So, is anyone else out there just freaking exhausted?
I am in a constant state of frenzy.
Yesterday in a rush to put my son down for a nap before I had to frenzy off to pick up the den and frantically shove something muffin-y down my throat, I gave him the wrong bottle of milk. I gave him the one on the bookcase that my husband left there God knows when, hot and starting to curdle, instead of the cold, fresh bottle sitting on the changing table. I didn't realize it until he had gulped down over an ounce of spoiled milk. Great. Thank goodness, no tummy ache.
This past summer has been the worst summer I can remember. Financial problems, death, unemployment, miscarriage, stress, lots of tears, lots of anxiety. We made it through with the faith that fall and winter will bring happiness and relief. So far, so good.
But, the scars left from this Summer of Sam, are the reason, I think, that my nightmares are back.
Now, let me insert this disclaimer before you all delete me off your blogs: I am not a psychopath. I'm just repressed. That's better, right? Anway.
Close friends and family know about my nightmares. I have had brutal nightmares for as long as I can remember. As a child, I had dreams about sharks biting off my legs in the pool, or a two-headed monster slamming my sister and I down on parking lot concrete, or riding my tricycle off the roof of a tall building. I rarely had good dreams. Just nightmares.
As I got older, the dreams became more gruesome. Let me put it this way: my dreams would have put Rob Zombie and Clive Barker to shame.
When I turned twenty-nine, I went to therapy for a year to deal with childhood issues, my parents' divorce, problems I had in my own romantic relationships. I dealt with issues of resentment, repressed anger, insecurity, fear, shame. You know, all those really fun core issues.
Insert soap box here:
I'm proud of facing my demons and going to therapy. More people should. It isn't something to be ashamed of, as some might believe, instead something of which to be proud. Most don't have the guts to face themselves in therapy. Those who do, I say, "Bravo!" And I am glad the negative social ideas about therapy are starting to fade. Anyway. I'll jump down from my slippery, soap box.
To continue. After therapy, my gruesome nightmares stopped.
Yes, five years later, they have returned, although not as frequent. And, instead of being as gruesome and abstract as they used to be, they are now more personal. This week I had one I haven't been able to shake off.
I won't go into the details of the dream, but it dealt with murder. It was the worst nightmare I have ever had because it was so real. I felt every emotion I imagine those left behind might feel.
In the dream, I knew how this person was murdered and couldn't stop thinking about how they must have suffered, how scared they must have been, how desperate to get away. The horror of it replayed over and over and over again in my head. I thought about how we would never do the things together that I wanted to do, how I would never see this person again. I felt sick, angry, I could no longer function in my own life or even move about the house. Most of the dream, I spent bent over, sobbing and screaming.
Eventually, I woke up around 4:30 am. I was crying in my sleep. I curled up into a ball on my bed and sobbed long and loud. I cried harder when I realized it was just a dream and not true. Meanwhile, my husband didn't move. Sound asleep. I wanted to wake him up but realized there wasn't much he could do anyway. It was just another bad dream.
I cried for an hour. I turned on the TV for comfort and eventually fell asleep right before my son woke up. Then, I cried on and off the entire day.
I know the more I deal with this past summer and find peace with everything that transpired, the nightmares will cease and I can once again go back to dreaming about Jon Bon Jovi or flying in and out of castle windows, watching my deceased grandfather, who in the dream is now gay, flying around holding hands with his boyfriend.
Does anyone else have nightmares?
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