Whoa

First off, I ran 1.6 miles today. Yeah. I'm never, ever, ever going to skip that many days of running again. Good grief! I haven't huffed and puffed that hard in quite some time. Ugh.

Secondly, do you have extremely violent or bizarre dreams when you're super stressed? I used to have nightmares during stressful times but lately I'm having gory, violent, horrific dreams. Last night, I slept just under three hours because of them.

In my first dream, Dave and I are sleeping. The doorbell rings. I glance at the clock. It says 2:37. Bosley lifts his head and grumbles; Dave sighs and rolls over. I sit awake for a few moments, wondering if I'd really heard the doorbell. And then I hear breaking glass. Feet on the tile. Low voices. There are people in the house! I wake Dave, grab Bosley, and we rush into the bathroom. Bosley doesn't even bark (which would never happen in real life. He loses his shit if a butterfly farts. Seriously.) I call 911 and the dispatcher tells me it will be a while before they can get to us because we live out in the boonies. I'm freaking the fuck out. Dave is holding the door while a man on the other side tries to break it down. A crowbar slams through the door. Dave's bleeding everywhere. We're both shoving on the door. I'm screaming for help. I hear the click of a pump-action shotgun on the other side of the door--and then I woke up, sweating and panting.

After calming down, I fell asleep again. This dream was super violent and super creepy. It's a few years in the future. I've sold my urban fantasy series and have published six books in the series. Dave and I are super happy. We've got a second great dane--this one blue--and a kid or two. (I couldn't be sure. I just saw one high chair but there was a pair of larger kid shoes sitting in the kitchen.)

Unfortunately, I'd pissed off a rabid fan when I killed off a certain character in my series. We'd started receiving crazy letters and messages and all sorts of threats. We'd installed a new security system but still I felt uneasy.

So I'm standing in the kitchen, making dinner. (By the way, Dave and I had redone the kitchen with gorgeous new cabinets and Saltillo tile and stainless steel appliances.) I've got my back to the entrance from the living room/dining room. I hear someone enter the kitchen. Assuming it's Dave, I ask him to get something out of the fridge for me. The fridge opens, and I turn to ask Dave about the kids' baths--but it's not Dave. It's him! It's my stalker.

All I can think is I have to protect Dave and my kids. We start fighting in the kitchen. I scream for Dave to get the kids out but he comes rushing down the stairs. My stalker yanks a gun from his back pocket, a Sig-Sauer, and pops Dave in the chest. Dave falls and blood spills all over the gleaming wood floors. I manage to wrench the gun from my stalker's hand and throw it into the pantry. We grapple. We wrestle. We're clawing and biting and gnashing. I spot my chef's knife on the counter. I grab it and slash at his throat. He falls, clutching his throat, blood gurgling and spilling down his shirt.

Dave struggles to his feet. He's been hit in the shoulder. He gets to the phone and calls 911. As I pant and stare at my bleeding stalker, I realize the wound isn't fatal. And suddenly I just can't let him live. I know he'll get out of jail eventually. I won't let him terrorize us any longer. When Dave turns his back, I move to my stalker's chest, press my knees down hard so he can't breathe, and clamp my hand over his mouth and nose. He struggles, his eyes wide with fear. His teeth tear into my palm. But I just push down harder. His legs kick weakly. I just squeeze harder. He dies.

When I glance over my shoulder, Dave is staring at me, his expression disgusted, shocked, awed. And then I woke up.

Yeah. Yeah. I know. WTF? I'm so avoiding anything violent or gory for a few weeks. It's Jane Austen/BBC films for me...