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Dreams That Won’t Go Away: Cheese Crackers and My Dead Step-Father

Filed Under: Life, Mental Health
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There are two things I’ve come to realize tonight–I’m writing this the night before you’ll read it.

Insomnia Motel

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I have rediscovered my love for saltine crackers and cheese slices though my tastes have been refined to whole wheat saltines and premium cheese slices if any presliced cheese can be considered “premium.”

I have developed a very annoying habit of dreaming the same dream–with a couple of changes–for the past week and a half even though I keep reminding myself to NOT dream said dream. I can’t help but wonder if maybe my attention to not dreaming said dream is the main reason why I keeping having said dream. I also wonder how many times I can type “said” and maintain a straight face. Thus far, I’m up to three times. I’d just be showing off if I went for four.

I’m writing this just past midnight partly because I don’t really want to go to sleep and chance another recurrence of said dream–Let’s make it four, shall we?–and also because I have two beautiful whole wheat saltine and crackers hanging out here just asking me to sink my teeth into them and get crumbs all over my shirt. And by shirt I mean my boobs. Because when you have boobs, that’s where your crumbs end up.

I digress.

I’m pretty sure I haven’t written about this before and it’s late/early and I’m lazy–or I’d look for instances on my site–so I’ll just tell you the story since I highly doubt you were at Blissdom this year when I got the news and told everyone around me about the email I got from my mom.

A bit of backstory is in order.

A note: I’m going to tell my tale and if Mom has a problem with it then I’ll delete it and I hope she doesn’t but I totally understand if she does.

My mom and father got a divorce before I was three. She married my step-father when I was six? I can’t remember but I figure Mom will help me with that when I talk with her on Skype. At any rate, my step-father wasn’t a great guy. He was actually a bit of a bastard since he beat on my mom and demeaned her and he was everything I was afraid I would choose in a husband.

On the flip-side of that coin, he helped keep a roof over my head and me in extracurricular activities and in a vehicle to drive and that’s a hell of a lot more than I can say for my own father so you can see how I’m a bit conflicted with regards to my step-father.

He eventually quit beating on my mom and that happened pretty early in their marriage–If I’m wrong on this, then blame my horrible memory. We just went along and did our thing and I wouldn’t say we were a “happy” family but we functioned and we weren’t super broken.

Eventually–after I was well out of Mom’s house–Mom and my step-father got a divorce and while she thrived, he just withered. What you have to understand about my step-father was even though he was a nasty fucker, he was a three-time Purple Heart awardee because he was a Marine Sniper in Vietnam. From what I’ve been told, he wasn’t the sanest guy going into the war and when he got out, he was missing more than one beer from the sanity six pack. I mention this only because seeing him all beaten and old and dessicated made me sad. Granted, he wasn’t a cool guy when he wasn’t all dry and brittle but to go from a dude who had done all that to what he was the last time I saw him…it was disarming.

Let’s jump forward several years, shall we?

While I was at Blissdom and partying it up, my super cool smart phone let me know I had an email. And it was from my mom. What you should realize is I was sitting on a club lounge thing surrounded by hawt ladies and inundated by loud club music. So I checked my email only to find that my step-father had died and no one had found him until his body was so far gone that his body came apart when they tried to lift him from the couch. A couch I remember with it’s ugly ass burnt orange and brown flowers. A couch my mom had had since my father and her had been married; Mom had kept it because of its solid wood frame and not because of its rocking floral design.

No one deserves being found like that. I don’t care what kind of person you were in life, every person deserves some semblance of respect in death. My step-father wasn’t afforded that level of respect. And I’m sitting here crying because I’m pathetic and I can’t breath very well out of my nose so I’m doing that mouth breather thing because I don’t want to wake the kids or Tucker but it hurts like hell to think of him like that.

To the dreams.

I haven’t been able to sleep. I want to. I have my fan to help lull me to sleep but it doesn’t work. Every time I fall asleep, my step-father is there and he’s so nice. Last night he told me that Mom needed to let us spend more time together and I don’t know why I can’t stop dreaming about him.

I want to stop. I want to stop more than I’ve wanted anything in a long time but I can’t keep the dreams away; I don’t know what to do about them.

Luckily for me, I have an appointment with my counselor tomorrow and I guess this is what I have to discuss. I didn’t make the appointment because of the dreams. The appointment has been made for over a month but it’s rather fortuitous it happens to fall just when I’m experiencing such turmoil.

I just want to be able to have a dreamless sleep. Just for one night.

 

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