only in dreams...

i dreamt last night that, for some unspecified reason, i was sentenced to death by guillotine. i was in high school, and this execution was to take place in the school's auditorium, in front of all of my schoolmates, assembly-style. the real kicker was that the executioner, complete with black hood, was none other than monsignor mullen, a priest from the church i attended growing up who passed away many many moons ago, before i even reached my high school years.

the dream starts off with the good monsignor yelling at me. for some reason i was supposed to wear a swimsuit for my execution (cue emily's body-image issues!) and the good monsignor was not only yelling at me for whatever it was that got me the death sentence, but also because my modest, one-piece swimsuit was in tatters and was completely inappropriate for my impending decapitation. so the best i could do was to take a pair of scissors to the loose threads and march into the auditorium to confront my destiny.

there was a platform set up in the middle of the basketball court (my tiny high school's auditorium was also its gymnasium), where the guillotine was menacingly awaiting its prey. my schoolmates were filing in and taking their seats in the bleachers. i was crying, confused, no one had actually informed me of why i was to be killed. i kept begging the good monsignor to show some mercy on a poor girl who must have just made a mistake.

i got on my hands and knees and positioned my neck under the guillotine's blade, but my back was to the crowd. i could hear the chatter and gasps and whispers of the other students, but all i could see was the back of the auditorium. i was still crying, still begging and pleading for my life, still confused and afraid. the good monsignor was preparing for the moment with dramatic flair, raising and lowering the blade in its track, each time dropping it closer and closer to my neck, but never quite letting it make contact. and then, as my tears and screams reached the height of terror, i heard him let go, the weighted blade falling in a cruel swish, and then nothing but a dull thud--the blade had disappeared... and i was still alive. the good monsignor said, "now get dressed and go back to class." i was saved!

i got up, went to the bathroom, put on my uniform (i did, after all, go to catholic school), and looked at myself in the mirror. my face was red and tear-streaked and i had a bruise across my neck from where i had been resting my head, awaiting its separation from my body -- a black-and-blue remnant of what could have been.

as i walked back into the school building (the gym/auditorium was across the street), i saw two people almost immediately -- stean and my brother. both of them held me for a while, then walked with me to my locker. i stood in front of my locker, still bemused and bewildered and completely unable to remember the combination, so i turned and headed to the principal's office to find someone who could retrieve that information for me.

in the principal's office was my high school principal, sister richard marie, the school secretary, ada lovorn, and my angel of death himself, the good monsignor. sr. richard flashed me her usual expression, the narrowed-eyed one that said that she had no time for whatever i was going to bother her about and that she was sure it was something utterly dispicable. i said, "excuse me, but i can't remember my locker combination." the good monsignor made a noise under his breath. i responded with, "i'm not exactly having the best day." the principal handed me a piece of paper on which was printed my combination, and said, "well, you'd better consider yourself lucky that your mother was able to find you a good psychiatrist. otherwise you wouldn't be standing in this office right now." i took the card from her hand and walked out of the office and down the hall to my locker. still completely confused.

fin.

so there you have it, friends -- better living (and salvation from certain death) through psychiatry. mary anne mcnally strikes again. in my sleep and from beyond the grave, my mother is still encouraging me to go to a therapist.

[now, having read this, please don't go and try to, erm, psychoanalyze (emily says in her most holden caulfield of tones) me. i'm no fool -- i realize that this is an account of an unconsciousness clumsily vomiting, its nausea brought on by feelings of anxiety and inadequacy and fear of exposure and not enough sex and all that crap. so, whatever you're thinking, just stop. just hold back my hair and find the sawdust and wait until the dry heaves have subsided.]

perhaps needless to say, the whole ordeal made for unpleasant waking and has thrown off my entire day.