Saying the quiet part out loud

Last night, I had one of the three worst dreams of my life.

The first worst (as far as order, not intensity) came in my early adolescence. My extended family was all together, setting a long table for dinner. We weren’t anywhere I recognized; just a large, lovely dream house. Everyone was working together and laughing. Once the table was set, we all sat to eat. Everything went pitch black, followed by the clanking of the front screen door opening, followed by a chainsaw turning on, followed by screaming — first everyone in the dream, and eventually, I realized, me. I’d woken up screaming.

The second hit me in my 30s. I was in Hell. Hell was utterly empty and pretty bland. Contrasting every…