Strange Dreams

Haunt me.

Do you ever have dreams that just live on? Or maybe it’s a nightmare. I rarely have nightmares. But dreams, I have them. Oh boy, do I have them.

Between the ages of 5-12 I’d have the same nightmare night after night. It literally got so bad, I hated sleeping. I hated bedtime, and I’d lie in bed for hours before finally drifting off to sleep. I could go to bed at nine, and at 3am still be awake. I was that scared of sleeping.

The nightmare is silly now, but to my young self, it was terrifying. I was this itty-bitty person, and the whole world was this ginormous fat woman who wanted to squish me. Her body was a maze, and I had to find the end, and I had to make it through the maze to survive. The world- or rather huge woman- wanted to squish me. Kill me.

Why? Why?? What did I do?

I hated that dream. It scared me. I’d awake, heart pounding, and I could not close my eyes because when I did I disappeared in a void of a black maze. I could see nothing. I was this speck, fighting to live, terrified.

Come to think of it- that’s like life. Life is a huge “maze”, and we can’t see what’s ahead of us. Life is throwing us curveballs, and people are stepping on us. We’re skirting to avoid being killed- and not just physically dead.


I had a dream the other night that I was 14 weeks pregnant, and I was so damn excited. Until I go in for a doctor appointment, and they can’t find a heartbeat. And all I did was cry.

Last night, I had another dream where I just knew I was pregnant. I took a test, and it said negative. Again, I cried. It couldn’t be possible.

I’m sick of these baby dreams. I’m tired of wanting a baby so badly right now. I’m tired of running into all these pregnant girls my age. All these girls who have what I want. I’m tired of being the girl who’s jealous.

I am tired of every month being depressed when my period starts. Why can’t I convince my heart along with my mind that NOW is not a time to get pregnant, and that I should be thankful I haven’t fallen pregnant?

I hate dreams. They sometimes make reality harder.

Like, the dream I had where my baby brother didn’t die, and he was alive and growing, and happy, and not dead. I’ve had so many dreams where he was alive- but in almost all but one, he dies. I either can’t save him in time, or something. And I wake up crying. Crying because he’s dead. Crying because I saw him, held him in my dream, and because that’s what it was, a dream.

Dreams can be amazing things to experience. But other times, they just kill me.

And my baby brother would be seven in a week and a half. In two weeks it’ll be seven years since he died. Where has time gone? And why is my throat closing in on me right now?

I’ve had good dreams, though. Dreams that inspire the writer in me. I like those dreams.


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