August 31st, 1980

I woke from a deep sleep last night to the sound of someone banging persistently, angrily on the front door. The pounding grew in sound until it filled the entire house with a monstrous unearthly volume. I knew who it was– I could see my father’s face, lewd, drunken, twisted with insane rage. He has come to kill me. My heart pounded, my skin tightened with fear– the banging on the door thundered through the air. There is no way out of this. I rolled over to get out of bed and suddenly was awake. Without even changing physical positions, I made the transition from dreaming to reality– the reality of a quiet home with my dog sleeping soundly beside me. I listened to the quiet and said out loud “my father is dead.” The reality of his demonic visitation lingered in the darkness.

Going back to sleep, I dreamed that I was in a car parked on the side of a highway. Margie and her mother are in the car with me and we are watching a confrontation outside between my mother and father. They are drunk and fighting. My father is savagely slapping my mother in the face. She stands there demoralized, submissive and allows him to slap her over and over with his powerful calloused hands. He heads for the car. I know he will kill us next.

I wake again to my quiet bedroom and feel that wherever my mother is right now, she is in danger.