Thread: My Journey Through Escapism and Lucid Dreams

At 33 years old, voicing my age feels strange; I’m technically an adult, yet often, I feel like a child lost in time. My childhood, marred by wars that seeded animosity and nationalism, somehow didn’t scar me much then. It’s the delayed emotional toll that caught me off-guard in my later years. The true struggle of my younger days stemmed from isolation and physical frailty. Growing up surrounded predominantly by girls, the pang of loneliness was a constant companion. On the spectrum of social aptitude, I was decidedly introverted – not by choice but by fear, which masqueraded as self-imposed isolation. Despite craving connection, my inner world became my refuge, as real-life friendships eluded me.

School years were no kinder; bullying was routine, exacerbated by the fact that my mother was a teacher at my school. This amplified my sense of alienation, furthering the gap between me and potential friends. Romantic endeavors were no different—unrequited love left its sting as my poems went unnoticed, my affections unreturned.

University life seemed promising but quickly spiraled into a haze of drinking, smoking, habitual gambling, and a descent into what felt like personal degradation. It was during this tumultuous period that I encountered the works of Castaneda and Stephen LaBerge, which introduced me to the concept of lucid dreaming. At 20, feeling as though my life had peaked, lucid dreaming appeared to be the last vestige of hope, a sanctuary for happiness that reality had denied me.

But the discipline required for lucid dreaming eluded me as much as success in the waking world. My life became a series of missed chances, as I chose to retreat into the dream world rather than confront real-world opportunities. This avoidance led to two marriages—the first, a surrender to family pressures that ended in a painful divorce, and the second, a relationship lacking in love but chosen under the logic that my unfulfilled desires could be compensated for in dreams. Now I hate my life and feel trapped by responsibilities with a pregnant wife, I'll become a father soon without having grown my own self.

Despite my efforts in lucid dreaming, I've had a sparse number of experiences over the years, around 50 maybe more, even these were fleeting due to my inner turmoil. I've come to realize that my lucid dreams, rather than being a source of solace, have reflected the chaos of my thoughts. Whenever life presented some opportunities I always turned down the offer because I thought I should practice detachment and not go after "sinful" desires that will entrap me and maybe I will regret not going after the important thing when I am 80 on my deathbed, now I'm just bitter and full of anger.

I find myself now in a contemplative state, questioning the choices I've made in the pursuit of a peace that perhaps lies not in the dreamscape but in the tangible world around me. As I pen down these thoughts, it's not with a specific purpose but with a hope to resonate with someone who might be navigating their own unseen battles.

When re-reading Castaneda's books I find myself being somewhat similar to him, violent and desiring the wold, trying to be spiritual and detached, this creates confusion and depression. A few months ago I started to have panick attacks, didn't know what it was, thought I was going to die and now I am on pills, what a sad picture for a young man, but I really don't know what to do and where to go. It feels like if I sacrificed so much for lucid dreaming, I should just keep on with it until it produces some yields, but maybe I'll spend 30 more years and have no better results and end up dying listening to Metallica's Unforgiven

Just wanted to share, thank you if you took time to read and contemplate.