Maybe this is a job only Santa can help with, but probably only Father Time.

father-time santa

I had bad dreams all weekend, despite the waking hours of my weekend being, well, awesome.

I don’t have prophetic dreams, or any dreams I can analyze, easily, but I wish I did.  I seem to have the ones that are just clips of life, or some segment of a sitcom.

This weekend, unfortunately, it was all about “them.”  Just them playing house and living their daily lives as I try to imagine it — cooking in my old kitchen, taking her kids to music events, a disagreement at the kitchen island, where many of my fights with him took place.

What a waste of shuteye!  Or was it?  Am I data dumping?

Sometimes I have a nearly impossible urge to drive by where they live.  Where I used to live.

My therapist says it’s normal.  I’m pretty sure she says everything is “normal,” because, in the grand scheme, it probably is for someone.  I just need to make it real in my head, she says, where I live most of the time.  I just can’t picture it.  Do I want to?

If I dream about them fighting, I wish that was real, prophetic, psychic, because I still wish them ill.

I still wish them ill.  I do.  I wish I didn’t.  I wish I didn’t want to drive by.  I wish happiness of my life as I have created it would negate the need to waste time thinking about them.  But that’s not how it works.  Apparently.

Maybe this is a job that only Santa can help with, but I hear a suspicious tick-tock instead.


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