The other morning, I woke up from having one of the worst dreams of my life. I know we all dream every night, but for a very long time, I haven’t remembered my dreams. Suddenly in the past couple of months I have started remembering my dreams.
The nightmare from the other night was that my son — who is now a grown man of 40 — was once again a child of 5 years old. He and I were walking home from somewhere, and we were with my sister Jen and her daughter Maggie. Suddenly an old red Plymouth pulled up beside us, and a man got out of the car and grabbed my son. He pulled him into the car and drove away.
I began screaming for them to stop, to no avail. Maggie and Jen were frankly quite lackadaisical about the whole event in that very way of dreams. I rushed home and called 911. (Seeings as he was only 5, cell phones were not yet invented.) The person who answered my call was even less interested in the apparent kidnapping than were Jen and Maggie. By this time I was terrified, and I began screaming. In my dream, I screamed and screamed and screamed until my voice went completely hoarse.
And then I woke up. As I was waking up, I literally prayed: Please God, let this just be a bad dream. And of course it was. The other good news is that while I was screaming in my dream, I apparently wasn’t screaming in real life. At least Bill says he didn’t hear me. I think even he — a deep sleeper — would have heard me screaming until I was hoarse.
Dreams are really funny things. I wish I understood them better. Even now — a 67 year old woman — I frequently have nightmares. Generally, my nightmares aren’t tied to anything in my real life. But they wake me up and cause me to have trouble falling back to sleep. Frequently I will dream about someone who I have not given a single thought to in literally years. Where does that come from?
As I was telling Bill about my dream, I began trying to analyze it. (Since I didn’t get my Ph.D. in Freudian psychology, that is probably a grave mistake.) I suggested that Court being “taken away from me” in my dream was perhaps indicative of the fact that he and I are far apart in distance, and I miss him very much. Maybe the fact that no one in my dream seemed to care means that I am feeling lonely and invisible, like many older people. Maybe I should quit trying to analyze my dreams.
Here’s a funny thing about my dreams. Whenever I dream about a house — including the house to which I ran in the above-described dream — it is the house in which I spent my formative years. Yep. The little house in Columbus, Nebraska, where I grew up. Despite the fact that I have lived in the same house in Denver for almost 30 years, I still dream about the house in Columbus where I lived for the first 18 years of my life.
I chatted a bit yesterday morning with the barista about whom I spoke the other day. As usual, she was very friendly.
“How are you?” I asked.
“I’m very tired,” she responded. “I didn’t sleep well last night. I had a terrible dream.”
We commiserated for a bit about dreaming. Her dream was that she went home to visit her family in west Texas, and everyone hated her. They wouldn’t speak to her and, in fact, were very mean to her.
“I don’t know why I had that dream,” she said. “I love my family and they love me. It was so sad that I woke up and tears were rolling down my cheeks.”
The good news for her is that she leaves today to go home for a visit with her family. More than likely, her dream is tied up in some sort of psychological feeling. I can’t explain. I’m just a blogger.