I don't feel like writing about mother/daughter stuff anymore. The last one I wrote made me feel so sad and the idea of writing another blog either about being a mother of a daughter, or a daughter of a mother made me feel even sadder.

Then I realized, "Hey, I don't have to!" I am 51-years-old. If I don't slog my way through another mother/daughter blog the world won't come to an end. And it's not like I'm letting my daughter down. She isn't exactly jumping up and down with excitement to do this thing, so why continue?

I emailed Emily, and she emailed back, we are in agreement.

For those of you who have written in, with stories of your own, kind thoughts and wishes, thank you so much, it was much appreciated.

And for the few of you who complained that my blog entries read more as a diary and offended your discriminating tastes, please don't bother clicking on my blogs, or reading any further, because if you thought what I wrote was too personal and didn't belong on a Huffington Post blog, you haven't seen anything yet.

Okay, on to the fun stuff.

I had another nightmare last night. I don't know if these nightmares are the residue of diving into Martha's skin night after night in Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf, or if the mother/daughter blog was stirring up old memories and ghosts, but I've been getting them pretty consistently. Not the same nightmare, different ones: however, it doesn't matter what the dream, I always wake up, scared, sad and slightly hopeless, like it doesn't matter what I do, the world is a sad, sad place and there is no way to fix it.

Last night for instance, I dreamed I was entering a bathroom; it was small and narrow, no lights, but I knew my way, there was a bathtub on the right, not free-standing, but the kind that fits into the wall. I don't remember a sink and the toilet was tucked in behind a partial wall at the end of the room. There wasn't a window. I had a slightly worried aching feeling in my stomach. It was dark, just shadow shapes. I started to sit on the toilet, but the fingers of my left hand touched something, a dead body that someone had cut up and stuffed into the toilet, I couldn't see it, but I knew.

I tried to scream, but no noise came out, I knew that there was a good possibility that if I went for help, they'd think I was the murderer because my fingerprints were on the body, people might have seen me entering the bathroom, but reporting it was the right thing to do, so even though I might go to jail, I ran out trying to call for help. I got the mayor, who was reluctant to come but I pulled on his arm, trying to communicate even though only noises, not words were coming out of my mouth. He finally came and went into the bathroom. I was scared what would happen next and then I woke up.

This dream was totally different from the nightmare I had the night before and the night before that, but the feeling when I woke up was the same.

All of the nightmares, bad enough that I had to wake my husband from his happy sleep. Had to wake him, scared that if I didn't the bad dreams would find a way to sneak into and permeate my life.

I'm hoping they'll stop soon, drift away, take up residence somewhere else. I want happy dreams again, flying dreams, cozy dreams of love, family and good food.