Woe is me, Nellie

 

I was out walking on a mountain road with a very narrow shoulder. There was a steep drop-off on the side, which made it all the more precarious. I'd either be in danger of getting winged by traffic, or I'd be sliding down a mountainous hillside into an abyss.

I was walking this fine line between those two alternatives, and I found myself slip-sliding away. I grappled and clawed at the gravely pavement and managed to pull myself back onto the road. Cars were swerving out of the lane to avoid hitting me.

One of the cars was driven by a lady who seemed to be a bit of a philanthropist. She took pity on me and let me follow her home. I was in her house getting the homeless person makeover as she took the time to lecture me about traffic safety.

Later on in the dream, I was out and about and found myself the subject of an inquiry. I was rounded up and brought before a large gathering of people, all of whom wanted to hear my story. Apparently, there were charges against me and my only recourse was to tell them my side of things. It would either exonerate or condemn me, depending on how I wove the tale.

I got the impression that it was all an elaborate hoax and that they were just desperate for entertainment. I felt that when I was done, I'd be the hero for sure. The suffering saint, the Seinfeld of tiny traumas. "Woe is me, Nellie" would be my name, and they would all laugh and cry along with me as I recounted my reasoning for all the things I'd done.

I never got the chance, though. I couldn't remember all the crimes I'd been accused of. I think it came down to four things, but damn me now if I can remember even one of them.

I should have woken up at that point, but I was stubborn and wanted to go back to sleep and dream my way out of this. I had another dream, which now I is fading, since I had to sit here and type this one.

Was I a sea monster? A recalcitrant pot farmer? I dunno. It's not coming back to me. Oh, well, I won't sweat it. If it happens, it happens.

Meanwhile, it is now Sunday Funday. I had some online training yesterday, which preempted my Saturday routine. I'm getting some instructional training on how to be a facilitator for my DBSA group. They need a few extra hands to lead the group from time to time. 

It is a peer led group for people with bipolar and depression, so I don't need to have any formal education, just the basics on how to guide a group discussion, avoid interpersonal disputes, handle meltdowns, you know, that kind of thing. 

I've been attending the group for the last year, and I have seen how it is done. At times it looks easy enough, like the group could just run itself. Other times, I can see where the facilitator has the difficult role of trying keep people on track or steering the conversation out of the ruts, as people can tend to get overly chatty or clam up altogether. 

I don't know how this would be a good fit for me, since I tend to do both myself. I won't be alone in the task, though. There will always be a senior facilitator on hand to make sure I don't stray to far outside of their guidelines. Most likely I will just be providing them with a little respite from handling the formalities of the weekly reading and calling on folks routine.

We'll see how this goes. It will be a huge step outside of my comfort zone, that's for sure. It's a step toward <argh> wellness, a word I'm reluctant to use, as it is one of my triggers, along with the G-word, the deplorable word, "Gratitude." That's a rant for another day. I've got a family Google meeting to attend.