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There’s something about Sunday night
that really makes you want to kill yourself
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Thursday, May 12, 2005


I had a nightmare last night about one of my clients. Third one this week. I think it's a sign that things aren't going well at work when it bleeds into my dreams. I dread working with, seeing, even getting phone calls from this client. I just want her to go away so I never have to deal with her again.

When I worked overnight shifts at the shelter in Chicago, I'd have fitful sleep, punctuated by the creaks and moans of an old house settling. The pull-out bed the overnight staff slept on was right next to a big window, opening onto the wrap-around porch. I'd bolt awake several times a night, sure that the creak I heard was a vindictive abuser who found the shelter and was breaking in. My half-waking dreams were filled with guns to my head, locks that didn't hold. They were so lucid, sometimes I'd wake up in the morning, not entirely sure it was just a dream.

I thought I was so good at not letting work get to me. I thought I was able to leave it at work and forget about it at home. But then again, I based that on only having to work in crises twelve hours a week. Now it's forty.

I'm tired of this woman invading my dreams. I just want her to go away.


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