and I don't want to look like I'm over reacting to something silly. The other part is that, yes, I am ashamed of it all. That I did everything without hesitation, without listening to my gut, even that I was ever physical at all. It's a sin, you know. I don't quite believe that, but you should at least be sure of your emotions and I wasn't. I used that to get guys, hoping that it could develop into a real relationship later. Of course they were all doomed to failure.
I really wouldn't mind if Hank ceased to be, and that's what makes me most ashamed of all. I can't justify hating him for what he did to me, and I can barely justify hating him for what he did to Shana. That's not the reason I hate him though. It's because he's a miserable waste of flesh, because he can't see the consequences of his actions and refuses responsibility. He lies, he cheats, he sleeps around, and still he feels sorry only for himself. He will die before I graduate college. Between the blood pressure and the smoking and getting involved with unstable women and then hurting them horribly, he will go eventually. I can engage in fantasies of being pushed over the edge and being forced to do him in myself, but it's neither neccisary nor healthy. My time in his life has passed, if a psycho gets him, she won't be me. I've already been forgotten, tossed aside, another name on a list, scribbled down and immediately forgotten. There's no reason for him to try to hurt me or those I love. He will get cancer, or have a heart attack. I'll probably make an appearance at the funeral, but I'll be guilty all the way home, 'cause I won't be sorry the bastard's gone.

I don't want to think this, just as I don't want to think of him when Brian's holding me. I don't want that part of my mind. I don't want it poisoning my thoughts, corrupting my mind one bit at a time, gnawing away at my conscience . You should've stopped him, you should've left. You should've screamed.

That's probably why I scream. There are so many times I should've and didn't.