Perchance to dream

“I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams.” ~Hamlet


Most of my dreams, since 7th grade, have been nightmares.

Why 7th grade? Couldn’t tell ya. Maybe I have some post-traumatic stress disorder from puberty or something, but whatever the reason, that’s when it started.

At first I figured it was just a phase. Everything seemed in flux at that age, and I assumed the whole thing would pass by high school. But the bad dreams stayed and got more disturbing. Eventually I started trying to get rid of them and was told they were something called “night terrors” because of the particularly graphic nature of the dreams and because they would sometimes cause me to react in real life (think sleep-walking but with punching and yelling).

Turns out there’s not a whole lot they can do about a thing like that. Some people are just prone to unpleasant sleep. And while there have been instances it’s been scary (the time I almost killed our cat because I thought he was on fire and I was trying to put it out) or embarrassing (the time I ran outside in nothing but a skimpy nightgown yelling at non-existent car thieves, resulting in a very awkward moment with my former neighbor) it’s mostly just an inconvenience.

But last night, after bad dream number 3,402 ( this one involving tornados, sea monsters, dead tigers and electric ghosts) I decided I’ve finally had it. Seventeen years of nightmares. That’s more zombies, clowns, serial killers, dead loved ones and alien abductions than anyone should have to experience in a lifetime, even if they are technically sleeping.

Back when this started, back when I thought it would pass, someone told me “dreams are God’s way of screaming at you what you refuse to hear in the daytime.” That seemed a little folksy for me, even back then, but I do think dreams mean something. The way that I have my own little subconscious house of horrors-- there’s got to be a reason. And if there’s a reason, there’s a solution. Maybe if I can figure out what these things mean-- what God has been yelling at me, as that woman said years ago-- maybe I can break through the parade of boogey men that marches through my mind most nights. Maybe I could just sleep, like most everyone else.

If nothing else, I’m sure my cat and my neighbor would be grateful.