Social Conversation For Thinkers, Listeners, Doers and Creators

I have had an entire lifetime of unusual experiences. Over the years I’ve learned to keep my mouth shut about them unless invited by someone else to share. Sometimes even that personal code is tossed out the window. This is one of those times.

The other night I had a “dream”. I choose that word knowing it doesn’t fit the experience but since it happened when my physical body was sleeping, that’s the word we all will understand. Nothing in this dream offered any clue that it was a dream event, other than the fact that I could go forward and back in Time. Some of my friends will call that astral or soul travel, not dreaming.

They Find Me

A woman, whom I know only from my dream wanderings, has found me crouched in a corner of a room in her house. I know this woman. She has an enormous farmhouse with many wings and rooms situated on the outskirts of an even more gigantic property that consists of a huge horse stable, mall-like shops, and manufacturing types of businesses that employ hundreds of people. In return for free access to riding her horses and access to the entire enterprise, I clean her house and am an occasional Nanny to her children. She is a firm woman, but I’ve long ago earned her trust. I am devoted and loyal to her.

I already understand that I visit this place in my dreams many, many times, because it emulates how I grew up. From the age of ten I worked for the things I most wanted. We had our own horses growing up, but to show and train horses and teach myself to ride, I worked for several stables. The one I loved the most was next door to where I lived. So many life lessons, even the most harsh, occurred there and it is no wonder that my mind has created a version of it to visit to this day.

And so it is in the large house I am discovered in terrible condition. My clothes are more like shredded robes and my hair is a tangled mess. I’m weak and disoriented. Gradually I realize where I am and feel grateful to be in a place where I feel safe. I’m found in this condition by the woman who owns the house. She has no age or name but I always know her by her “presence”. Typically unflappable, she is upset to find me in such bad shape, and asks how I got that way.

Here is what I told her. As I did so, I re-lived it and experienced every emotion as if it was just happening.

Hostage Takeover

A group of friends and I are inside bar, location unknown. I’ve never seen it before, nor do I recognize anyone I’m with. Suddenly all hell breaks lose! Three men, obviously of Middle Eastern origin, brandish their guns and shout at everyone to get to one side of the room. There is a tall “leader” man, seething with hatred. A smaller man, who seems of little consequence, stands to his right. Another man, who appears to be less evil, is next to the smaller man. All three surround the cash register and shout orders. We are hostages in the bar, for reasons unknown.

The bar goes dark, so that the only light is a candle here and there. Time passes as we wait for something to happen. I think later that we were waiting for a demand to be fulfilled or rescue. I feel compassion (!) for these men, despite being absolutely scared out of my mind. I don’t remember what I said, but I made an attempt to talk to the men, and one of them responded by yanking me from the group and forcing to sit on a stool closer to the cash register. He stood behind me but answered my questions.

As the “dream” continued, the man and I talked to one another. The leader was annoyed as hell but didn’t interfere. To show that he wasn’t softening up, the man I was speaking with would periodically wave his shiny knife in front of my face. He would lean into my ear to tell me I could die. Each time he did that I froze in terror, thinking he would cut my throat at any minute. Eventually he sat on the stool to my left, put down his weapon and we carried on a casual conversation. He admitted to me that he liked me because I was willing to listen and hear what he had to say and that I had asked to learn what was making them so angry.

I remember we got to comparing customs and rights for women. I stood up for American women and he thought I was funny. I told him having so many wives would make me jealous and he grinned at that. His anger slipped away. I could feel him liking me and I was no longer afraid of him either. Meanwhile, around us, were terrorists and hostages. In a sudden flash of light and noise, a huge commotion erupted. The hostages were screaming and there was movement everywhere. As a show of force about how serious the terrorists were, the leader shot and killed the smaller man on the spot. This must have happened just before there was a rescue because in the chaos that happened after he did that, all I remember is being harshly grabbed and removed from the scene under cover of darkness and amid bullets and screaming voices.

Kidnapped

Time shifts at this point. It sped up and slowed down in spots where I may have needed to know something. I told the lady in the house that my hostage taker had compassion for me and didn’t want me killed or harmed. Against his leader’s wishes and going against their rules, he kidnapped me, took me home and I become one of his wives. I even bore him a child! He showed me respect and we educated each other as our relationship grew. I became comfortable with my new life, although I disliked being one of the wives. However, I also discovered it was not as horrible as I had imagined it would be because of how well I was treated by everyone. I found comfort in the Muslim way of life and adapt. My captor is a large man, with kind liquid brown eyes, but I never learned his name. There was no exposure to any type of cruelty.

Time leaps forward again. The USA had managed to rescue me from my captivity, brought me home and interrogated me. I refused to talk. If I admitted I had grown fond of my Muslim captor, I knew they would call it “Stockholm Syndrome” and I didn’t honestly feel that was the case. I had developed feelings for him and internally was confused about it. If I admitted I may have loved him, I knew I’d be crucified by everybody and called crazy. I knew that if I spoke about the experience, the media would try to find him and his family or try to find the child I had with him, so I refused to tell them about the baby or give any information about my life there. For that, I was mentally roughed up by the US interrogators who wanted information on where to go after terrorists.

In the end, I was dumped off at the lady’s house. I walked in to find the house was empty. I wanted to take a shower but was too weak to do so. I wound up choosing to sit on the hardwood floor in the lady’s own bedroom because it was the only place I found comfort.

After I told her my story, I woke up.

What the heck?

So, was this a dream? I woke up feeling as though I had been in a coma. It took all day to feel like I was here again. Was this just a very active dream from an overactive imagination? Was there a message for me? What would I have done if I had been in that situation? Would I have REALLY reached out to listen and try to have an open mind or would I have cowered in fear like everyone else?

I’d love to hear what you think.

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