I have been dreaming, a lot, lately that I have killed someone. The dreams are all relatively the same and yet so specifically different. I never dream about murder. It is only the aftermath, the pressing guilt of knowing I will have to live with this secret truth until I myself die. Sometimes I know where I’ve buried the body. I never know who the person was. Sometimes I still have the body, in the back of my car, and am looking carefully for a time and place to get rid of it. Sometimes, you are there and you are helping me.
I read online a lot of dream blogs or studies about people who dream about murder, or having murdered someone. They all say it’s usually a mans dream, that men are naturally more aggressive and these dreams signify some underlying issues in their waking life. Nothing I read seems to apply to me. I am neither male, nor aggressive. I have, for the first time in my life, no hidden truth no bodies buried in the back yard, for lack of a better metaphor. And yet, the dreams they keep on coming.
Sometimes, I wake in such a panic it takes a few moments for the world to settles around me, to realize it’s not true, to know I am safe. And to remember who I am.