Being a very vivid dreamer is incredibly frustrating. My husband hardly ever remembers a dream and blissfully goes through his day, oblivious to whatever dream made him mumble in his sleep the night before. I, on the other hand, remember every single detail and have trouble shaking it off in the morning.
Weird dreams are no big deal. You just think, “Huh. That was weird. Why would my father wear a clown suit? That makes no sense at all.” But nightmares are a different story.
The scarier my dreams are, the better my unconscious seems to plot them. They make sense, people! That’s the worst part. When you wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, you’re supposed to be able to stop and think, “No, that doesn’t make sense. What a relief.” But not me! My unconscious plots them beautifully so that poking holes in the plots gets hard.
So while other people wake up and say, “Oh, thank goodness! That actually doesn’t make any sense!” I wake up and say, “Even if it’s beautifully plotted, that doesn’t make it real. Steven King is an excellent plotter, but he’s still making it up. See? Not real.”
And I sit up with the lights blazing until my husband comes stumbling out of our bedroom.
“Why are all the lights on?”
“Oh…” He stands there, blinking in the light for a minute or two. “I guess I’m up now.” (He knows better than to ask for details.)
So after he’s fully awake and decides to start his day at 4 am, I can crawl back into bed, secure in the knowledge that someone is up and puttering about. That chases away bad dreams better than anything else! Someone needs to stand guard against the night…