I’ve written before that I’m convinced [at least my] deja vu’s are my past dreams coming true. Part of my dream blogging is an effort to prove that. The hard thing is to separate the dreams from things that can possibly happen from the impossible, and then remember the non-remarkable dreams after waking, and the final step is usually the kicker, to blog about it. It’s easy to blog about the entertaining, far-fetched, or intriguing dreams, but it’s hard to place importance on the dreams, or part of the dreams, where I’m sitting at a table with 3 people and someone says or does something and another person says or does something else in reply.
A lot of my dreams take place at the estate (the house where I grew up). I would say it’s the most frequent dream location, with Heritage Hills (the school I attended from 3rd grade until 9th grade) being a close second. Both of these places no longer exist. I know these will never turn into a deja vu.
A lot of my dreams involve my dad, or me at high school, or just at a younger age. I know these can never happen.
It’s the dreams that are mundane, or even with people that I don’t know (yet?) that I need to focus on and document.
Sometimes, my dreams are hard to deal with. Sometimes, I do things that I’d be ashamed to do in real life. My dreams are in my memory though, so they don’t just fade away. I remember them, as if I did them. If the act alone is not bad enough, sometimes the emotions that go along with it make it a nightmare. In real life, I’ve trained myself how to deal with my emotions. Possibly as a result, my dreams become emotionally intense, and that emotion does not go away when I wake up…
She’s standing on the landing to the upstairs of my house. I get down on my knees to be at her height and she laughs at me. “How old are you, Daddy?”, she says to me as I chase her up a few steps. “I’m 37”, I reply, knowing I’m lying, but not really able to remember the right answer. She says she’s older than me. I look at her analytically to figure out her age. “No way, you’re like a 2 year old, Jule.”
I know her name. She’s my daughter. She looks like Mara Wilson of “Matilda” and Mrs. Doubtfire, only with shorter blonde hair.
As she climbs a few more stairs to the top, she calls out that she’s taller than me now. I crawled up to her and tackled her to put her under my height again as she laughs. Kallie’s at the top of the stairs, holding our son. “I’m going to give Micah a bath.”, she says. I reply, “OK, I’ll keep Jule busy.” As I roll around with Jule, a yellow lab comes up the stairs and joins in on the fun.
And then they’re gone. Your first reaction is probably, “aww, that’s cute.” My first reaction, in the middle of the night, is tears. Actually, as I assume I felt myself waking up, I held Jule closer, starting to cry even in the dream, and that carried through to reality. This was not a dream to me. That was my child, I knew her, and I loved her. I effing loved her, and then she’s gone. It’s the same exact thing as death. Even though the cause (what takes them away) is different, the effect is still feeling like someone you love is not there anymore, and never will be. It’s pretty effed up.
That’s part of the reason I don’t want to talk about kids. Dreams tend to pull inspiration from your real life and your actual thoughts that day. I want to reduce the risk of me ever having dreams like that. A beautiful nightmare? Perhaps, but a nightmare still. I’m still getting watery eyes just typing about her.