The other day my aunt called to wish me a happy birthday and after initial pleasantries the conversation strayed on to other topics. Usually, conversations between family and friends are not all that interesting to anyone outside of the original conversation. After all,
that's why we edit and elaborate when describing the exchange to others. However, one topic seemed to strike a nerve with me: dreams... not just any dreams but very vivid, often violent, dreams. Now, this is not a new topic for my dad's side of the family, especially since it seems that vivid dreams are a regular occurrence for many of us. I've often wondered about this type of dreaming because I usually have some powerfully vivid dreams myself, which is probably why I was so fascinated whenever we studied Freud and Jung in some of my English classes. Indeed, I almost minored in psychology. Not too long ago, as we were walking through Barnes and Noble, my father noticed an illustrated copy of The Interpretation of Dreams and commented that he needed it. I informed him of what I knew about the book and Freud's thoughts on why we dream: that dreams are highly symbolic in nature and are best understood when you start to connect the symbols with what they refer to, which can be tricky. And even though I've recently began studying my dreams in this manner, Freud still doesn't explain why my family is so susceptible to this particular type of dreaming.
Like many children, I had some truly terrifying dreams. The first I remember doesn't sound all that terrible when written down, but I always hated having that dream. I haven't had this dream for a very long time, thank goodness, but I still remember its effect.
In the dream, I'm standing alone in a vast open space, not an earthy place, more like outer space. Although I'm standing, there is nothing (as far as I can tell) to stand on, just a never-ending blackness, splattered with some dark blues and purples. Without knowing why, I know the oppressive silence must be maintained, otherwise something truly terrible will happen: the quiet universe I'm being allowed to inhabit for the moment will be torn apart; the world will end. My heart begins to pound faster and harder inside my chest, threatening, it seems, to break the silence. I try and calm myself, tell myself that as long as I'm quiet everything will be okay. And then a sound shatters the silence. It's never exactly clear what makes the sound (sometimes I make it, sometimes another person appears and tries to speak to me), but I never have time to analyze it, or even try to snuff out the sound. A deep rumbling drowns out every other sound, splitting my eardrums. The sound grows louder and louder, eventually increasing to such an intensity that I can no longer take, and so I scream. It is at this point that I awaken, heart pounding, terrified, not wanting to go back to sleep because the dream narrative could continue and I didn't want to see what happened next (continuing dream narratives is still a frequent occurrence today, and for some dreams, such a phenomenon is not entirely unwelcome).
As I wrote the above dream narrative, I had a sudden realization: The above description sounds very similar to how I would describe it was like, as a child, living with a depressive personality, where the slightest shift in conversational tone and topic could throw everything into chaos. This is what it was like to live with my mother at times, which leads to another familial genetic gift: depression. Depression, interestingly enough, comes from my mother's side of the family (and probably from my father's side as well, but it's not discussed much on that side), so it would seem that I have the best of both worlds. It's funny, I never truly understood the symbolism of the dream until I wrote the above paragraph, and the only reason I made the connection was because a similar description made its way into my book.
Depression affects many people, far too many people, but for me depression has been like another family member, a living force that frequently makes an appearance, usually without being invited. It plays tricks with your brain, twisting and bending your perception of the world so that only the sadness remains. It's no wonder J. K. Rowling used hooded black figures that suck all the happiness from a person as a symbol for depression. That's exactly how depression feels when you're in the middle of it. And if you want a good quote that effectively describes how a depressive thinks, here's my favorite from the movie Closer:
"Everybody wants to be happy."
"Depressives don't. They want to be unhappy to confirm they're depressed. If they were happy, they couldn't be depressed anymore. They'd have to go out in the world and live, which can be depressing."
Depression is a seemingly never-ending cycle that only needs the tiniest of triggers at times. And yes, after years of feeling depressed, depression transforms into a warped sort of companion, a family member that is not entirely liked but tolerated only because the connection between the two is not easily severed. So, breaking that connection and facing the wide world where happiness and sadness, success and rejection are dealt out in unequal measure can be a depressing experience. It's far easier to continue being depressed, isn't it?
I'm unsure of the science of dreams and depression, although I've had plenty of experience with both, but I do believe in the power of writing and learning. Through Freud, though he's a bit old-fashioned now, I've been able to figure out some of my dreams, not all, but at least enough to gain a better understanding of my own mind. Through writing, I've been able to put those dreams on paper (or screen), forcing them into a shape, into a narrative, so their particulars can be seen; after all, when a dream is allowed to linger in the mind without a shape, it's emotional power is increased; only through writing (a creative outlet) have I been able to take some of the power for myself.
Since moving out of my parents' house, I have not had the world-ending dream. Other dreams have replaced it. For example, after I graduated from UTPB with my MA and started teaching, I've been having a recurring dream that I'm back in Dr. Watson's Hamlet class (anyone who has taken her can attest to the fearful presence she can exude), a couple of days from graduating and I haven't even started my final paper, haven't even started researching for it, and so I fail her class and am unable to graduate. It took a while for me to understand this dream, but I've come to realize it's an expression of my insecurities now that I'm tasked with teaching students how to write. Failing in the dream represents my feelings that I am unsuited and unqualified to teach.
With each new dream, a new problem is trying to work itself out. Of course, the hard part is trying to figure out what the problem is because the subconscious mind hides the more disturbing aspects of our personalities, the parts we don't want to face, from the conscious mind. Fears are transformed into symbols. And while the people we know may make an appearance in our dreams, it's best to remember that their presence is only a symbol, a clue about ourselves, for each person that has made an impact in our lives can be used for what they represent. The same goes for the non-human details as well.
I don't blame anyone in my family for the dreams nor the depression that has plagued me, practically since my first memories. There is no one to blame. How can there be? And since both of these gifts have led me to where I am and built me into the person I am today, why should I wish them away? The fact is I won't wish them away. I will, however, attempt to manage them, which has been considerably easier since I realized a problem exists.
that's why we edit and elaborate when describing the exchange to others. However, one topic seemed to strike a nerve with me: dreams... not just any dreams but very vivid, often violent, dreams. Now, this is not a new topic for my dad's side of the family, especially since it seems that vivid dreams are a regular occurrence for many of us. I've often wondered about this type of dreaming because I usually have some powerfully vivid dreams myself, which is probably why I was so fascinated whenever we studied Freud and Jung in some of my English classes. Indeed, I almost minored in psychology. Not too long ago, as we were walking through Barnes and Noble, my father noticed an illustrated copy of The Interpretation of Dreams and commented that he needed it. I informed him of what I knew about the book and Freud's thoughts on why we dream: that dreams are highly symbolic in nature and are best understood when you start to connect the symbols with what they refer to, which can be tricky. And even though I've recently began studying my dreams in this manner, Freud still doesn't explain why my family is so susceptible to this particular type of dreaming.
Like many children, I had some truly terrifying dreams. The first I remember doesn't sound all that terrible when written down, but I always hated having that dream. I haven't had this dream for a very long time, thank goodness, but I still remember its effect.
In the dream, I'm standing alone in a vast open space, not an earthy place, more like outer space. Although I'm standing, there is nothing (as far as I can tell) to stand on, just a never-ending blackness, splattered with some dark blues and purples. Without knowing why, I know the oppressive silence must be maintained, otherwise something truly terrible will happen: the quiet universe I'm being allowed to inhabit for the moment will be torn apart; the world will end. My heart begins to pound faster and harder inside my chest, threatening, it seems, to break the silence. I try and calm myself, tell myself that as long as I'm quiet everything will be okay. And then a sound shatters the silence. It's never exactly clear what makes the sound (sometimes I make it, sometimes another person appears and tries to speak to me), but I never have time to analyze it, or even try to snuff out the sound. A deep rumbling drowns out every other sound, splitting my eardrums. The sound grows louder and louder, eventually increasing to such an intensity that I can no longer take, and so I scream. It is at this point that I awaken, heart pounding, terrified, not wanting to go back to sleep because the dream narrative could continue and I didn't want to see what happened next (continuing dream narratives is still a frequent occurrence today, and for some dreams, such a phenomenon is not entirely unwelcome).
As I wrote the above dream narrative, I had a sudden realization: The above description sounds very similar to how I would describe it was like, as a child, living with a depressive personality, where the slightest shift in conversational tone and topic could throw everything into chaos. This is what it was like to live with my mother at times, which leads to another familial genetic gift: depression. Depression, interestingly enough, comes from my mother's side of the family (and probably from my father's side as well, but it's not discussed much on that side), so it would seem that I have the best of both worlds. It's funny, I never truly understood the symbolism of the dream until I wrote the above paragraph, and the only reason I made the connection was because a similar description made its way into my book.
Depression affects many people, far too many people, but for me depression has been like another family member, a living force that frequently makes an appearance, usually without being invited. It plays tricks with your brain, twisting and bending your perception of the world so that only the sadness remains. It's no wonder J. K. Rowling used hooded black figures that suck all the happiness from a person as a symbol for depression. That's exactly how depression feels when you're in the middle of it. And if you want a good quote that effectively describes how a depressive thinks, here's my favorite from the movie Closer:
"Everybody wants to be happy."
"Depressives don't. They want to be unhappy to confirm they're depressed. If they were happy, they couldn't be depressed anymore. They'd have to go out in the world and live, which can be depressing."
Depression is a seemingly never-ending cycle that only needs the tiniest of triggers at times. And yes, after years of feeling depressed, depression transforms into a warped sort of companion, a family member that is not entirely liked but tolerated only because the connection between the two is not easily severed. So, breaking that connection and facing the wide world where happiness and sadness, success and rejection are dealt out in unequal measure can be a depressing experience. It's far easier to continue being depressed, isn't it?
I'm unsure of the science of dreams and depression, although I've had plenty of experience with both, but I do believe in the power of writing and learning. Through Freud, though he's a bit old-fashioned now, I've been able to figure out some of my dreams, not all, but at least enough to gain a better understanding of my own mind. Through writing, I've been able to put those dreams on paper (or screen), forcing them into a shape, into a narrative, so their particulars can be seen; after all, when a dream is allowed to linger in the mind without a shape, it's emotional power is increased; only through writing (a creative outlet) have I been able to take some of the power for myself.
Since moving out of my parents' house, I have not had the world-ending dream. Other dreams have replaced it. For example, after I graduated from UTPB with my MA and started teaching, I've been having a recurring dream that I'm back in Dr. Watson's Hamlet class (anyone who has taken her can attest to the fearful presence she can exude), a couple of days from graduating and I haven't even started my final paper, haven't even started researching for it, and so I fail her class and am unable to graduate. It took a while for me to understand this dream, but I've come to realize it's an expression of my insecurities now that I'm tasked with teaching students how to write. Failing in the dream represents my feelings that I am unsuited and unqualified to teach.
With each new dream, a new problem is trying to work itself out. Of course, the hard part is trying to figure out what the problem is because the subconscious mind hides the more disturbing aspects of our personalities, the parts we don't want to face, from the conscious mind. Fears are transformed into symbols. And while the people we know may make an appearance in our dreams, it's best to remember that their presence is only a symbol, a clue about ourselves, for each person that has made an impact in our lives can be used for what they represent. The same goes for the non-human details as well.
I don't blame anyone in my family for the dreams nor the depression that has plagued me, practically since my first memories. There is no one to blame. How can there be? And since both of these gifts have led me to where I am and built me into the person I am today, why should I wish them away? The fact is I won't wish them away. I will, however, attempt to manage them, which has been considerably easier since I realized a problem exists.
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