It seems to be a big day if you love your sports in Britain. In London is the FA Cup Final. In Manchester every rugby league side are playing in an apparently ‘magic weekend’. Blaring away on my tv at the moment, though, is the Scottish Cup Final.
Now, I rarely watch a live football match on the gogglebox. Cup Final day in Scotland though is an exception. It still seems that everyone, whether they like football or not, either goes to the game or watches it on tv. It feels special, like a dream. Which it is for one of the finalists, St. Johnstone, in their first ever Scottish Cup Final after 130 years. They truly are living that dream at the moment.
It’s something they have in common with me today then. After yesterday’s run-down all about my ex girlfriend it was probably inevitable that Emma popped up in my dreams last night. It was just as inevitable, I guess, that I woke up this morning feeling far more exhausted than when I went to sleep.
Anyway, the dream. We were at some unidentified place, which still somehow felt familiar. I was looking for and found Emma, who was looking away from me, and feigned happiness in me being there when I walked up close to her.
We snuggled, and kissed deeply, despite so many people rushing by us. A short while later, though, someone I didn’t recognise, dressed in a suit, was talking to Emma. She replied back to him, as if I wasn’t there, about seeing him for something to do with work. It seemed a flimsy pretext but I didn’t care. I was in Emma’s arms.
When I woke up I was convinced for a while that the dream was reality. It didn’t register that it was my mind playing tricks on me until a good while after I awoke. When I saw the empty space in the bed beside me that’s when I had my first pang of regret, that it wasn’t real. Emma, for a brief moment, was in my life, then out again. My mind is so cruel to me at times.
What does it all mean? Hmmm, I don’t think I need my therapist, or any psychoanalysis, to work that one out. I wrote about Emma, I thought about Emma, I lived the dream about Emma.
There’s also little point in a counsellor telling me that dreams can sometimes affect us in our day to day living as well as vice versa. A case in point is a dream I remember vividly, in the middle of another bout of depression, even though it was a decade or so ago.
It was quite a simple one. In the background was string section music that you hear in film soundtracks when a tense or scary moment is reaching a climax. The view was a city suburb that was being enveloped by thick, silvery fog or smog, that was for some unexplained reason poisonous.
It was clear to me, when I woke up, that it was a metaphor for my mind, for the depression wrapping me up in a cocoon of misery. I woke up feeling frightened, sad, and my self esteem through the floor.
Soon after that, I dreamt at least a couple of times in the same night that I was at work, making errors, and that I was useless. When the time came to wake up and go to work, I felt dreadful, as if I’d had no rest at all.
Waking up feeling worse, mind, is a regular occurrence these days. I almost always more tired than when I go to bed, and my dreams seem to be more intense, more vivid. I don’t know if it’s my mind playing tricks, too, but I also seem to dream a lot more often now than when I’m enjoying good mental health.
The upshot of it is that when I go to bed, even though I need to, I don’t really want to go to sleep because I know what’s about to happen. Then when morning comes, I’m drained and upset. If it’s a particularly bad dream, it will be on my mind all day.
In a strange way, I am a kindred spirit with St. Johnstone today (who have taken the lead), living the dream. Unlike them, though, I really wish I lived a dream more ordinary.
Sweet dreams? Hmmmmm. For the moment, they’re not made of this.