lucyoncolorado

In which I had my first sleep paralysis nightmare...

I'm body surfing the sideways waves of a cove. The tide is low enough that they break on the beach and not up on the rock cliffs enveloping the cove. But I know I only have a few minutes before I must get out and scale the cliffs when the tide comes in. There will be no beach left that is not submerged.

I'm wearing my black and hot pink one-piece swimsuit. It's an athletic cut, like you'd see on Olympic swimmers. But there are women body surfing with me, and they are all in bikinis. I notice this and feel awkward about it. I wonder how they keep their bikinis on; when I'm not in a one-piece, the waves thrash them off me.

Ted Cruz has conceded to Trump. He is in seclusion somewhere, in a cave nearby. His sister comes out to the beach to make a statement on his behalf. She walks out to the sandy beach in the center of the cove and starts to speak. The other women and I continue to surf. Somehow, we can hear and see her perfectly.

She's casually beautiful, without any of the attempts to try to be sexy like the bikini girls. She has lovely olive skin and short thick black hair. She's radiant, and she wears glasses, a black t-shirt and a pair of jeans. She's poised; she speaks deliberately. She is serious, because it is a serious matter, but she's got some subtle humor as well. She shines. I take a wave onto shore and linger there in the sand a bit to listen to her. Despite the fact that Ted Cruz is horrific, I acknowledge that his sister is clever, charming and charismatic. Too bad she's not running for president.

Then she leaves the cove, and Donald Trump walks to the center of the beach. He is naked and also enormously fat. He sits crosslegged in the center of the cove and stars into the distance. His lips are pursed, and the fat hangs over his crotch and scrotum so that he looks as if he lack genitals. He does not say anything.

The other women and I continue to body-surf for a few minutes, but the tide is rising. Besides, Trump's presence makes us nervous. I notice that the waves are breaking against the rock cliff behind Donald Trump. I avoid crashing into it, slide across the sand, and exit the water. I climb up the wall a short way above the breaking tide. I see my husband, snuggled up in a blanket among the rocks, sleeping. Donald Trump is on the beach below, still sitting still and naked amidst the pounding tide.

I find a nearby rock outcrop near my sleeping husband that is long enough to accommodate my body, and I curl myself up into fetal position to sleep. I snooze contentedly for a while, and then I roll over onto my back and stretch out my arms and legs so that I luxuriously take up the entirety of the outcrop.

Three Indians climb up from the beach. They are a young woman in her mid 20s with long curly black hair and a slim build, as well as two younger teenage boys. They step over our sleeping bodies and nestle themselves into nearby outcrops to sleep as well.

I can feel my body stretched out. I can feel the bed beneath. This is confusing because I know that I'm on rock. I wonder about this, and then I feel my body even more. I feel each breath I take. I hear the waves below. I hear my husband sleeping nearby. I feel the pillow under my head.

A woman's voice asks me a question. I ignore it, and I continue to stay still. By now, my mind is awake.

When I do not respond, she calls my name and asks why I'm ignoring her. I do not wish to speak to her, so I lay very still and focus on my breathing. I feel my chest move up and down in my sleep. I feel my arms stretched out above my head. I feel the pillow under my neck. I hear my husband's breathing next to me. He is very close now.

The woman says, "I'm disappointed in you. I didn't know you were such a coward that you would pretend to sleep."

I hear her, but I pretend I do not. I continue to focus on my breathing. I stay very still. I am asleep, I say to myself. I am asleep, I repeat to myself over and over again. I am asleep. I feel the mattress under me now.

The woman says, "You are pretending to sleep. You are wasting your time thinking of unimportant things. It's very disappointing. I'm finished watching you. I've seen what you are, and you will not take advantage of opportunities anymore, and so I'm done with you."

Her words hurt. They sting, and I want to confess or defend myself or discuss these issues. But by this point, I've already pretended to be asleep for so long that if I do anything other than continue to pretend to sleep, I'd have to admit that I could hear her all along. So I do nothing. I lay there, with my arms outstretched, and focus on my breathing. I am asleep, I tell myself. I am asleep.

Then, I can feel that she has knelt down next to my head. She says, "You are pretentious. You are wasting your time. Keats was right. I know you can hear me."

I'm laying there, pretending to sleep, wondering what in the world she can mean by such a thing as 'Keats was right' (about what? and in what poem?) when the Indian woman and the two teenage boys walk over to me. The two boys sit down on the rock near my head, but the woman straddles me. She starts tickling my ribs, and it is unpleasant to the point of being painful. I try to push her away, but my arms lack all strength and coordination, and all I can do is flail them about unskillfully.

The woman starts laughing at me. She continues to tickle me, only she's more forceful now so that she's ramming her fingers into my ribs and stomach. I shout out, "help me! stop! help me!" but the teenage boys sitting near my head just look on and laugh. The woman grabs my arms by the wrist and stops me from resisting at all, and with her other hand, she starts punching me in the stomach and in the ribs. I realize that the teenage boys will not help. They will stand by and refuse to help me. I feel completely overcome and helpless.

I think that I'm totally vulnerable and at this woman's mercy. My own torture will only be limited by her whim. It's going to get worse. It's a horrifying and hopeless feeling. The disregard of the two teenagers watching me makes it all the worse. They could intervene if they were willing to. They simply refuse, and for no reason other than they don't care. I think that if I could just make them care, even a little bit, they might stop her from punching me and poking me.

I continue to call out. "Stop. Help me!" I'm gasping for air and suffocating at this point, but I try a direct appeal to the boys. "Help me, please! Help me!" I want to tell them that they, personally, can stop this, but I'm so short of breath that I can't call out to them. The woman is holding me down and punching me and laughing, over and over again.

My husband is still snoozing nearby. I change tactics. I call my husband's name repeatedly. He does not move. I shout at him to wake up and help me, but he does not stir at all.

Then, I think, this will go on, in slow painful detail, until she kills me. It could take years. Eternities even. Maybe that's what the warning about Keats meant. Maybe I'll be dealing with this pain for the duration of time.

I try to face my assailant. I'm having trouble speaking at all at that point, but I concentrate very hard on holding air in my chest until it hurts and then letting it all out in one giant burst in which I scream, "STOP IT!"

I hear the words echo, and my husband shakes me awake. I'm back in my own bed in my own room. Eerie light in through the window tells me that this isn't any more real than the nightmare. Husband says, 'What are you dreaming? You shouted STOP IT.' My middle of the night real-fast description: "Donald Trump was lording over an island of demons that wouldn't stop tickling me." Husband laughs, so do I. But seriously the dark feeling has not yet left. It was a very disturbing nightmare.

I've had sleep paralysis my entire life. This is the first time that I've had a nightmare during it, and also the first time that I was not aware of what was happening. Even though I could feel myself in the bed, I was not lucid. Usually when I have sleep paralysis, I feel myself in my own bedroom in my own house, and I can control what I'm thinking. Not this time. It was a terrifying hopeless helpless feeling that bothered me all day.