Dreams can be hilarious and make you laugh every time you recall them. Like the one where I’m being chased by the Tazmanian Devil, or the one where I’m playing an organ at my sister’s wedding…but the organ is attached to one of those giant lawn mowers that you stand on. Or the one where Tracy pulled my pillow out from under my head, waking me up and saying, “pull your pillows away from the edge of the bed quickly!” which made me peer suspiciously, yet cautiously over the bedside to see why. Yes, funny dreams are, well, simply put, fun!
But I hate bad dreams. Not necessarily nightmares with scary monsters and fearing for my life. But dreams that make me sad, angry or horribly depressed. My scary monsters don’t raise their hands and bare ugly, blood-soaked teeth. No, they take the form of those I love the most doing things I fear the most: rejection, death, loss.
Yesterday I laid down on the couch to watch football and take a nice, peaceful snooze. The house was completely empty for the first time in a long time, and I relished the quiet. But I dreamt that Tracy’s cancer was back in full form and that he had hidden that fact from me. I chased him around the house, demanding he give me an explanation and the most I could get out of him was, “I didn’t want you to worry.” I woke up when my son came running down the stairs into the basement to tell me that he, Molly and Tracy had returned. I practically leapt off the couch into my husband’s surprised arms.
I was so grateful my dream was not true, but it disturbed me for the rest of the day. I could not shake the feeling. Last night, I hugged my husband for about the 7,962nd time that day and almost dreaded turning off the light. I did not want to have another dream.
I slept soundly, no dreams, but I still can feel the lingering affects of the terror I felt from yesterday’s nap time dream.
I hate bad dreams.