Recently I woke up a couple hours earlier than I usually do because of a dream I had. The dream itself wasn’t anything particularly disturbing. It followed weird logic but dreams tend to, so it wasn’t that. It was more that it was almost what normal used to be like. It wasn’t anything that ever happened, not the way it played out, but it was just so every day that it struck a chord in me.
It’s nothing that will ever make it into a story. While I have done that, they’ve been some of the more interesting ones, or ones that wouldn’t leave me alone until I had expressed it into a document. There was nothing significant about the dream because it was almost a normal day when I was in high school. It’s striking, however, that out of everything my mind could remind me of the past, it’s the banal versus the traumatic.
My dreams are why I take medication to remember them less because they have a nasty tendency to follow me into the waking world. The medication helps, and it helps quite a bit. It means I have less overall fuel for horror sometimes, but I’d trade that for peace of mind any day. What made this stick out so much and linger at the back of my mind for hours now, is just how it’s almost normal. Not quite, mind you; between shaky dream logic and how much of my past didn’t follow any sort of linear train of thought I have ever puzzled out, it wasn’t quite right. But it almost was. I never dream of the past. It’s less the actual memories and more the stress of the situations that is the only reason I can think of. My nightmares carry the themes and emotions of my life more than anything that ever happened. That’s what makes this stick out so much though. It was startling compared to the dreams I normally remember.
Still, though, it was a nice break from the stress of dreams that are desperately trying to make sense of the past. The ones I turn into stories help quiet the specific dream, but the themes don’t ever really go away. They linger, sometimes all day long, unless I do something to purge them. For me, writing them down helps. It takes away the sting of emotions that are otherwise overwhelming, lessening the traumatic memories associated so I can go on with my day. It also gives me something for my effort, which helps a lot too. Having something that entertains others, inspires them, and gives them the knowledge it’s not just them adrift in a world gone mad all help take away the visceral terror that can dog me long into the evening otherwise.
That’s why dreams play such a big role in my writing as well. They’re nothing I can ever truly escape, after all. No medication is 100% and even now my dreams sometimes follow me into the waking world, where they feel more real than the mug of coffee I start the day with or the simple meals I make for lunch. They feel more real than the conversations I have, or the people I spend the most time with, and it’s there they become a problem. When the dreams seem more real than the present, it’s easy to get lost in the past. That’s why I take the medication I do, but it’s also why I write them down. Because those two things do most of the heavy lifting when it comes to feelings that otherwise don’t fade. It gives me a life outside the past, where it’s easy to spend too much time on what-ifs. And I’d rather be in the present if I’m given a choice.
Ultimately, it was just a dream. And like all the others it eventually faded. Recalling it is possible, but the strangeness dies down with the passage of time like most others. It was just odd, how it was in its own way more disturbing than some of my nightmares. Because it was something that very well could have happened, instead of a bundle of unresolved feelings dressed up in a more nightmarish fashion like I’m used to.