Sometimes a cigar is not just a cigar

I woke up in the middle of a dream this morning. It was a dream that would have pleased Freud no end. He would look at me drily and go "Duh!" and also "I told you about dreams, didn't I?" Because that's how Freud would roll if he was still alive.

From the very start, the topic of the dream was clearly defined: depression. A close relative of mine was depressed but not showing it. He arrived for lunch, and a discussion followed on the nature of depression and how to recognise it. I said it was when you couldn't accomplish anything, and all you wanted to do was sleep or watch TV - the only time you could manage things was if you needed to be seen to be managing, or you needed to in order to keep a job or take care of children. And then no one could tell you were depressed. (I suppose we weren't talking about the full-on non-functioning depths of depression.) He just agreed and said he'd been asleep until right before lunch and now he seemed fine, but as soon as he was on his own again he'd go back to sleep.

Then An, may birdpoop only fall after she has already passed by, arrived on the scene. My sister who is mad about psychology and about Freud. (This is not a subtle dream.) More discussions about depression.

Then... THEN! I was in a lovely forest/nature-like place and my house was in the middle of it, with a pretty fence and a gorgeous garden. It was such a very idyllic place to live. Only the paint was flaking off and all around the house in the garden and on the path outside were boxes of junk. These boxes were spoiling the house completely and they stopped people getting to my house, as if there was an obstacle course of junk to get to my lovely core. (I know - subtle.)

Two people from my choir were there, looking through the boxes and trying to clear them up. One of them was my cousin, who is the choir chairman and who I have on occasion let down by not checking bank statements etc. quickly enough (I am the choir's treasurer). The other was a lovely woman who teaches courses involving stress reduction and mindfulness. I really like her. Part of the reason I really like her is that she seems so very sorted in her life. These two people were sorting through the junk stopping people getting to my pretty house. (Enough already, Freud!)

The state of my house and the content of the boxes were profoundly embarrassing to me. I just wanted to disappear and for the helpful people to go away and leave me to it. The boxes were falling apart and dirty and they were full of random paperwork, toys, books, tissues - many of them were half empty. Isn't it funny (sad-funny I suppose, not funny-funny) that my pretty house was so literally surrounded, spoilt and blocked off by all my ugly baggage?

So - I don't think we need Freud, do we? What a dream. What a dream. Time to get rid of some mental junk methinks. I'm not depressed just now, but I'm taking this as a very unsubtle warning about the future from my subconscious.

Damn Freudian dreams confronting me with my damn demons. Damn dirty cardboard demons full of junk.

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I just thought - I'm glad in my dream I had a lovely house surrounded by junk, rather than a grotty flat dressed up with fine paints and pretty flowers on the outside. Basic self-esteem seems to be in place.