July 31, 2013 § 179 Comments
A couple of nights ago I woke in a sweat with my heart beating like a banjo, only not in a good way.
I had had a nightmare, first one for three or four years. Real nightmares, as in bad dreams when I am asleep, happen so rarely. The one before last I still had a husband I could clung to at 3am, his flesh and warmth right by to offer inert comfort. So we are talking one nightmare proper every few years. I think it’s one of those blessings I should be counting: very few nightmare-nightmares to make up for all the daytime nightmares I have all day, every day. Some fucking consolation.
Anyway, it was one of those horror film ones, the likes of which I remember having as a child. And I woke up, shaking. But as a grown-up, no companion, there’s no one to turn to. I couldn’t exactly wake up my children, all scared and girl-like, and jibber to them that I had had a nightmare. That would have been too fucking inverse and weird.
So I just had to beef out the fear and try to think about roses or cheese slices or whatever is supposed to be beautiful or bland and the opposite of nightmarish, and try to go back to sleep.
Yep, I am still sweating the small stuff, and sweating the small stuff, the stuff which no one bothers to mention or sweat to others, come daylight, and it is just one more item on the extensive plankton list of absolute shit.
The following night – last night – before putting the light out, I read Sharon Olds’s collection of poems about her husband leaving her for another woman, after thirty years of marriage. I thought, these are good, very good, but they’re not going to grab me by the throat and squeeze stinging tears out of me because they are JUST NOT; because I have MOVED ON.
Well, no. Obviously not so much.
I wept like a goddamn watering can.