In Dreams

I have always had weird and scary dreams.  As a child my parents would have to wake me up from a nightmare and in the morning I wouldn’t remember anything – including how scared I’d been the night before.

When I scream in my dreams it sounds like a whimper in real life and, in the past 3-plus years, Wes has woken up on several occassions to my dream screams.  And then he has to shake me awake.  More often than not I won’t realize what I’m doing and in the morning I won’t remember anything.  I sleep talk to – mostly just mumblings that don’t make sense, but I have been known to hold conversations in my sleep.

Last night I woke up at 3:00 am after having a bad dream.  It started out horror-movie style with Wes and me working in a resort where a crazed man in a mask was out there murdering people.  He wasn’t a great serial killer, though, because he made too much noise and we all got away.  But after we dodged the killer’s axe, Wes got a phone call telling him he was going to die.  And the weirdest part about it was that it was totally normal – a God-like person had called my boyfriend up and told him that he was going to die.

And so, of course, he listened and followed the directions on the phone call.  And then, of course, I decided to go with him.  The directions sent us to a coffin that would then be pushed into the ocean where we would die.  As we were shot out, torpedo style, the coffin turned into one of those ceramic paper bags (the kind that are popular during the holidays to stuff in Christmas reindeer) with suspenders on it.  We made it to the bottom of the ocean, where it looked exactly like all those poor unfortunate souls that Ursula takes in The Little Mermaid and, since we were still alive I was freaking out because suddenly I realized how ridiculous this was.  Instead of staying at the bottom of the ocean, though, we started to rise.  When we broke the surface of the water we were right next to an ocean side bar where all our coworkers were drinking.  So we joined them, deciding to put off the death scene until after a few cocktails.

Even though I had decided this was all ridiculous and didn’t want to go back down, Wes was perfectly matter-of-fact about the whole thing.  “It’s my time,” he kept saying.  “I have to go.”  And then I would cry, “But I’m not ready to go yet.”  Back and forth and back and forth until I finally woke myself up.  And even though I knew it was just a bad dream, I still had to roll over and make sure that Wes was still alive and sleeping next to me.

It took me almost 40 minutes after that to get back to sleep and when I did I had another bad dream.  It’s how they happen: bad dreams begat bad dreams.  I think it says that in the Bible.  Or something like that.

In this dream Wes and I broke up.  Well, let’s be honest here: Wes broke up with me for some reason (I can’t remember the specifics, just that it happened).  And I was sad.  Sad sad sad.  And then, a year later, Wes hears from some mutual friends that I kept every coat/jacket that he bought me or that we bought together and he realizes what a mistake he’s made.  He actually says to me, “I can’t believe you kept all your coats.  I had to get rid of all of mine: they reminded me too much of you.”  So we make another stab at this relationship and go over to his family’s for his neice’s 2nd birthday.

His sister gives me a huge hug and tells me how excited she is that Wes finally came to his senses.  But his parents are still mad at me and I can’t figure out why because Wes is the one who broke my heart.  They refuse to hug me and are, at best, civil.  And the entire time this is going on I’m just sobbing because I can’t believe I’m being blamed for something Wes did, or that such a happy occassion is being spoiled by this.  I sneak out of dinner and sit down in the hallway and cry louder and harder.  And this is where Wes’ dad finds me and throws a bundle of cloth napkins at me and says, “Pull yourself together” and then walks away.

And what choice do I have?  I pull myself together and head back to dinner.

And then I wake up.  I don’t put a lot of stock in my dreams simply because I have so many random/scary ones.  They don’t mean anything.  At best they’re mutations of what you’ve been thinking about (and no, I haven’t been thinking about Wes dying or breaking up with me) and I’ve been thinking about how am I going to survive our time in Southern California.

Also, I think I’m getting sick so I’m sure my brain is thinking some fucked up shit.

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