Lucidity

On Thursday, my counselor, "Luke," asked me to start writing down my dreams.
For many weeks now, we have been trying to understand how to get my brain to a state where I am able to visualize. No matter what I do, I can never seem to capture an image of the Savior in my brain. We practice this exercise called "guided imagery," in which I should be able to recognize a point of pain in my memory, open it, and then allow the Savior to enter and heal through the power of His atonement.
I can't visualize Him. Nor am I able to visualize a safe place. The guided imagery can only take place if I find a safe spot in my mind for me and the Savior to communicate. But I can't seem to find a safe place.
My first time with guided imagery went well. I found a place, I could see the Savior, and He was able at least to communicate with me, even if healing was too far off to approach.
I have hit a black wall. The safe place I thought I'd found has been breached. The back of my mind where I could let the Savior enter has become blocked and reduced to nothingness, a black hole in my own brain. And an important idea I was able to summon a few weeks ago has ran out of my mind, dived down my spine, and has settled in the pit of my stomach to hide in pain and suffering.

So he asked me to start writing down my dreams.

I dream a lot. I usually have 5-10 dreams each night that I can remember at least a moment of, plus however many that make an appearance in my subconscious without ever being recognized and recalled. The hope is that in sleep, my mind will be able to push out some darkness, bring in some light, and display answers, whether literally or symbolically, through these nightly episodes.

My first night, I awoke at 2AM, found the nearest piece of paper (a crumpled envelope), and began to write. Tiny scribblings of notes filled every inch of paper, hopping from dream to dream in no particular sequence and with no pause for thought. When I reached the last one in my memory, it was 2:24. 24 minutes of desperate dumping of my memory onto paper to try to find something significant.

Today I woke up and wrote down in semi-detail the one dream I'd had.

I think my subconscious is more alert to my attempts than I want it to be. Perhaps I'll have more dreams tomorrow. Perhaps one of them will scream truth and understanding and clarity to me...but the Holy Ghost doesn't like to work like that, does he.

In a fit of depressed agony the other night, I took a long shower. The thing with 6-person dorms is that the only place to safely sob is in the shower. It doesn't really block the sound or clear the reddened eyes, but no one's going to ask you what's wrong while you're in the shower. It's a college girl rule.

I wrote a poem while showering. I wrote it down immediately after, as I found myself unable to cling to the words; I think it was a dream as well. I can't find the paper on which I wrote it down. But I can remember the last lines, and the disturbing thought of the word "hope" being carved into someone's teeth.