Day 29 of the Apocalypse, Ground Zero, Gerton, NC pop. 231

Last night, I dreamt that tall trees with no branches kept falling on our roof.

Eventually I realized that the trees were instead poles for power lines. Helicopters were carrying them over our house, and dropping them on our roof.

In my dream, there were a few trees that remained standing in our yard. They each had huge gashes in them, where water had stolen their wood. The gashes were so deep, it seemed like the trees would topple over should the wind pick up.

Then the scene shifts, and Jeff and I are trying to escape, but all of the roads have turned into rivers, and the water is muddy, dark and deep. We are wading through the darkness, chest deep. Breathless. Trying to keep ahead of the momentum of the water. Pushing through it is exhausting.

By the time we reach town we are soaked. We try to check into a hotel to get warm, and dry our clothes, but we have no money on us. The woman at reception says she will take just my credit card number instead of a physical card, but I can’t remember how to operate my phone to look up the number. I know my brain had done this process hundreds of times, but I can’t retrieve the information.

These are the types of dreams I still have every night, nearly a month after the hurricane. Trees. Water. Can’t escape. No access to resources. Can’t think. Everything feels overwhelming.

In my dreams, as well as in the day-to-day, there is no pushing through. That doesn’t work.

I am writing my way through the apocalypse. This is my coping mechanism. If I can make sense of what happened through words, then maybe, eventually, my heart and body will be able to heal.

Maybe eventually I will dream of something else.

I know my body is still having a trauma response. We’ve been at the beach for four days. I’m sleeping 10 hours a night, plus taking a nap every afternoon, and I’m still exhausted.

Maybe eventually I will have slept enough.

There is no right way to dream. No right way to rest. No right way to move through this.

There is only what our bodies and minds are doing, and our willingness to submit to what is needed in each moment.

This is how maybe, eventually we will heal.