R committed a sin today.
He said we should talk about — (the shame!) — dreams.
I understand that it’s a staple of psychoanalytical therapy, but seriously. It’s so self-indulgent to think even your randomly firing thoughts deserve some sort of special consideration. It’s pathetic. I don’t care what they supposedly mean. And I don’t want to use it as a starting point for a dialogue I don’t want to have anyway.
I hate dreams.
(1) Sleep is as close as you can get to death without pulling the trigger. That’s pretty great, right? But then they come, those nagging little bastards, keeping you from the bliss of being free from thought. And they don’t go away. Night after night, they just don’t take the hint. Nagging. Little. Bastards. I want to sleep.
(2) I hate hearing about dreams. My husband will start a conversation in the morning with, “so, I had this dream last…” And that’s all I hear because I have already sprinted to the bathroom and have the water running. “Sorry, dear, I’m in a hurry to get to work today.”
(3) My dreams pretty much suck. Recently, I’ve been dreaming about getting hit by trains. On foot, in my car, I, and sometimes my children, have been getting hit by a lot of trains lately. But I don’t want to know what it means; I just want to not think about it — and the same goes for any of the other variations on a lousy theme dreams I have. (I know I just talked about a dream — but I felt bad about it the whole time, so that should count for something.)
He threatened me with the dreamtalk since I’m having a hard time talking about any of the things that I should talk about. I don’t know what to do, but I feel a sudden case of “I don’t remember my dreams” coming on.