Night, Part 3 (Just Another Dream)

I used to dream all the time. Bad dreams. They had little variation and usually revolved around the same two subjects; the Sand Dune and The Kid with No Legs.



The dreams were particularly bad and frequent my first year living in New Orleans. I don't know what the trigger was... if it was because I was yet again in a new environment or if it was just a delayed reaction.



I would wake up violently next to my girlfriend in the little bed in the little apartment we shared near Tulane University. I often woke her in the process. I'd convince her everything was OK and wait, listening to her breathing, until she drifted back to sleep.



Then I'd rise. I loved being up in the middle of the night when everything is quiet. I enjoyed the sensation that I was the only person awake...the only person experiencing this night. The moment was mine and mine alone.



I would step outside into our building's courtyard. I loved the humid, tropical feel of the nights there. The warm air dampened sound and enveloped you. It felt close against the skin...sensual.



The courtyard was full of palm trees and shrubs. In the middle was an oval swimming pool. After standing stock still in the night air for a while...just breathing it in...I would slip into the pool.



At the shallow end were a series of steps. I would slowly walk down them...moving just a little bit at a time....barely raising a ripple. The water was usually still warm from the day's brutal sunlight. I'd glide into the deeper water...not swimming so much as sliding unobtrusively through the water. I'd make my way to the middle of the pool and turn to float on my back.



It felt so peaceful right then. The warm water surrounding me...the sultry air pressing in from above. The pool lights would be out so I'd be floating in darkness. My ears would be below the water line so no outside noise disturbed me. I would float and relax...the tension from the dreams oozing from my body and my mind. I would look up at the stars through the palm leaves and be at peace.



And sometimes I would wonder what it would feel like to slide beneath the water. To just let myself slip. To let that beautiful warm water cover me...cover my sins and carry them away.



It would have been so easy to just drift down...to let the water wash away the sin, the guilt, the fear, the uncertainty, the sadness.



It would have ended the dreams. It would have so peaceful.



Everything up to that point would have been

just

another

dream.

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Looking over these posts...I fear I give the impression I was deeply disturbed. It wasn't quite like that. It is one of the most difficult things I've ever tried to articulate. I wasn't deep in the throes of constant PTSD flashbacks (although...those did occur but they were relatively rare). And I wasn't in constant states of rage or depression.

These was just a sense of sadness that seemed to follow me. It was always there.

I think some of it stemmed from feelings of guilt. And much of it was because I felt so alone. I wanted to talk to someone...but at the same time I didn't because I knew they wouldn't understand. It was a separation....an isolation...that was maddening.

My friends asked me all the time to talk about what it was like over there. But they didn't want to hear about how I felt...they wanted a good war story. I eventually began avoiding them.

That isolation was a factor in my decision to move away.

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As stated in another post...I eventually did find someone to talk to. And now I write.

The sadness is still there some days....but nowhere near the level it once was. When I was a much younger man...I was worried that it would be overshadowing me the rest of my life...and I wasn't sure I could handle it.

But I can.

Talking helped.

New Orleans helped. Moving there was one of the best decisions (even if it was sort of a spur of the moment one) I've ever made. The people there were so friendly and accepting...they allowed me to reinvent myself. Like that warm night swim...I was fully embraced. It was a place where I felt peace. The city helped save me.

The dreams still come some nights....but those nights are fewer and fewer. Letting some things out was cathartic. And writing about them (and, by extension, re-examining them) has allowed me the peace of acceptance. The feelings from those years...the years that were the defining moments of my life... will always be just in the background. But now more like shadows than clouds.

And so many years later...I have many new memories on which to dwell.

Now when I dream...I often dream of New Orleans.