My daughter, a baby at the time in the dream, was kidnapped by some evil man, fair skinned, about 6-feet tall, slender build, appearances in his mid-20s or early-30s. I didn't know the man in the dream, and my infant daughter seemed to fluctuate between being my daughter to being an alternate part of myself, but it was unsure, and I tried my best to play the mother role. I had helpers in the dream who were male detectives and police officers trying to assist me with my daughter's capture. But one by one, my helpers were nowhere around, and I was left alone with the stalking kidnapper who demanded something from me, but I cannot remember from the dream what that was. All I knew is that I kept trying to give the kidnapper what he wanted so that I can get my daughter back. I felt helpless, afraid. No matter what I did to give this man what he wanted, I felt that he was not going to return my daughter. I also couldn't give him what he wanted in the end, but I cannot remember what any of his demands were. My focus remained on the well-being and safety of my daughter.

My mind raced in between the contact times I had with the kidnapper and the times I was alone in waiting. I kept thinking about all the horrible things the kidnapper and his accomplice were doing to my daughter. I wondered if my daughter were still alive. I could feel her pain, confusion, sense of betrayal from a mother who couldn't protect her. I kept thinking about all the horrible traumas that were being inflicted upon her - many of which were thoughts about what happened to me or one of my alternate personalities who took the pain for me. I didn't want the same thing to be happening to my daughter.

How did the kidnapper snatch her? When did the kidnapper snatch her? I didn't have those answers in the dream, and that wasn't even part of the narrative, yet hindsight looking back in the dream, I could feel myself somewhat responsible for being a bad mother who didn't pay attention 100% of the time. I wanted to rescue my daughter, and I feared what conditions I might find her in if I did rescue her. I feared that she would be so damaged - more so damaged than I was from my own childhood and adulthood traumas combined - that my own daughter might not even recognize me anymore.

I wanted to harm the kidnapper, but I knew that if I did that, I'd never get my daughter back. It felt worse than a double-bind. It felt worse than anything I could have ever experienced in my own life. It felt like a moral injury inflicted upon me by the kidnapper, who demanded things from me to simply appease his control, amusement, sick and noxious humor. The kidnapper laughed at me during the times we met. It was as if he knew of my intelligence in the situation, but kept dangling the bait nonetheless. It was as if he knew how to push my buttons, manipulate me, isolate me, and remove my helping detective and police support system that seemingly vanished without notice. Did the kidnapper harm my helpers? Were the helpers alternate personalities of mine, or were they symbolic helpers in my nightmare?

The kidnapper, helpers, and my daughter in the dream looked nothing like anyone I've known in real life. I didn't recognize any of their faces. I don't recall any times that my real daughter was actually abused or kidnapped, as I gave her up for adoption a little over 17 years ago, and she has been safe and healthy with her adoptive mom ever since (at least as far as I can tell from the open adoption relationship we continue to have).

NOT PART OF THE NIGHTMARE - A REFLECTION OF THOUGHTS RIGHT WHEN I WOKE UP JUST AN HOUR AGO: My daughter in real life is going to be 17 years old this month, and I do worry about her well-being. I also feel responsible for not being able to parent her, given all my mental illnesses and lack of capable guardianship for her safety. I felt that I couldn't protect her when she was with me for the first 10 months of her life, primarily because I was physically and mentally disabled and knew that should anything dangerous be inflicted on my family (my daughter and I), there would be no help. I felt helpless when I was a parent, and the church I had attended at the time judged me for having a child out of wedlock, etc. My police training from the past suggested that I wasn't the best parental role for my daughter, so I became my own social worker and decided on my own to give my daughter up for adoption. My daughter is adopted by a really wonderful woman, her real mother as I call her. She wasn't able to have children, but she wanted to adopt a child. She was married at the time of the adoption, but she later divorced. She only told me recently of the divorce, and I felt once concerned about my daughter's well-being since a divorce witnessed in childhood is traumatic. I didn't blame the adoptive mother, but I did comfort her. I reminded her how great of a mother she is, and how protective she is. I worried about the adoptive mother's well-being, too. For the past year, since I learned of the divorce, I have been worried about my daughter's well-being. Although I'm not my daughter's legal guardian, I am still her biological mother, and I will always care. I kept telling myself that I would do anything in my power to help my daughter or the adoptive mom if something bad were to happen. Well, as it turns out, years prior to the divorce, my daughter's family lost their home from a wildfire. I only learned of that years after-the-fact. I felt helpless, but I knew they didn't want me to worry. I also knew that I didn't want to interfere with their family unit, so I've limited my contact with the adoptive mother this entire time - 17 years - to only speaking with her once or twice a year. I wanted my daughter to feel connected to her adoptive mom (and then dad) as her real parents, even though I am well aware of the pain I caused her from giving her up for adoption.

Prior to the adoption nearly two decades ago, I kept thinking about my silenced traumas in the military, and how I could never be able to protect my daughter from men who harmed me in the military. I tried to parent her during the first 6 months of her life (holding her when she cried, feeding her, taking her to doctor's visits for all her shots and well-being checks, bathing her, changing her diaper, having toys to for her to play with, singing to her, talking to her, etc.), but I was so worried about anyone harming her that I kept us sheltered inside most of the time. I wanted her safe from the dangerous world, but I also wanted her safe from my own symptoms of paranoia. I searched for nearly a year to find someone suitable to be her adoptive parents. During my exploration, I found the adoptive mom and tried to minimize the attachment issues my daughter may have from her separation from me by having my daughter and I spend time with the adoptive mother together, and then exchanges back and forth between the adoptive mother and me occurred, so my daughter would hopefully feel as though it was like any other family with extended family members who watched over their kids. Eventually, my daughter spent more time with the adoptive mother and less time with me. I wanted my daughter's bond with the adoptive mother to be strong enough before I was legally required to say my final good-bye. It was the best all of us could think of to ease any separation trauma. I had no idea about psychology at the time of all this, as I wasn't in college at all and had dropped out years prior. I just had a sense of what I felt as a child, or something I couldn't remember but could feel or relate to inside at the time, so I did what I could to protect my daughter and make her transition to her adoptive parents a smooth one.

Today, I wonder if I screwed up. I hardly had any help, and most of the help that was offered was judgments of me as a bad mother. I would have given my daughter up for adoption right from birth, but the judgmental people I had spoken to insisted that I try to be a parent. One judgmental person even said to me, "You made your bed, now lie in it." So triggering. I tried so much to be a single parent. I love my daughter and bonded with her the first time we met. I have photos of us together in the delivery room. I remember labor. I remember taking her home for the first time. I remember having to move with the limited money I had because my roommates at the time couldn't handle a crying baby in their home. It was the hardest time for both my daughter and I. It wasn't stable, and it wasn't what I wanted her to grow up with. I wanted my daughter to be financially stable in her childhood. I knew the adoptive parent(s) would have to be financially stable. I also knew the adoptive parent(s) had to be mentally, emotionally, and socially stable.

The adoptive mom and dad (prior to their divorce just a few years back) are somewhat semi-celebrities. I worried about my daughter being center-stage to any judgments from her soon-to-be peers, since her adoptive parents are semi-celebrities. Fortunately, however, I heard nothing but good from the adoptive parents over the years. The adoptive parents told me - from the time of my daughter's first day of school to now, in high school - that she has many friends, she had a boyfriend at one point but ended it and did well with ending that relationship, made the cheerleading squad, got good grades, got awards, etc. I also heard that my daughter asks about me all the time, which breaks my heart. I want to speak with her, but I left that decision up to the adoptive parents. It's not easy for an adoptive mom, either, so I love her too much, too, to step in as the bio mom too quickly. In a sense, I care about my daughter and her adoptive family, because that is my daughter's family.

My daughter's family is more stronger than my own, and more sane. My daughter is exposed to the good things in childhood that I could only dream of. That is precisely what I wanted for her, and precisely how I wanted to bless a woman who wasn't able to have children of her own. In one conversation I had with the adoptive mom, she told me that in essence, we are both her mothers. That broke my heart, and made my heart happy, though we both share different sides of motherhood - for me, it was labor and the first 10 months of my daughter's life, and for her, it's being a lifelong mother who will be forever bonded to my daughter's heart. My hope is that when I get to meet my daughter for the first time - or, in essence, reconnect with her after all these years - that we can form a relationship that is comfortable for both my daughter and her (adoptive) mom. I will allow her to feel whatever she wants to feel toward me - whether that be anger, sadness, etc. I want my daughter's feelings to be valid. When she asks me questions, I will ask her adoptive mom to help me with answering her, in addition to maintaining my own authenticity with my answers. I will never want to answer with the tone of making excuses, but rather offering explanations and reiterating that I am, indeed, responsible for her pain from having been adopted. I will continuously reiterate that I love her, have always wanted her, and will continue to love her in whatever way feels safe for her.

Sometimes I think about the dynamic between the adoptive mom being a celebrity and me being a then poor, barely surviving minority. I worry about tabloids and other media outlets targeting us for a story, and targeting me, my daughter, or the adoptive mother. I worry about things like kidnappers, stalkers, and other criminal offenders who might target any one of us should our story come out. So, silence again wins.

I'm hoping to rebuild my life so that I can have a nest-egg for my daughter when I pass away, and enough social capital with criminal justice professionals to protect her from any harm, or to serve as her capable guardianship. I'm hoping to leave behind a legacy that my daughter will be proud of, as opposed to feeling ashamed from the legacy I currently hold with multiple stigmas attached. I want my daughter to see how I tried to end historical traumas, transgenerational traumas, and any other traumas by finding a better life for her.

I feel that my nightmare, in part, represents the fears I felt above - fears that I have yet to process in therapy from a trustworthy and nonjudgmental therapist.

I also felt that my nightmare, in part, represents the traumas in my own life, and the sadness felt from many of my littles, including a baby me inside the "core" area of my inner world. (I have DID, for those who don't know, as well as PTSD; I'm also a disabled veteran/MST survivor, and a polyvictim of lifetime traumas from birth to adulthood).

There are many traumas that are somehow related to the nightmare I experienced, including my feeling helpless in the face of powerful authorities who held power over many areas of my life, and who abused their powers.