Unsweet dreams

Generally, when I remember my dreams, it’s because they’re a little bit wacky. Like this one. Or the one about running and bakeries and my friend Brandy. There have been dreams about weddings, cruises, and singing.

But dreams, at least ones I remember, haven’t been that big of a part of my life lately. Until last night. And if you’ve ever woken up at 3 a.m. terrified because of a dream, you know what I’m going through. I had fallen asleep watching a crime procedural show. For many people, this would cause nightmares, but it doesn’t for me, not usually at least. Somewhere in there my dream started. From what I can remember, it involved Carnton Plantation in Franklin, Tenn., which was Carnton and wasn’t Carnton. It was frankly more like a house my family toured in Louisiana the afternoon my brother graduated from seminary (Oak Alley). There was a long drive with trees and field after field, all growing crops and/or fruit trees. My brother, some other guy who had no name but whom I apparently knew, my dog, and I were all staying overnight in this house. OK, this house was a museum, not a bed and breakfast. There was a part of the dream in which we had this long discussion about the house with the curator type lady. But it was also sort of a secret that we were staying there. We snuck in after dark, and she’s the one who left us there. And during our time at the house, pretty much all kinds of things happened. There was this long period of time in the dream that was devoted to my dog running away from me, across all those fields and crops. No matter how hard I ran, I couldn’t catch her. No matter how much we called, she wouldn’t come to me or my brother. Somehow we eventually caught her, but that was an intense anxiety-ridden part of the dream. After that, it was apparently time to go to sleep at the creepy old house. My brother seemed to sleep soundly, but I heard every noise. I have apparently watched too many episodes of Ghost Hunters on SyFy or listened to too many ghost stories (which I don’t even believe in) at Carnton’s ghost tour a couple of weekends ago, because all kinds of creepy things happened in this house. I actually can’t remember any of them, just this overwhelming since of fear and dread and the knowledge that no one could help me. My brother and Random Guy were there in the dream, but they were both asleep and every time I woke them up to tell them about something, they nodded off even as I was speaking. So I was alone in all this fear. It wasn’t cool. Not at all. I don’t really remember what scary thing happened, but I woke up at 3 a.m. completely scared because of it. And I don’t do that, guys. Not since I was pretty little have I had a dream from which I woke up frightened and gasping for breath, unable to shake the feeling that it had actually happened.

But today, I felt that way. After telling myself it was just a dream, I did manage to fall back asleep. And back into the same dream, sort of. Except this time, it was morning and the curator lady was coming to let us out of the house. We left vowing never to return.

I don’t know about you guys, but I’d much rather go back to dreaming about undercover operations investigating my cheerleading coach and singing at weddings.

Let’s hope tonight’s dreams are a bit sweeter.

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