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I don’t dream often about my father.  But I did last night.  His death was devastating, but did not move into the “complicated grief” issue that I had with my mother.  In fact, this was the first year that the anniversary of his death passed without my taking note.  It was March 5th, five years ago. I feel a little guilty about that, though I know that feeling is pointless.

But last night, I dreamed that he died.  It was complex and bizarre, as all of my dreams are.  In the dream, I could feel the heartbreaking pain that his death caused me.  It was bad enough that I emerged from the depths of sleep, and as I did so, I realized that yes, he had died, he really had, years ago.  The dream was like having him die all over again, which is the only blessing about losing your parents – it can’t happen again.  I awoke sobbing.  I had been depressed anyway yesterday, and this was the final icing on the straw camel’s back.  I was devastated.  I cried through the sunrise, then went and took a bath.

My dreams sometimes make me fear sleep.  I curl into my feather bed at night, cold pillows against my cheek, snuggled under the down comforter, the Caribbean Blue fleece that my mother bought for me, and the blue and white woven blanket that I bought in Mexico with my niece.  It’s all soft and so comfortable.  I’ve never been a good sleeper, so I usually take something to help me sleep.  I think I’m going to stop doing that.  I may lose a few nights, but my body is telling me that my mind isn’t playing fair with the sleep-aids.

I cannot bear to wake feeling so alone, so destroyed.  Right now, in the light of the early afternoon, I look forward to sleeping unaided.  Even if it’s a short sleep. Perhaps the dreams will be easier.

April 2010
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