I hate to dream because I have terrible dreams, some are fictional and some are based on the truth, or what the truth could have been.
Last night I had two dreams, both about my mom and dad who divorced when I was 17. The whole thing was horrific and unbelievable to us all, except for Dad, who seemed to welcome it joyfully.
In the first dream we were at our old church, the church my parents helped to build. We were in the sanctuary but not for church, many of the families with children I grew up with were there. It was present day and my parents were back together. Waking from that dream draws out every emotion that I've run from and taken every effort to dull for the past 13+ years. I could sob and beg right now, in hopes that something would change, just as I did when I was 16.
The next dream was set in Iowa City and we were visiting our family, as we did millions of times while we were a family. In this dream they were divorced and it was again present day, like reality kicked in, but only a little. Mom was on a walk, I could see her up on a hill, Dad must have seen her too and he walked on the same path but up ahead, slow enough that she would pass by. When that happened she accused him of tearing up our lives all for his own selfish pleasure, just as he knew she would. He jabbed her in the leg or arm with something like a blunt metal skewer, about the size of a pencil. She jabbed him back and he fell to the ground moaning and groaning as if he would die. By the time I got there people were staring. I got down on the ground beside Dad, out my hands on either side of his face, and told him to suck it up and take responsibility for his actions and their out come. I told him he'd better learn take what he dishes out. He did not comprehend.
These are the days I do not go back to sleep. I hate my dreams, and my memories are too bittersweet and painful to treasure.