“There’s nothing like kicking my own ass,” I kept thinking as I tried to fall back to sleep. It began about half-an-hour earlier when I got out of bed, still asleep and in the midst of a night-terror.
Night-terrors, for me at least, happen when I feel stressed out. In this case it is Christmas-time and I still do not have a job and so I fill my time with writing, reading, taking photos – all which leave me feeling guilty that I am not earning a paycheck.
Yes. It’s a vicious circle and both its creation and activity are all in my mind.
Anyway, in this night-terror I was the only ‘White’ face in a sea of protesting Black people. (Please don’t ask me why this is – I’ve no clue.) They were yelling, screaming and pushing me around, calling me names and accusing me of stuff that I’d never done.
And of course, me-being-me, I couldn’t keep my mouth shut as I hollered back at all these people, shoving and jostling me about. This is when my wife woke me up and I evidently got snotty with her for having done so and then jus’ as quickly as I barked at her, I was back asleep.
As I fell back to sleep, I transitioned from being in the crowd to the edge of the crowd. I was getting punched in the head by one man, kicked in the back by another and I was fighting back.
Now my wife, whom I had awaken with my screaming, was sitting up in bed, reading, when I suddenly got out of the blanket and sheets and commenced around the foot of the bed. She figured I was getting up to use the bathroom.
Instead, I was getting ready to square off on the dude that was punching me in the head. However, I never laid a hand on him, as he struck me (in my night-terror) right on the chin and as my wife put it, “you suddenly took a couple of steps backwards and fell on your ass.”
That woke me up! I had landed hard on the floor, smashing into a table, knocking the wind out of me and leaving two fairly sizable cuts on my right butt-cheek.
It took a minute or so for me to regain my breath and composure so that I could go into the bathroom to look at my injuries. (My poor wife had to take a picture of my wound because I was unable to see it in the mirror and no, I didn’t ask her to kiss my boo-boo to make it all better, either.) Other than a little blood, there is no real damage other than to my pride, which is a bit out of sorts for having lost a fight composed solely in my subconsciousness.
This morning, I’m wearing three large band-aids on my bum, I have a slightly swollen and bruised left elbow and a back that hurts worse than usual, plus it’s painful to sit. In the end, (no pun intended) I guess I could say that I’m as good a fighter as I am a punching bag — because in both cases I lost — to myself.