Trigger Warning: This post contains sensitive themes including violence, trauma, and symbolic suicide. Please read with care.
From the archives: Originally written in 2021.
As I revisit this dream years later, I do so with a heart that’s steadier and a mind that’s done the deep work—through therapy, self-discovery, and surrender. I’ve spent years untangling grief, naming the trauma I once buried, and learning to live forward with grace.
This was more than just a nightmare. It was a turning point.
What felt terrifying then now reads like a powerful metaphor—one I couldn’t fully grasp until healing had its say.
The madman wasn’t just a figure of chaos. He was my pain.
He was my depression, my buried sorrow, my rage and loss.
And in that final moment, he died.
Not me. Not the light inside of me.
That light was saved.
The hurt may never be erased, but I did not let it capsize me.
This dream marked the beginning of something holy: freedom.
The Schoolhouse Dream
By SK | A real dream, as vivid as daylight—etched into my bones.
Maybe it’s the anxiety dialed up to eleven.
Maybe it’s my nervous system, set off by relentless allergies.
Maybe it’s both.
I’ve always set high expectations for myself and how I live. That pressure can create its own kind of chaos. And though I perform well under stress, it comes with a price—dreams that unravel into nightmares.
This particular one felt like more than just a dream. It felt real. So real, in fact, that I woke up breathless and soaked in sweat.
The setting was a schoolhouse. But it wasn’t just any schoolhouse—it was my mind. Each room, each creaking hallway, represented a different corner of my consciousness. I watched from above, like a ghost observing my own thoughts.
There were people inside. I can’t remember how many or exactly what they looked like, but four stood out.
The First:
An older Black woman. She reminded me a bit of Whoopi Goldberg—not because it was her, but because of her wise, grounded energy. A mentor. A teacher.
She wore muted tones—beige and tan, loose-fitting layers. Her black and graying hair was tied in a purple and gold scarf. Her fingers were heavy with too many rings, and a long silver necklace with a medallion hung from her neck, swaying with every movement.
The Second:
A younger girl, maybe a teenager, nervously tucked into the corners of the rooms. She was easy to miss. Oversized, tattered clothing hung from her thin frame. Her dirty blonde hair draped over her face, and she never brushed it aside. She made no eye contact. Just…hid.
Near the end of the dream, she almost got caught in the crossfire. That moment forced me to replay everything—to make sense of the chaos.
The Third:
The mystery woman. The target.
She was young and glowing, calm and approachable. She used her hands when she spoke—though I couldn’t recall what she said. I just knew I wanted to be her.
She moved with such ease, floating between people, spreading light. Even the shy girl lifted her gaze to greet her. They hugged—briefly.
She looked like me, but wasn’t. Darker features. A messy ponytail. Slim and short. Light jeans and a pale sweatshirt—simple, but stunning.
Her face… close to mine, but more squared. Wider eyes. Full lips. Blue eyes—not hazel like mine. We were nearly the same. But we weren’t.
The Fourth:
The madman.
The gunman.
The nightmare.
His presence was electric. Deranged. Hair white and blonde, medium length, wild. His eyes—bloodshot and wide as saucers—filled with unfiltered chaos.
He wore an off-white thermal shirt, stretched and misshapen, the top three buttons yanked apart. His jeans were dirty and faded, like he’d worked a brutal day.
In his withered white hand: a silver handgun.
He stormed the schoolhouse, flinging the weapon around, pointing it at everyone as he screamed nonsense and threats. Pure hysteria.
I tried to recall what he shouted, but only a few lines stuck:
“I will kill her.”
“I’m not the one leaving.”
“I’m just gonna do it.”
He wasn’t just a madman. He was a storm. Wild. Unstoppable.
I felt real fear. Not dream fear—real fear.
I couldn’t move. I couldn’t scream. I just watched.
The shy girl collapsed against a wall and covered her head.
The madman rushed toward her—but changed direction.
He wasn’t after her.
He wanted the mystery woman.
His target.
When he found her, the fear in that schoolhouse was suffocating. Everyone scattered. Ran. Hid.
The wise woman climbed the stairs and approached him. Calm, fearless.
She looked him dead in the eye and said, “No.”
Then the mystery woman walked over to him too. Still gentle. Still smiling, hands moving as she spoke—though her words are lost to me. She placed a soft hand on his arm. Then she turned to walk away.
She pressed her palms together like a prayer, eyes closed.
The madman raised the gun to the back of her head.
I wanted to scream.
But I was paralyzed. Helpless.
I was about to witness something horrific.
The old woman yelled—
“NO! No, you will not! Shoot yourself! BE GONE!”
And in that very moment, the madman turned the gun on himself.
He shoved the barrel into his mouth and pulled the trigger.
Just like that, he collapsed.
Dead.
Gone.
I wanted so badly to open my eyes. To wake up. But it felt too real.
Then, suddenly…
Everyone in the schoolhouse looked up at me.
They saw me.
She can see us…
And I shot up in bed.
Soaked in sweat. Breathing hard. Heart pounding.
What the hell was that?
Dream Meaning:
(Shared courtesy of AuntyFlo.com)
If you see someone committing suicide in a dream, it may represent a desire to escape an external influence—often one that’s overwhelming or controlling. Spiritually, it can symbolize the end of a phase, a release, or a significant transformation.
These dreams may not be about physical death at all, but rather the need to let go of something deeply rooted. A relationship. A belief. A habit. A version of yourself.
I understand now.
The gunman was never a stranger.
He was the part of me that carried too much.
Grief.
Repression.
Unspoken pain.
Silent suffering.
And in the end, it wasn’t the light that died.
It was the darkness.
SK-
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