Dreams…..that word has some weight to it. What do you dream about? When the swirly world of nod envelopes you and pulls you into the darkness of dreamland where do you go?

I can remember when I was very  young, the age my daughter is now. The magical age of 6. My younger brother had nightmares… well more like terrors. He would wake in a cold sweat screaming. One late night My mother gathered him, my sister who was only a toddler, and myself together. She did the motherly thing to calm us down and talk to us about our dreams. She explained that the dreams are ours. They belong to us. Being afraid of them is like being afraid of yourself. She made us breath and asked us to realize only that when we had a bad nightmare that we try to stop, and remember that it was a dream. Stop and calmly realize that the only thing that could hurt us there was ourselves.

My Sister went on to still have bad dreams. Certain events in her life magnified them and it did not work for her. My brother to my understanding still has issues,  but for me something about this always made sense. To this day my dreams are mine. Some are more challenging than others though. Some of them the reoccurring ones took a much longer time to deal with. There was one in particular that took me most of my life to do. It was one where my father takes me on a trip in his camper, and at a gas station while I am getting a Slurpee he gets carjacked and knocked unconscious. In most of the dreams I drop the Slurpee  which is a tragic loss in itself, and give chase.

I catch up a few hundred yards away where the camper is set to go over a cliff at the push of this strange gangly man. My father is still unconscious at the wheel. In my youth I struggled against this man in every way I could think of, but nothing worked fast enough to stop that camper from rolling over the cliff face. Each time I had the dream I would try to stop this gangly man, and over and over I lost. The dream itself and built up into anxiety, and when I found myself in it I would be unable to think as I would in other dreams, unable to will a shotgun into my hands or to have the stranger just go away. It was not the dream itself I was fighting. It was me.

Years would go by, I would struggle with my anger issues, and battle with the outside world on multiple fronts, and I would keep getting angry. I would watch the truck carrying my father, my hero over a cliff into the long slow motion decent in to the canyon. I would watch the fire burst when it hit, and I would hear the metal tear and screech from the impact.  There was a day in 2007 several months before my daughter was born, and I found out how sick I had become. It was then that after fighting Mr. Gangly for more than 2 decades that something changed.  The dream was upon me but instead of wretched anger, hate and fear I was calm. It was the calmer mind that allowed me to do something. Instead of a Slurpee apparently I had the good sense to buy an axe handle, and when Mr. Gangly came to my father he received 25 years of anger piled into repeated blows from that smooth piece of wood.  I have not had the dream since, and I have never seen Mr. Gangly again.

Oh and now I have a slight fondness for axe handles, but then again what dwarf doesn’t?

 

“We are the music makers….We are the dreamers of dreams…”  So sayeth the Willy.