Every night for the past three nights I’ve been having a dream that seems to be a sequence. They are dreams involving my husband and how he no longer loves me.
The first night’s dream, we were breaking up.
The second night’s dream, I watched, as in slow-motion, he kissed a dark-haired girl that he had fallen in love with. He kissed her and he knew I watched. It crushed me.
Last night’s dream, I cannot shake. It’s the kind of dream where you beg your conscious to surface from the water, but when it does, it treads all day long, skimming your thoughts, always there, like a buoy on the turbulent ocean.
We had broken up in September, and this is before we were married. We were apart, and I remember thinking, I will never be kissed that way again, never. I will never feel as close to a person as I have with him. By the time July rolled around, I was still numb, but making my way through my days, my life, somehow.
A new boy arrived on the scene. One who liked me. I couldn’t believe another boy could maybe fall in love with me. He wasn’t the opposite, he was just different, but not in a bad way, just in a new way, a way where when we hugged, I still felt encompassed, yet it didn’t seem to be enough. I waited for him to kiss me, but don’t remember that first one; just remember wanting it to happen.
Flash-forward or rewind, I’m not sure. My husband, who was not then my husband, and had broken up with me in September, was there. Suddenly. It was the first time we had spoken to one another since our breakup. I don’t remember what was said, but we hugged. Tightly. But it was not sexual; it was almost like a letting go. Except we did not let go. And I remember I wished to see the expression on his face, but in this hug, our ears kissed, so I could not see his face. I had hoped he was shaking uncontrollably, crying silently, wishing things were different. But I feared he was not, and this was our goodbye.
The new boy was different, as I said. Not as sturdy, not as tall, but tall enough, not as strong, didn’t make me feel as safe. But nonetheless, I was happy as I said, to have someone want to like me, to perhaps give me a chance to fall in love again. This was like a trial, a test. Could I do it? This was a rebound. Just let me know I can try to love again, and I’ll be fine. Maybe.
He was a cyclist. You know what kind of bodies they have. Firm, strong, muscular. Toned. A great body. I wanted to get to know that body. But I was afraid to share mine. Was afraid it had been too long, it was now July. I hadn’t been with anyone since September. I was scared. Somehow, in these early dating stages, we didn’t get that far. I was afraid if he learned too much of me, if he googled me and found my blog, he wouldn’t want me. Because there were no secrets left; I had shared too much. There wasn’t anything for him to find out on his own. I didn’t have anything new to offer.
I wake, and it hurts my every breath; it hurts to inhale the air around me, and I wish to drown it out of my mind, but it stays there, that red and white buoy, bobbing up and down, reminding me of all that I have.
When my husband comes in the room, I am still there, trying to let myself out of the dream, yet it has grabbed hold of a part of me inside that I cannot shake.
I tell him I had another bad dream, about us not being together. He tells me he will never leave me and that he loves me.