SWEET DREAMS ARE NOT MADE OF THIS

Doom and gloom do not become me. I do not wear them well. Most of the time I like to dress in sunshine and flowers and hear laughter and music. The glass is definitely half-full in my world.

 

Except when I sleep.

 

Numerous times in this journal I have mentioned that my sleep is plagued by disturbing dreams. Every single nite. Once, erroneously, I recall writing in here that these "bad" dreams had been occurring each nite for the past two years. I meant to go back and change it to the correct number. Which is four. Four years of nitely (and even daytime should I happen to take a nap) doom, gloom, sadness, pain, confusion. It takes a toll. Why do I have to remember them? Why can't I just wake to nothingness? No leftover melancholy or tears to haunt me. 

 

It is no coincidence, I am certain, that bleak dreams replaced any good ones right after my father passed away. I have yet to make the connection as to why. I have zero regrets about my relationship with him. He was the quintessential loving father, and I was the loving daughter. No doubts there. Maybe his death shocked my brain and rattled out all of the darkness that over the years had stealthily crept in via the newspapers and television news and ugly people with ugly mouths and vile actions. 

 

Anyway, Thursday was a difficult day. A hard day. One I despised. From the moment I awoke to the moment I fell asleep, I felt no happiness. I had seen and felt someone else's hurt. Agonizing hurt. The wounding of a soul. I looked forward to sleep. I cannot think while I am asleep, I recall saying to myself. And I immediately fell into a hard, deep sleep. And I dreamt. Of what? Let me share...

 

There was a cemetery. Vines were everywhere. Tangling around our feet. Climbing on top of headstones. My father was being buried. My entire family and our friends were gathered around while he was being lowered into the ground. Yet he was not the only person being buried at that time. In nearby places were little graves. New ones with the dirt still piled and dying flowers resting atop the tiny rectangles of children's graves. There were some burial services going on while Daddy's was. All of them were little children who had died. Amidst my own grief, I saw the stark faces of extraordinary pain on the mourners for all of those dead children. Families clutching one another, sobbing. Wails permeating the stillness. It was a glimpse into the epitome of pure, raw pain.

 

Then I woke. Horrified. Sick inside. As I tend to do, I sat and revisited the specifics of the dream, pulling together some sense of it. I have had death dreams previously, and none of them have ever foretold of someone I know dying. I generally dismiss that as a cause for such dreams. But this one shook me wicked hard. And then it all came together. I know what it meant.

 

Daddy being in it represented how much I miss him. Every day. And those tiny coffins and burial spots of little children? They represented the little deaths I am currently experiencing in my life. The death of hopes, wants, needs, relationships, and the future. Oh, yes. Little deaths. Each one marking my heart with a knife. Scarring it.

 

Maybe I have grown accustomed to having such extremely tormenting dreams, because while this one bothered me, analyzing it helped me get past its effects a tad sooner than I otherwise would. It made much sense in the light of day. More importantly, it fit all too well with the angst that had comprised my Thursday. I saw a little death that day. I felt it. And that nite my dream ran with it.

 

The good is that there will be new hopes and desires to replace those which have withered and died. Their time will come. When it is the right time.

 

"I believe in everything until it's disproved. So I believe in fairies, the myths, dragons. It all exists, even if it's in your mind. Who's to say that dreams and nightmares aren't as real as the here and now?" ~John Lennon