it's been a while since I've posted about dreams

Didn't I just write the other day that it was clear that I'd been making progress in the psyche department? Life lesson that sometimes takes a long time to sink in: it's a process, this thing called health. One week I feel like I'm done and the next week I have dreams like this.

I'm back living at my mother's house and, though she knows that the last thing on earth I need is to see my sister, the one who beat me, she tells me that said sister is going to be moving back into the house for one day a week--Mondays. I do lots of screaming, primarily about how much I want her dead (nothing new there). Then the academic in me shows up and begins explaining to someone (I don't remember who) the difference between shame and anger. Shame is anger kept inside, directed at the self. Anger is directed at others.

As though it were all that simple. But in my dream it was, and somehow that helped me understand a) sister's anger and b) my screaming and shouting about wanting her dead.

No wonder I'm an Eeyore. These dreams bring back the futility that characterized the first eighteen years of my life. Why bother?