Concentration camp

Date: 3/17/2019

A bit of a long one. Part of the dream was recapping an instance in my life where I was very young and accused ridiculously of something I didn't do. I was then brought to a concentration camp of horror. I, with a lot of help, escaped it. When I was having the dream it felt so real, so genuine. I was filled with anger and very upset that part of my life was spent somewhere I didn't belong, yet it was such a costly thing that I went through. It took a toll on me. Every time I thought of it, I was scared, worried I might go back, I felt unsafe and wanted. My dream displayed this in a strange way. I found myself in what seemed to be some sort of harsh prison. I was hiding most of the time. Simultaneously, it seemed, I was learning about a fictional African American lady who was also mistakenly put in dome prison. I then took the form of her. I was eventually in a room which was a place she hid. At first, I was mostly watching her, partly controlling what she did, but eventually I was in that room. It had a bed, not a pleasant one. And a bus. As I watched her, it gave history of the bus. I was informed that this room was her only hiding place, hard to find her. When I became her, morphing into myself again, in this room, I was hiding there. Scared, unsure, confused. Should I go in the bus? Nowhere could possibly be safe. There was a pet, I believe a cat. He started making sounds, or something did, but only once or twice, very quiet sounds. I had a sense come over me that was positive that was enough to alert unwanted attention. I sat there hopeless. The room was more hopeless, norhing was in it, the bus was gone. No one was really coming. I heard someone talking, jabbering consistently, to themselves. This kind of speaking I only know by one person, my sister. She was keeping me there, trapped, scared. I wonder how she feels. She must feel in this prison. I digress. Slowly, the matter of me being in the dissipates, and I eventually find myself with my parents. We were visited by some men whom I feared had something to do with taking me back. I became anxious, an anxious scared child. I was a lot younger, young enough to be undeserving of this. My parents didn't seem to happy. I must've asked what happened. I do remember asking why I went to the camp in the first place. They busied themselves and I was practically begging. I never knew why they allowed me to go somewhere so cruel, but so real. Where they hiding it? No, they eventually told me they had to testimony for me and I was taking unfairly. Why? What was rh evidence against me showing me doing? What did they possibly think I did? I'm not sure why I couldn't remember a trial. I imagined my parent sitting in court behind the trial where citizens sit, and I imagined myself there, a wonder why I couldn't remember. The camp did seem quite a while ago. The next thing I remember was more hiding. They must have been searching for me. My sister was home and she came downstairs. I hugged the wall in my dad's office, playing with a cone with "hair lint" as I called it. She was pacing around unknowledgable I was there. I don't know why I was scared of her, how could she inform that I was here to be taken back? I moved to the other side of the doorway, next to the window, I began to play with the comb and satisfyingly remove chunks of a light gray buildup of hair. I then questioned what the government would want with a kid whose life consists of playing with combs. I'm not sure what happened next, but it seemed to skip around with me being in a camp. I couldn't make out what I was doing or if I was in pain or discomfort. I think they may have found me, taken me back to a place where people most likely pass away. A place where death is a light concept to think about, and living brings a sense of dread. The next scenario was of a neighborhood. One free and sunny. All the neighbors spoke to each other, but those farther away, knew not of their far away neighbors, in fact, they were strangers. This concept was highlighted for some reason. I don't believe I was ever in this neighborhood, and I don't think I knew anyone, but their joy reminded me of people. Yet it seemed fake, have a potential that was held back barely to eventually lead to some downfall of everyone's misfortune in the neighborhood. I remember my escape of my first camp was coursing through my dream memory. It was dark, but I was almost out. I was being chased. All seem lost, and at the same time I had newfound hope. The memory didn't show me getting out, but I already knew I did. I don't know where I was, I only knew this memory. It haunted me, controlled me, and the worst part, it was real. This life was real, I was running from something I never did. Then, all of the sudden, it could pause, be controlled externally, buttons where being pressed. All this build up of this life I have taken to be reality in this dream was now being represented in a video game, and I was going back to that game, to play it, yet when I did, I was in it. Scared and cold again, I immediately stopped playing, jusr like that. That easy, I just quite and it doesn't happen. I couldn't go through it again, as if it did happen. There was a second one, as if I did go back to the camp. I started playing and I was in a room, stuck in some doctor's office bed. The room was dark, and I felt restraints against me. I wrestled with it, and started calling inanimate objects dumb, like an arm rest on the bed. My overcoming sense of dread and helplessness of no longee living just as easily as it came, became a simple bad mood, and I stopped playing the game. I have no more memory of anything new aboit this dream. That was it. I woke up at 3 in the morning, and began writing it almost right away. It is now 4:33 in the morning, same night. I'm not one to believe that dreams have any greater way to show what we feel or where we are in our lives. I'm a happy person, and certainly relieved my life of a good family is what it is, and I don't have any fear of needing to hide. It was strange how real the dream felt.