One of the characteristics of PTSD is intense realistic dreams. Not exclusively bad per se, but realistic. And even a middling dream of intense realism is a dream in which one generally doesn't wake feeling rested from. A number of the medications I'm currently on are to help me sleep overnight. For the most part to stop the associated adrenaline dump from the realism.
Well, last night I died. Or, to be more specific, last night I realized I had been dead for some time. Without giving a specific blow-by-blow account of the dream sequence (which doesn't make an enormous amount of sense, being a dream and all), I knew I was getting in to a legal argument of some description. I was being escorted by my advocate, talking about various things. After a completely indeterminate period of time, I was lead back to a body slumped, sitting, on the floor. My body.
The realization that one is dead, and has been dead for untold months, is a strange feeling. It is full of melancholy, buffered with discontent. There is regret, and there is intense sadness. There is, surprisingly, no anger. Merely resignation and mild surprise that its taken so long to realize that I've been dead all along.
I don't want to get in to dream interpretation. I don't want to overanalyse this. But it hasn't been a good day at all and the kids have borne the brunt of it. I woke this morning knowing that I was dead and that I've been dead for an unknown period of time. Unusually, its after midday and I'm still struggling to come to terms with it. I keep going to cry over my own loss and the world is colored very blue indeed.
A dreamer may not remember dying, but it seems they can remember knowing they're dead.
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