Can I Get Some Sugarplums Over here?

I've been having nasty dreams recently. My psyche is trying to tell me stuff, and I'm not getting it.

A few nights ago, I dreamt that I was at a resort with my family and President Bush. I spent 3 days just hanging out with the Shrub and his former secretary of state. And, in my dream, Bush was a very likeable fellow. He was the kind of guy that I'd invite to a party, you know?
The lucid part of my brain kept trying to step in and tell the man off, but it just wasn't happening. The dream was filled with a sense of fun, like hanging out with George W. Bush was just the best thing ever. After 3 days, our vacation was coming to an end, and I knew I needed to say what was on my mind before I lost the chance. So I told him, "You're a very likeable fellow. I genuinely like you as a person... But I will never vote for you as president. You have ruined this country and I despise that. You're a great person, but you're a bad politician; the people are suffering. You need to know they are suffering."
As I was speaking my mind, the feel of the dream shifted. The beautiful resort became shadowed, like when clouds block the sun. The air grew cooler and secret service men started talking into their headsets and moving around more.
L suddenly appeared at my side, and it was time to go. The Hubby-Man had already left. He was on his way to somewhere that we could flee to. My son and I ran to the rental car, and there were s.s. agents surrounding it, so we ran across the lawn instead. My dream ended as L and I were dashing across the golf course, knowing that the s.s. agents weren't looking for us specifically; so we would get away without having to harm anyone.

And if you think that's strange...

Last night I dreamt that I was with my mom and dad. Dad was saying how he was sorry he missed out on my growing up, and mom was furious -but trying to be nice. I couldn't care less about what my dad has done for 23 years, or where he's been. I just wanted to know his medical history. I asked him, "How long do women in your family live?" and "Does arthritis run in the family?" (this one I understand, my arthritis has been very, very bad this winter)
Dad rambled on about all kinds of things, but never really answered my questions. Then we were driving somewhere, and for some reason I had to get out of the humvee/jeep thing he was driving. So mom and I got out, then L got out too. We had gotten out near Hodak's
and started walking toward De Sales Church
. As we reached the corner of Ohio and Gravois, mom suddenly yelled, "Run!"
I could hear mom's (mysteriously appearing) transistor radio saying that a race war was happening. Mom gave me the radio and took off toward our old apartment. L and I started running southwest down Gravois. We had gotten no farther than Mary's Fine Foods, and I was considering ducking down the gangway -cutting across the parking lot -and losing ourselves in one of the abandoned buildings; when a young black girl broke from the crowd and stopped us. She said something about hurting us, and she had a reason that made sense to her; but I don't remember it because what happened next was so horrible. She was maybe 11 years old, with a rounded belly and just the beginnings of breast buds. She was a child, and I didn't want to hurt her. I was trying to think of a way to disarm the situation when she stuck her pinky fingers in L's ears. She said something about necessity and justice and then my ears were ringing with pain and L started screaming. I mean really screaming. And he was crying, tears covering his face. And for some reason, all his hair was gone -there was nothing but stubble on his head. (at this point, I woke up gasping; but the dream went on. My mind insisted on continuing the nightmare and finding some sort of resolution)
I was genuinely torn between killing the bitch painfully and trying to comfort my son. So I did both. I grabbed her nearest arm and broke it, then grabbed her throat and squeezed enough to keep her busy trying to breathe. Then I said to my son, "Can you hear me?" He wasn't looking at me, he was crying with his eyes closed. He didn't respond. A hatred welled up in me, the likes of which I've never experienced in waking life. I wanted so much to hold my son, comfort him and try to heal him. Instead I knocked the girl to the ground, put my knee in her throat and carefully broke both of her pinky fingers. My mind said, "That is enough. Tend to your son." But I didn't stop torturing the girl. I rammed my knee repeatedly into her crotch, breaking her pubic bone, then grinding the bones into her flesh.
At this point I woke up again, apparantly I'd fallen asleep. The locical me in my head was horrified. I felt an incredible pressure to STOP, just stop and heal my son! But I couldn't stop. I was afraid she would get up and hurt him again, and I could not allow that to happen again.
Finally I woke for the third time, and was able to take control of my dream.

Like all my bad dreams, I re-dream them until they work out like I want. So I spent the next 40 minutes working through scenario after scenario until my son could hear again.

So... What the hell is up with that??? Why would my subconscious need to create that? What in the world do I need to know so badly that I must dream this kind of awfulness?
I haven't had dreams like this since I was pregnant (understandable), and before that I was a teenager, trying to get a handle on accidentally reading people's minds or any of the other weird things that happened around me as a teen.