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.