You ever have those dreams that seem so real, you say to yourself 'of course this isn't a dream!'
I hate those things.
They're never nightmares about monsters or even mundane things like cancer or losing a loved one. Not for me. They're the good dreams. Dreams where my father is alive. Or at least back from the dead (in a non-zombie/Pet Semetary way).
I had one like that last night: I flipped back and forth between being me and being a little boy (that's a new one on me) whose dad (always my Dad) was back from the dead. He was alive, and everyone was accepting it. It went on for days, weeks. All I could think was 'I can't wait for my Dad to talk to my husband/friend/sister/brother in law and prove he's alive again!'
My mind tried to tell me it was a dream. 'It can't be a dream!' I argued. 'It's going on for days. I know the difference between dreams and real life. None of this is dream-like.'
Are you sure he's not a ghost or a delusion?
'Yes! Other people are talking to him, and not in a 'Sixth Sense' way where it could be just coincidence. My mom had a conversation with him.'
Well then. You're right. It's real.
This was a disappointing morning. My husband is still asleep. I don't know if I'll talk to him about this before the blog posts in two days or not. I'm not crying or anything. Just sad that my brain worked so hard getting rid of all possible loopholes so I could have a few more days with my Dad.
I hate dreaming. It's just been stress dreams, bullshit like this, or terrifying nightmares every night since I could remember dreams until I was fifteen.
Give me the terror back: I have someone to cling to now. Give me monsters and chases and darkness. It's so much easier to deal with than this. Give me nightmares or give me oblivion. Not this half-assed inbetween no man's land of stress and false hope.
No more riddles. Please. No more jests. Comes the day you say 'what for'?
Please.
No more.
I hate those things.
Pictured: not me.
They're never nightmares about monsters or even mundane things like cancer or losing a loved one. Not for me. They're the good dreams. Dreams where my father is alive. Or at least back from the dead (in a non-zombie/Pet Semetary way).
I had one like that last night: I flipped back and forth between being me and being a little boy (that's a new one on me) whose dad (always my Dad) was back from the dead. He was alive, and everyone was accepting it. It went on for days, weeks. All I could think was 'I can't wait for my Dad to talk to my husband/friend/sister/brother in law and prove he's alive again!'
My mind tried to tell me it was a dream. 'It can't be a dream!' I argued. 'It's going on for days. I know the difference between dreams and real life. None of this is dream-like.'
Are you sure he's not a ghost or a delusion?
'Yes! Other people are talking to him, and not in a 'Sixth Sense' way where it could be just coincidence. My mom had a conversation with him.'
Well then. You're right. It's real.
This was a disappointing morning. My husband is still asleep. I don't know if I'll talk to him about this before the blog posts in two days or not. I'm not crying or anything. Just sad that my brain worked so hard getting rid of all possible loopholes so I could have a few more days with my Dad.
I hate dreaming. It's just been stress dreams, bullshit like this, or terrifying nightmares every night since I could remember dreams until I was fifteen.
This I can handle.
Give me the terror back: I have someone to cling to now. Give me monsters and chases and darkness. It's so much easier to deal with than this. Give me nightmares or give me oblivion. Not this half-assed inbetween no man's land of stress and false hope.
No more riddles. Please. No more jests. Comes the day you say 'what for'?
Please.
No more.
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