Sunday, August 28, 2005
It's funny how, as you get older, what makes a dream a nightmare might become totally different. When I was a little kid, I used to have horrible dreams about aliens invading and giant monsters attacking. In particular I had a dream about the fire detector above the staircase turning into an alien spaceship that could zap me up at any moment that was especially crippling, since when I woke up in the middle of the night, I couldn't run down the stairs to my mother's care, since I couldn't know for sure if it was safe to or not. So, I just stood at the top of the staircase and bellowed. As a consequence, I was so scared of being asleep, I fought it as hard as I could. I invented imaginary playmates to keep my mind occupied when I was forced to go to bed, and I ran around and played as hard and as frantically as I could, until I literally dropped unconscious, when I wasn't. But, it was only bedtime that was scary, and during the day, my nightmares didn't cast a pall over my life in any way. Lately, though, when I have nightmares, it is usually of the apocalyptic, planes falling from the sky, mass destruction variety, which is a lot harder to shake off when I wake up. The worst of all, though, is the kind of dream I had the other night, which I wouldn't have thought of as a nightmare at all when I was a little girl. I dreamed that my rooommate slept with the boy I'm in love with. And worse than this transgression was their total lack of regret, and the hostile fights I had with them over whether or not I had a right to be upset about what they'd done. Nobody died, no aliens invaded, and yet, a full 36 hours later, I'm more haunted by that dream than all the psycho killers and monsters that were out to get me when I was little. I think I liked the other kind of nightmares better.