my earlier exploration of life at night

A few posts ago, I wrote about adult nightmares and how I learned to live with them. My history of bad dreams goes back a long time, almost as long as I can remember. Two in particular stand out in my memory because I had them over and over again, but never with any improved endings.

My parents had a connected relationship, many friends, lots of fun, and a terrible marriage. I wouldn't be surprised if they both suffered from depression, and they certainly didn't have the social skills necessary for living with just one other adult. After four years together, they were finished with, or mostly finished with, a round of post-college education. They had me. My dad instantly regretted acquiring his law degree and went back to graduate school.

When I was two and a half, we moved to Long Island, where both parents taught at a private school that was walking distance away from our cute little house. I was farmed out to some young mother who was obviously overwhelmed and whose kids, if they learned anything from their bad childhood, would probably flee into therapy when they grew up. (Even then, I remember that I figured most of this out at the time, except the therapy part.)

Somewhere in there, my parents' marriage failed, like a bad seal. I've heard stories -- symptoms really -- but don't know and don't need to know the details. I knew that something off-kilter was happening, but I couldn't wrap my tiny brain around it. So here's how I explained it to myself, at least in my dreams:

We're riding in the family Simca, which belongs to my aunt but which we use. My parents are in the front seat and I'm in the back. It's night time, I'm sleepy. We start to drive over a long bridge, one with street lamps in it. The lamps glow eerily in the fog. There are patches of fog, so sometimes you can see and sometimes you can't. Part-way over the bridge, the car stops. The back door opens and I'm expected to get out. I do, and the car drives off. I'm standing on the bridge thinking about walking -- somewhere, but I understand that I don't have any place to walk to.

And of course, I wake up. So how do you go into your parents' room and explain *that* one? I can see waking your parents up when a monster is pursuing you, or a little green man is sitting in your room staring at you, or you finally learn to fly. But this one? How can a three year old even articulate the events, let alone the deep (or not so) meaning of the piece?

And then, later, after my parents did break up and it was just my mother and me and possibly my little sister:

I'm behind the wheel of our family Chevy, an enormous car. I'm driving down a familiar road, one my grandparents used to get to their country club. On one particular street, my mother has explained that there's a sensor that makes the light turn red when a car approaches (perhaps an early attempt at traffic calming). I'm driving down that street. I know the light is about to turn red, and it does, and I'm powerless to do what's needed. My feet are too short to reach the pedals. I'm responsible for driving the car, but I can't stop it.

Of course, I'm too little to understand the consequences of not stopping at a superfluous red light -- about hitting small children or getting a ticket. I just know that I'm in a situation where I'm powerless to be good; I can't prevent committing a Very Bad act. More important, I've been handed an adult responsibility, which at the age of three or four I'm just not ready for.

I suppose now, with many years between that child and the person I am now, I'm grateful to remember these two dreams. It give sme some insight into who that person was and what she experienced. Still, I feel a little sorry for her, the expectations heaped on her, and the roads she traveled seemingly alone.