The Hidden Truth

The Nightmare

One would think that it would be logical that I would find peace and a peaceful mind at a peaceful building, yet my dreams defy logic. What I dreamed about could hardly be described as a dream, but more of a bloodcurdling nightmare of my past. Imagine a looming, immense figure with the face of total power telling you that where you are, what you are doing, and who you are is wrong to the last degree. Imagine that you are a slave, in the mind, in the legal system and by the values society has placed on this dark man, to a person you forced against your will to call father. Fear, dread, guilt, and shame slam onto your self esteem like the waves of an almighty angry ocean. You protest, you shout, you cry, you fear, and you rage, but there is nothing you can do. You can not deny your identity, but you can not comply with the wishes of this demon. You are trapped, unable to escape the vicious lashes from the words you feel obligated to suffer listening to. If you can understand the fear that a single man can inflict upon a tormented soul, you can understand the nightmare I had. What is worse then the nightmare is the waking up in the small ball of pitiful fear, unable to come to your senses, and have that memory control your thoughts.

For the second time that day, I was covered in my own, this time cold, shivering to the bone, sweat, but this time I was alone, thank the Force. I was told to take a nap before dinner, so my body could have a chance to deal with the dead cells of a disease. I felt sick to my stomach, but it hardly had to do with the shot. My still healing spirit brought, yet again, a memory of my past during the nap. There was no simple breathing exercise that could cure my deep fright. There were no simple few words that anyone could say that could bring warmth back into my body. I laid there on my cot, rather than a bed, unable to find the courage and strength to get up. I struggled to gain some sort of dignity, to remind myself my father was worlds away, unable to reach me, and yet his past actions had. I had spent well over two years recovering from the damage the abuse had done to me. I had spent hours learning to recognize the influences and the signs of my father’s suggestions and commands had on me. All this healing had done so much good to me, but I still fought, still cried, and still feared the darkness within me. I came to the Jedi, to a wonderful temple, to end this nightmare for once and for all.

There was a short, three sharp knock on my door. I quickly pulled my sad self up from the mattress, crossed the room, and tried to figure out how to open the door. There was a panel of three square buttons that I took to be the access to the door. They weren’t labeled, but there were red, green, and black. I took the green to mean “open” and pressed it. The door side open, to reveal the presence of my tour guide standing at my door. She bowed again, though only her head dipped down, and I was left standing there, still unable to decide to respect her show of respect. She told me it was time for dinner, or what they called the evening meal. My biological clock said it was two in the morning and food was not needed quite yet. At the same time, I still had fear hanging in the pit of my gut and thought food might very well vanish the twisting feeling, for the time being.

I was lead to the dining hall, letting the simple tan stone walls calm my swirling mind, to a simple square room, full of tables with Jedi sitting, happily and noisily eating their meal, of whatever the brown meat was. The people seemed happy, like they were well accepted and no one thought twice about who they were, if what they were doing was right, or if they were where they belong. I hesitated before looking for a table. A certain shyness came about me. My tour guide gave me a little nudge, pointed a close to the door, but alone table for me to sit at. I was truly thankful she had the grace and the ability to know I didn’t want to deal with people yet. She told me to stay seated as she would get my food. I nodded my thanks to her and spent my time studying the room I was in.

So many people mistakenly think I’m terribly shy, which would explain my reasons for being decidedly anti social. These people think I have trouble making friends for some unknown reason. This is hardly true. The reason why I have few friends and spend a great amount of time alone is because I can’t stand most people. Put the ability to feel emotions like you feel the breeze and put the ability to read people like a book in a glance together and suddenly you will find most people are dull, boring, and monotonous. They think they are different, they think they are being themselves, but what they fail to realize, what is painful clear to me, is they are simply the reflection of the group. These people lack charm; they lack any interesting, intelligent character that would make my time and energy worth spending. Because they are boring, they tend to annoy me, so I find it is best to stay away from them. For the times that life has forced me to spend more than a few hours with them, I tend to withdraw from them, or simply listen to their repetitious conversations about everyday life while I sigh in boredom. It is not that I think I am smarter than them, or better, but at least I try to think beyond the ordinary. I have no fear in going down a rugged, new path, taking the lead when none will, or letting my thoughts wonder down the idea few have thought. This is why I have no trouble sitting alone in a dim corner, nibbling at some strange meat, studying the crowd before me.