A Day In Preschool
©2008, WriteByMyself, All Rights Reserved.
Duplication and reproduction unconditionally prohibited without exception.
Normally I like feedback, but not on this one. I don’t want to talk about it.

This was written February 2003. It remains unedited since that time except for me to change some time references to avoid confusion and to redact the city where I lived. You are the first people to ever see this.

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I’ve been trying to write this for a while with no success, but I’ve finally spit it out in a not very coherent fashion. You might like to think this is one of those things I’ve taken upon myself to write. You know, a story, a work of fiction. Only this, I am dismayed, ashamed, and embarrassed to report, is entirely true. Well, folks, on with the show:

For the past year or so, I’ve been having a recurring nightmare. We’ve all had dreams that recur. You know, the kind you have over and over and over again. This is one of those. I’ve had other recurring dreams too, but most of them weren’t real. At first, I thought this might be one of those evil works of fantasy your mind cooks up to torment you.

The first time I had the dream, I woke up and didn’t even remember the dream itself. I knew it was a nightmare -- that’s something you always know -- you wake up, distraught, in a cold sweat, and so forth. I knew the visual nature of the dream. There were no long, flowing narratives or talking. That alone is odd because most of my dreams play like Epic Movies with panoramic views, action shots, and the like (think Gone with the Wind). This dream was a series of still photos that flashed by, one after the other with bright flashes of light. Imagine seeing a photo, and then a blinding flashcube goes off. When the light fades to normal, a new picture is in its place, but before you can digest it for more than a few seconds, the flash is back, and the picture is replaced with another. At first, I didn’t remember what was in the pictures or maybe I just couldn’t see them well enough to identify their contents.

That first time, that is when I first remembered that series of still photos, there was something deep in my mind that kept nagging me. I vaguely had the sense I’d had this dream before, but couldn’t remember when. I had a deep sense of foreboding, dread, even fear. I tried hard to remember something, anything about the dream, but I could not. So, instead, I tried to forget it, and I was successful for a few months. Then, I had the dream again. This time, the form of the dream was the same but the pictures weren’t quite still, sort of like three or four moving frames. You know those books where you flip the pages to make them move, and each picture is just a scant frame ahead of the previous. Yes, that’s it. I remembered a few bits of innocuous pieces of the dream: seemingly harmless, yet terribly disturbing for no conceivable reason. I remembered a dirt playground, a slightly rundown building, and children. I couldn’t remember more, though I tried. So, I let it fade away, but I couldn’t forget it. I did not, however, dwell on it.

Weeks or perhaps months later (it’s hard to keep the time frame in perspective because I’m so rattled by it all) I had the dream again. Each scene was a little bit longer than the time before. Almost like that movie Groundhog Day where the same scene repeats over and over towards an inevitable conclusion. I remembered more that time. I was one of the children in the dream. I know what I was wearing -- dark blue pants, a wide belt, a t-shirt light with even lighter stripes -- I know what my haircut looked like, I know what glasses frames I had on. I remembered quite a bit, but I didn’t know why it was a nightmare -- well maybe my clothes: they certainly were a horror. See? I even joke when I’m upset. Gallows humour is somehow appropriate here.

Interlude: I discretely looked at some old photos that my grandmother and mother had of me as a child. These are pictures I had never seen before this moment in my adult life. It’s important to understand that, because at this point I knew something bad was happening -- that the past was coming forward to haunt me somehow. In the photo, there I am in that very same playground from the dream with the very same children in front of that very same building. It is from prior to me being of school-age at a point in time when I lived with my mother on [Location Redacted] -- well over thirty years ago. The building is apparently my preschool / nursery school. I’d ask which, but then they’d want to know why. End interlude.

Subsequently, I have the dream again a few more times. The pictures are now little short movies of a few seconds. This is the first breakthrough. There is an extremely extended scene where I run away from the school  -- keep in mind my age at the time -- all the way home (maybe eight or ten blocks in a residential neighbourhood) and I am crying the whole way. Actually hysterical is probably the correct word. I remember it clearly even as the type this; it is frozen in my mind -- and unwelcome memory. This breakthrough is about a year ago (I’m writing this February 2003). I also remember, from the dream, my mother is upset when she goes to pick me up and I’m not there and she finally finds me at home. I get in trouble, of course.

Last month (early 2003), I finally ask my mother if this event ever took place. I am careful not to tell her I had a dream or any detail. I just mentioned it, and asked her if it occurred. I was really hoping it didn’t take place because that would mean the dream was a lie. I knew better because of the photos, but I had to know.

To my horror but not my surprise, I find out it did. Not only did it take place, it took place almost exactly as I remembered it. Why should I look upon this is a horrible experience? Well, it means the dream is undeniably true. In the year between remembering that piece and asking about it, I remembered the rest of the dream. The fact that this part of the dream is true, the details are all correct, one must assume the rest of the dream is correct. A small child doesn’t normally run home crying hysterically -- nearly ten city blocks, unless there is a good reason. We’re coming to that reason momentarily, but let me fill in the missing year.

Over the course of the past year (from early 02 to early 03), I continued to have the dream on and off, remembering more and more of it. I never spoke a word of it to anyone, though many a time I almost spoke about it. It all seemed so stupid, so surreal. After all, it was a dream, right?

Late in 2002 on Thanksgiving Day, I was stuck circling at the airport waiting to pick up my mother from her flight and I started remembering all of the dream even though I was (obviously) awake. It was just like the cliche of a dam breaking. Every detail came forth. I remember the inside of the building: the metal, folding cots for nap-time. I remember the bathroom -- the door opened to the left at a 90-degree angle behind the row of cots, that being off to the left of the front door. I remember the window panes and the view of the old trees out the back. I remember the toys on the shelves in front of the windows looking out on the playground. I remember the sand covered playground. The patches of grass. The big tree which had these long funny seeds (like big brown snow-peas) that I liked to take apart for fun.

I also remember a counsellor. A man. Though he seemed rather old to me as a child, I would imagine he really wasn’t old. A small child sees even a person in their late teens as unspeakably old. He seemed tall to me, but again as a child that’s hard to see. He was white but his hair was done up in a curly Afro-style and it was darkish-blonde.

And, unfortunately, I remember what he did to me.  I remember that it hurt, that he wouldn’t stop, and I remember crying. I remember him telling me I would be in trouble if I woke the other children. I am not going to discuss the details, let us say that if you let your imagination run into the depth of depravity, you’re on the right track. The only part I can’t remember is how I finally broke free and ran home crying the whole way. I never told my mother what happened, and I remember I didn’t want to go back there and she didn’t understand why. I don’t remember anything before that day or after that day, so I don’t think it happened again.

I haven’t had that nightmare since I remembered it all. I think it was trying to come out. Now that it’s out, I’m sorry it did. I wish it would go away. I think about it often, and I don’t particularly what to discuss it -- but part of me thought it might be good to tell someone. I’ve thought about it, but this is something I’m not mentally equipped to discuss it verbally. I think writing it out may have been a good idea.