Yesterday was a brutal day. Sometimes I wake up in the morning, after the nightmares, and I feel infected by the dreams, as though I'm covered in sores. Infection is the only metaphor that seems to express the way the dreams linger on my skin for the entire day after I've had them. I can't shake the fear and nervousness, or the horror at some of the images.

Two nights ago in the dream there was a mentally ill man who'd been chased by a lynch mob and then locked in a furniture store. He was wearing dirty clothes, and a crumpled green knit hat. He was peering out of the display window, his hands flat agains the glass, his face frozen in terror. The more he wanted to get out, the more the masses wanted to pile furniture against the door to keep him locked in. I was trying to convince them otherwise: "He's sick. He needs help. He's not dangerous to you. We'll get him help." But no one listened. It was like I was in Night of the Living Dead saying, "He's a flesh-eating zombie, it's true, but let's be nice."

For the entire day, his face haunted me. That sadness and fear seemed to permeate the fabric of my shirt and jeans. It made me shaky and depressed, and I found doing any work was impossible. I've been told these vivid dreams may be a side effect of one of the meds I'm taking, and I have to look into that. I'm wary of going in that direction since my meds work so well, but I can't possibly go on like this.