Dream of: 16 November 2002 "Frozen Hot Dogs"

My mother (around 30 years old) and I were lying next to each other in a small single bed. Even though I knew other people were somewhere in the house, I had taken off all my clothes and all my mother's clothes; now I intended to have sex with her. She had an enticing body; even though something seemed to be telling me that this was neither the time nor the place to be having sex, I simply couldn't resist. I was in a hurry. I wanted to begin immediately; while we were still lying next to each other, I raised her leg up over mine, and began groping between her legs. Obviously she wasn't yet lubricated and entry would be difficult; nevertheless, I began trying to push my stiff penis into her dry vagina.

And then the interruption: my sister and one of my brothers walked into the room. Their ages were indistinct; but I had the feeling they were young, maybe about 6 years old. My mother and I were under a cover, which at least somewhat shielded us from their eyes. However, I was sure my brother and sister could surmise the scene under the covers. Should I stop? No, I wanted to continue. Even when my sister and brother sat down on the bed, I didn't want to stop; but I did stop. Without ever having succeeded in actually penetrating my mother, I rolled over on my back, continuing to lie next to her. Hopefully, since my mother and I had the covers pulled over us, my brother and sister wouldn't notice we were naked.

Who was I kidding? Off course they were going to notice. Now my brother and sister would know that my mother and I had been having sex. A wave of thoughts and emotions overwhelmed me. I felt truly ill. I recalled that my mother had recently been diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease. Would everyone think I was now taking advantage of my mother while she was ill? Maybe no one would realize that she and I had been having sex with each other for years, long before she had developed Alzheimer's. And she was still mentally healthy – she knew what she was doing.

However, something deeper seemed to be bothering me; maybe for the first time I was beginning to think that maybe I should not be having sex with my mother. The word – incest – surfaced through the bleakness. Was incest a problem for me? How long had this been going on? It seemed that I might have even had sex with my sister at one point in my life, but I couldn't remember exactly. The memory seemed correct; yet at the same time, my sister seemed incapable of such an act. My sister was still sitting on the bed, obviously alarmed by my mother and me. Finally, my sister and my brother stood and walked out of the room. Who would they tell? Now everyone would know.

I lay and pondered more. Incest. Had I ever viewed this as a problem? A problem that I simply was unable, without help, to resolve? I felt depressed, hopeless. Yes, it appeared that I had a problem – and I simply didn't know how to deal with it. This thing called incest had been festering in my mind for a long time; only now did I realize the negative impact on me. I couldn't explain it. Maybe I needed help.

I had never been to a psychiatrist in all my life. I had never felt as if I had a problem which a psychiatrist might be able to solve. For the first time, I now felt as if I needed the help of a psychiatrist. I stood from the bed, still naked, and began dressing. The door to the room was open – someone might see me from the other room. I had the vague notion that my father might even be in there; I hated for him to know about all of this. Nevertheless, I had to get up. I quickly pulled on some pants and a black shirt with a hood, which I pulled up over my head. I needed the hood because by now – I was beginning to cry. It seemed that the realization that I had a problem and that I might be able to find a solution had opened an emotional spigot – several over-sized tears dropped from my eyes; I hoped no one saw.

Now, about the psychiatrist – how much would it cost? It seemed that I only had about $3,000. If the psychiatrist cost $50 an hour, how long could I last? I didn't have an answer, but I decided I was not going to let money stop me. Having made my decision, I quickly found a telephone book and began looking for a psychiatrist. I had difficulty, I couldn't seem to find one. Where would psychiatrists be listed– under "Medical"? I recalled that when my mother had first been diagnosed with Alzheimer's, she had been treated by a certain Dr. Borja. Maybe he would know of a psychiatrist.

I could even imagine myself sitting in the psychiatrist's office, talking with him. I wouldn't need to go into detail about my whole life. I wouldn't even need to mention that I was a lawyer. I would simply go right to the point of why I was there. Of course, talking with him about incest wouldn't be easy; but surely a psychiatrist would have some understanding. Was that not the purpose of psychiatrist: to help people with psychic problems? Surely he would have counseled people with worse problems than mine. Surely mine wouldn't be the worst problem he had ever faced. Maybe he could even help me with other problems. I had recently developed a small skin rash over my right eye. Maybe he could give me some medication for that. Who knew, maybe the skin rash was even somehow connected to my other problem.

As I looked through the phone book, I began hearing a lot of commotion from the adjoining room. This was my mother's house – a huge old two-story frame house into which she had only recently moved. Much work needed to be done on the house and various workmen would be employed for the renovation. However, the people in the next room seemed more like teenagers who were simply rambling through the house.

I walked into the next room – dark wood on the walls, high-ceilinged; it looked somber, as if no one had lived there in many years. Several people were in the room. My sister (who now looked about 30 years old) was standing among them. She seemed in a happy mood; she seemed unconcerned that so many people were invading the house. I had the feeling that some of the teenagers were friends of my sister's sons. Maybe she could bring some of them under control; or maybe she could even help me find a psychiatrist in the phonebook. However, as soon as I approached her, she told me she was in a hurry to leave because she had to go fly a helicopter. Only now did I notice that she was already wearing a microphone on her head, the kind that wraps around in front of the mouth. Apparently she was already talking to someone in the helicopter. She hurried out the door; she seemed to be involved in several activities, such as flying helicopters. Seemed interesting.

So I was left alone to deal with all the people there. I turned my attention to a bathroom which was next to this room. I walked in and found two men. One of them was tearing pipes out of the walls. The second fellow (who was only a teenager) was busy working on the sink, which was filled with frozen hot dogs. The fellow was trying to pry the hot dogs out of the sink. I asked the men, "Who told you to do this?" The man working on the pipes pointed to a third man who had walked into the room – the third man seemed to be the man in charge. The third man also immediately began working on some pipes. I asked him, "Who told you to do this?" He ignored me at first, and I asked again, "Who told you to do this?"

Finally, he answered that he had been directed to come here by the head of the Immigration and Naturalization Service. I stood a bit flummoxed, uncertain what to do next.

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