Sleep intrigues me. I have a cousin who suffers from night terrors. Growing up, whenever I visited his family, it wasn’t unusual to wake up in the middle of the night to him screaming. And I admit, once or twice a year, I do the same.
Scares the shit out of my wife Alana.
My problem with this is I don’t remember in the morning … or even if I’m fortunate enough to wake up … what I was screaming about. What does manage to linger is an odd physical sensation of having screamed. The rest is hearsay.
So last night I had this relatively horrifying dream. Many of you know I had to put a long-lived, much-loved dog to sleep this past September. That experience was one of the most devastating things I’ve done to date. But it was one of those things that had to be done. And with the help of our other dog and my dear, sweet wife, I managed my way through it.
Anyway last night … I was telling you about last night. Well … last night I had a dream about that same dog … Bucky. Not that unusual. Since he’s been gone, Bucky has been ever-present in my head. Only instead of us having a veterinarian come to the house, euthanize the dog and take him away (which is what happened in real life), I dreamt we injected Bucky ourselves. We expected him to die. We were sad. But he woke up and started walking around the house.
I know the triggers: Yesterday I got a flu shot. It was also the birthday of our other dog, and the attention we gave her most definitely put our old, dear Bucky back in my dreams. So … injection / dog / living / dying … easy connections to make.
But there was a feeling in the dream. A frustration that we hadn’t managed to fulfill our promise to “put the dog down” and an elation that we hadn’t. That feeling was so available. It was as real as anything I’ve ever felt. And I think it was the availability of that same feeling that allowed me to remember the dream today.
Which brings me back to the screaming myself (and my sleep-deprived wife) awake. There are no available, accessible details I can muster in times like that, save the sensation of having screamed. The quickened pulse. The scratch in my throat. I think I probably mumble, roll over, and drift back to sleep.
So today, in the light, after all the processing and accepting of the information. I’m left to wonder if memories and the act of remembering details isn’t strongly related to my ability to access my emotions.
Sounds basic, no? Well, I’d like to amend that idea a bit: I wonder if my ability to remember details of my life isn’t strongly dependent upon my ability to access my available emotions.
The availability is the key.