I can't get where I'm going, the world is against me, and if there is a problem, I can't fix it.

Most people I know subscribe to a hypothesis of dreams, even though the strange mental process appears, much like the appreciation of music, to be largely unexplained. There is the Psychoanalytic Hypothesis and the Information Processing Hypothesis and the Activation Synthesis Hypothesis,  but really, if you formulate one of your own, it is probably just as valid.

I, for example, have my own dream hypothesis. I think dreams are physically generated by rapid blinking setting those brilliant little light blotches known as phosphenes in motion, so what is experienced is analogous to a film on the backside of the eyelid. The brain gives these arbitrary images meaning based on memories and experience and then spins the best yarn it can, often guided by the dominant schema of  the dreamer's subconscious. For example, the dominant schema of my subconscious is a form of anxiety based on the following distressing mantras: I can't get where I'm going, the world is against me, and if there is a problem, I cannot fix it.

Alas, this is also the stuff of my dreams.

My dreams are so agonizing, in fact, that they may be more appropriately classified as recurring nightmares; the stories are varied, but the themes are always the same. There are compartments and mazes to be navigated, repetitious objects falling or blocking my way, tasks persistently thwarted, unintelligible machines, small animals being attacked, incredibly sick creatures in my incompetent care, my own body decaying.  

Night after night throughout my adult life I have been plagued with these types of dreams, until one day I decided I wanted to fix them. I thought, perhaps paradoxically, that if I could fix my dreams, I could fix my anxiety. I researched "dream rehearsal therapy", a technique employed for people with recurring nightmares related to post traumatic stress, where one practices a happy ending to the nightmare while one is conscious. For a recurring dream about being chased by a lion, for example, one might rehearse the lion morphing into an nonthreatening kitten. Eventually, the new ending would find its way into the dream and thus permanently replace the more frightening scenario.

"This might work for me," I thought. And so, I imagined a satisfying ending that would fit in any manifestation of the theme no matter what the content. I thought I needed a "safe word" of sorts, and so I decided when catastrophe reached a certain level I would first state "things are too chaotic". Then, and I practiced linking the two together, a door would appear. The door would need some distinguishing feature in case there were other doors around, so I decided it would be bright red. Of course the next step would be for me to open the door and walk through it.  On the other side I imagined a calm, serene, pastoral scene: a field, a wide expanse of clear blue sky, mountains, lakes, birds, flowers, something clean instead of cluttered, contiguous instead of disjointed, peaceful. 

I rehearsed daily.

One night, after several weeks of practice, I was having a dream that I arrived home from work and my residence had been torn down and converted into a dirty oil refinery. The land had been stripped bare of all trees and the thick black oil was sloppily spilling over the sides of formidable metal vats into the soil, suffocating the remaining wild life. The neighborhood houses were on fire, but no one around seemed to care. I thought, very logically in spite of the surrounding calamity, "though it does make sense that my landlady would sell off her land to oil refiners, I really don't recognize these houses that are on fire. I must be in the wrong place".

And so, I returned to my "dream car": not a "dream car" as in the kind of car one most desires to possess in life, but a "dream car" in the sense that it is not really a car at all. In fact, it is  invisible, completely disobedient and frequently drunk: driving erratically, recklessly, slowly when you want it to go fast and too fast when you want it to drive slowly. The invisible dream car took me into the center of town in search of my residence. The town was dark and mostly abandoned, colorful brick row houses with Victorian bay windows along narrow, wet cobblestone streets illuminated with gas lights and a night stuffed with stars. And there, floating in the middle of an intersection, looming with grand absurdity, was a large red door.

I stared at it, dumbfounded. It was not just any red door. It was heavy, sturdy, thick, well-made. It was not just red but a brilliant scarlet red. It had decorative carvings around its panels and an ornate iron doorknob. And, just for emphasis, across its great hardwood breast, painted in fancy vintage script were the words: Red Door. 

"I-I-It's the red door!" I shouted gleefully, though the lucidity was incomplete since though I seemed to have an awareness of the magnitude of this discovery I hadn't quite figured out the significance of it. Never the less, my recalcitrant dream car did not give a damn, since it went careening onward, meandering past the intersection through several twisted alleyways before finally crashing into a light pole. 

Though the dream car was invisible I somehow knew that the damage to its body was substantial. However, I did not care. All that was on my mind was the need to return to the intersection where I'd spotted the Red Door. I abandoned my dream car, trying desperately to run but my legs were limp and heavy. I'd been injured in the crash and I was only able to achieve, at best, a languid stroll. I looked this way and that, uncertain which way to go. Despite my handicap I felt joyous anticipation as I chose what I thought might be the right direction. I thought it had to be right since The Red Door was my destiny. It was as though I was in search of God.

I limped through the neighborhood in search of the Red Door. As I turned each corner I felt a thrill. I thought I might find it. Each subsequent turn brought only disappointment. Each burst of excitement was followed by disillusion. As I walked I began to notice that the environment was changing. It was growing darker, for one, and the gaslights were dim and infrequent. The stars had faded and the air had become stagnant and cold. The row houses were getting tighter and taller and the cobblestone streets were becoming slippery and more narrow.

I stopped, thinking I should turn back the way I came. I should find the dream car, I thought and attempt to retrace my journey from there. When I turned, however, everything was different. I couldn't remember from which direction I'd come. I gazed up at the bay windows which bulged above me and had become so large that I thought they might collapse and crush me. I frantically tried to read the numbers on the mailboxes but they were in no decipherable script nor discernible order.  The sky had completely disappeared and the air was no longer breathable. I decided I must attempt to find a person who could help me. I turned to transverse the steps leading up to a residence but they were steep and impassible, the railings were too high for me to reach. Still, I crawled up the steps. They were becoming sticky, now, dangerous. I raised my head to see how far I had to go. I looked up and saw that the house I was approaching was furnished with a red door.

I looked down the street. Every single house, without exception, was furnished with a red door.

Panic ensued. I returned to the street whining fearfully and pathetically. I continued on but nothing changed. The houses closed in further, their red doors with thick brass locks mocking me, scorning me, their heavy windows were opaque and forbidding keeping me from any nurturing or beneficent entity that might exist inside. I was cold, tired, afraid. I thought I might encounter a kind stranger but none appeared. I thought I might encounter the intersection at any moment but there hadn't been so much as an alleyway for a very long time. Still, I maintained a semblance of hope that I would find relief. I would find the Red Door. It was important, I knew it. It existed exclusively for me and therefore I would find it. I pressed on, convinced that if I just found a way out I would also find the Red Door.

And then, finally, there was a change in the scenery. A marquee. Music. Lights. Laughter. People. A wide opening. An intersection. Could it be the intersection? I looked around but could not find the Red Door. At least the public restaurant gave me a way off of the cobblestone street, I thought. This was at the very least a breakthrough, an escape.  I opened the large red door and went inside to find a scene of gaiety. Formally attired waiters bustled amidst wealthy diners giddy with wine. Candlelit glass tables with delicate china, crystal glasses, fine silverware and silk napkins, and every bit of it red. I kept walking. I exited through the red swinging doors into the kitchen. In the kitchen fat chefs were splitting lobsters with jolly red faces and red kerchiefs and caps. The cabinets were red, the drawers were red, the vents were red, the back door was red and I ran through it into an alley.

I paused. I closed my eyes for a moment and swallowed hard. When I opened them again I saw, stretched across the alley, an enormous red plastic curtain. It had to be here, I thought. Here, I would find the Red Door. It was behind the curtain. It had to be. It was my destiny to find it. I slid the curtain open triumphantly only to find myself staring at an auditorium full of cheering people and a stage set for a game show. The host smiled, the contestants clapped, the lights flashed.

"Welcome!" said the host. "Welcome to everyone's favorite game: What's Behind the Red Door?"