I often fall asleep on the couch downstairs and transfer to the bedroom once I awaken for meds halfway through the night (long story, involves narcolepsy). One night recently, I woke before my alarm, terrified by the dream I just had.
Shaking, I went upstairs to bed and whispered to my husband, “Are you asleep?”
He whispered back, “No.”
“I just had a horrible dream,” I said.
His arms around me grew tighter and tighter, and my sobs became deeper and deeper, as I told him the dream.
“We were together, but we were like these different people, but we were still together. You and me. We were downstairs in our house and for some reason we were planning to… kill ourselves.
So you went first and then it was my turn, but I was so scared and I couldn’t do it and I was so scared. I kept trying to do it but I couldn’t so I went upstairs to our bedroom and I tried again and then I thought maybe we could just live. But you were already dead and I didn’t want to live without you but I was so scared and I couldn’t do it.”
By this time I was sobbing excessively and he was comforting me, shocked at the severity and horror of my dream.
“And the worst part is that it was so real and it was THIS HOUSE. I could feel the gun. I’ve never held a gun in my life but it just felt so real and so familiar in my hand. And it was THIS HOUSE. THIS BEDROOM.”
The most horrifying dream I have ever had. On so many levels. And every time I closed my eyes it all just came back and the tears continued to flow. My husband, incredible man that he is, was able to comfort me and help me get the dream away and out of my head, so I was able to sleep again. Still, it was one of the most emotionally exhausting nights of my life.