Dear Mr. VP,
I had a dream last night that woke me up mid-panic. I haven’t had a dream so vivid in years.
In the dream, I knew I was living in some sort of dystopian Handmaid-type world. I was in a dorm with other women. We had a sliding glass door out into the street. It was night, and I looked out and saw a friend walking home. Then I saw a truck pull up, and a man get out. I knew the man was going to hurt my friend.
I started banging on the glass slider, screaming. It distracted the man enough that my friend was able to run to our door and I let her in.
But then it was known we’d helped her. Men started coming to our door and trying to get in. Screaming at it, and pounding on the glass. When I woke up and sat bolt upright in bed, it was because the lock on the door had broken, and I was dashing across the hallway of our dorm, trying to seek refuge in another room, chased by the men who had broken down the door. My dream panic woke me, throwing me into a woken panic.
I couldn’t shake the dream. I sat in bed for a few minutes trying to regulate my breathing, and remind myself that it wasn’t real. But this small part of my brain, the part that has been on high alert for months, wouldn’t let me fully calm. Half-asleep and terrified in the middle of the night, all I could think was that the Overton window keeps getting pushed farther and farther, and things I thought impossible, or things I thought would lead to the downfall of a presidency, are just happening with no consequence. So what’s to keep shit from really hitting the fan?
I know. I’m most likely not actually going to end up in some Gilead-style forced-imprisonment in a college dorm. But I miss the days of being able to easily reassure myself that things are just fine, and that I should just lay my head back down on my pillow and drift back to sleep.