Any time my eyes close for longer than a blink, I dream. Cat naps, Rip-Van-Winkle marathons, and everything between produce action-packed, Netflix™-worthy, private, subconscious drama. I remember most of my dreams, often in great, although confusing, detail.
People I have known forever trade names and faces in my dreams. Dead people come to life; sometimes, healthy friends or family members do not survive my imagination. My dream weaver ignores time, placing a young and an old me in different scenes of the same dream, while other cast members maintain a consistent age. In a non-kinky sense, couples switch partners in my dreams.
Most of the time, I understand which of my recent thoughts or events caused a dream, and I know the moral of the story. Usually, I enjoy and/or appreciate my dreams.
I worked out a deal with the impish part of my psyche. During early stages of loss, when it can’t resist reconnecting emotions if I drop my guard, I will stay awake until I am too exhausted to dream. Never again will I cry myself to sleep, allow the imp to convince me that my father is still alive, or that I’ll roll over to face a man who is long gone, only to open my eyes and face the truth anew. Never.
Despite what the psyche might think, a heart should not break multiple times for the same loss.
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