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If I thought the bad dream I blogged about yesterday was awful, I had another thing coming. My brain trumped that with last night’s nightmare.

Yesterday evening, we watched an episode of Alfred Hitchcock Presents on Netflix, the episode entitled “Never Again.” It was about a woman who murders her boyfriend with a broken brandy snifter while ragingly drunk (out of unfounded jealousy.) So of course, my brain warped that into something far more horrible.

In my dream, I was back in my apartment in Small Town Middle America, living with the girl who was my roommate when I met my husband. She came home late one evening, and although I was aware of what she was doing, I was in a half-sleep state and didn’t bother about it.

She had shortly managed to murder whomever was in her bed, quite by accident. A bloody mess, though mostly contained. She’s a tiny thing, so she struggled to get the body out and hide it. Some craziness ensued, but it looked for a moment like the situation was under wraps. Poor girl was terribly shaken and quite panicked.

Then, of course, someone came poking around. I don’t remember if it was the authorities or another friend or what. There was still blood on the bed, and all of the sudden I realized it was my husband who had been murdered. I imagine you can guess my reaction – hysterical comes nowhere close to it – and I woke up crying again, but this time in real terror. Fortunately, my sweetheart was still there right next to me, so I squeezed him tight and managed to get back to sleep after a few minutes.

But the horrible is stuck in my brain. I do not feel good at all this morning.

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I hate dreaming. For a long time, dreams were rare events. That was because I was smoking pot or drinking or both every night. For a very, very long time. And I slept peacefully and dreamlessly, every night.

Now that I’m sober, I have dramatic lucid dreams every night. Mostly they’re fine, a bit weird in the way that dreams are, obvious in their symbolism, and often based on whatever I was watching on TV the prior evening. I don’t like them, but they’re generally not that disturbing. Usually I can just shake them off, sometimes even forget them entirely.

The dreams from the last couple of nights have been much more distressing. Anything that makes me wake up crying is just Not Good. I don’t know what, if anything, I can do about this. Dreams are part of our brains processing stuff and they’re generally considered healthy, but I hate them.

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