Apparently these days if I do not take something to make me go into a deep sleep, then I will spend the entire night dreaming about things. Dream-filled sleep is still sleep, it's true. It's not like I toss and turn, unable to fall into a slumber.
But I have dreaming issues. Namely, my brain, instead of accepting that we are tired and we need to turn off for 8 hours, decided it is going to solve the problems of my world and surprise me upon waking. Only what really happens is that I have chaotic, but very lengthy dreams, convincing with full casts, realistic dialogue, real-life locations. All of it enough to, twice in the last week, have me in tears upon waking.
What am I crying over? This house, of course.
Yes, I'll admit that I have been melancholy about it in my waking hours. I. love. this. house. There's no way around it. I am going to miss it something fierce. And even though it has officially been signed over to the
No, instead I keep having very prolonged dreams on the subject, each one escalating to the point of making me cry in real life. It's not the most relaxing feeling in the world to wake from 8 hours of slumber... with a face full of teardrops.
The first dream happened the night that I stayed with my cousin Emily. So, naturally, she was in it.
We had gone back to the town, hoping for a final walk-through. At that point they hadn't technically closed on the house (in real life), so my dream-self knew that there wouldn't be a problem with it.
Only, she was wrong. A lot wrong. The new owners were already there, several trucks parked around the property, with moving crews and construction crews, and kids playing on the basketball court where we used to. They were even using our toys. It was two little girls, ages 4 and 6, and as innocent as they looked, I hated them.
Emily and I stared at the activity from our vantage point at the edge of the driveway. I decided to put to use the same polite skills which made an officer decide not to give me a ticket. I approached the woman with a smile on my face. "Hi there," I said, "I understand that you've just bought this house?"
She nods, skeptically. She is not a happy woman.
"Well," I continue, undeterred by her sourpuss qualities, "This was my grandparents' house, and my cousin and I were hoping that we could just walk through it, one last time. Before all of your things are moved in, so we won't feel like intruders." I smile at her again. I feel that she's going to say yes.
"No," she says. "NO. In fact, if you don't get off of my property this very second, I'm going to call the police. You have NO RIGHT to even BE HERE. This is MY HOUSE now. MINE. And any memories you think that you have, they're gone. Everything about this place no longer has anything to do with you. You're over. You're done. You're gone forever."
I take a step back, blown away by the caustic force of the woman's hatred.
She moves toward me, jabbing her finger in my face, slowly backing me toward the road. "You little devil. How could you even expect me to give YOU any favors?" She's practically spitting the words at me now. "After all that you've done to me."
As it turns out, apparently the woman used to be my teacher, and I ruined her career by puking on her pants when I was 6 years old. (Seems like a pretty flimsy career, if you ask me. But I really have no idea where this plotline came from. I never puked on anyone's pants when I was 6. I blame the sushi.) So, basically, she really hates me. She's hated me for years and she has looked for every possible way to get revenge on me. I guess it was her lucky day when she decided to buy this new/old house.
Her husband now steps up to intervene. He sends the woman inside but she only goes as far as the garage. I am standing in the street now, staring at the house, seeing it from this perspective:
My heart is being shredded within me at the thought that I will never set foot in it again. I tell this to the husband who, apart from having a severe lapse in judgment for marrying that horrible woman, has kind eyes. I plead with him to let us in there, one last time.
"I cannot do it," he says. "It's not up to me. But you need to make new memories. The future is yours."
"YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND." I am obviously starting to get upset. I turn to the woman. "WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME!?" (At this point, I have actually yelled that out in real life. Emily says she slept right through it.)
"This house has been in my family for SEVENTY years! You can't just keep me out of it! You have no right! You can't just do this to me!"
We're standing on the street, and the men are pushing us away, and now I start crying. Weeping. I am pushing against the man's shoulders, desperate to get back there, back into the Greyhouse.
When I wake up, it's clear I have really been crying.
It's also clear that if I ever meet That Woman in real life, I'll have a thing or two to say to her while jabbing my finger in HER face. So, look out, random women of the world. You just might be my Dream Nemesis, and if I see you in the grocery store standing over the case of eggs or picking out butter or pinching a loaf of bread, I won't be able to help what happens next.
The world has been warned.
Continued tomorrow.
