In my fantasy, I’m pulled into The Underworld while my sister, five-and-a-half one moment, twenty-seven the next, marries, and goes on to have a little girl she names Emma. In a sense, I’ve created my own nightmare—one I use to self-soothe with, one that helps me fall asleep. Perhaps a psychotic lullaby is better than no lullaby at all, and I’ve noticed that when I indulge in disturbing thoughts while I’m awake, I’m less likely to be ambushed by them when I sleep.