Of dreams, blades and emptiness

I woke up in a cold sweat, with my mind drowned in the images of the previous night’s dream – feeling strangely calm. 

“No, it isn’t acceptable to me. Father cannot leave like this.” I found myself saying this out loud, in an even tone, with a intent expression on my face.

Running... Runnning back to father, before it is too late. Reaching and seeing his smiling face.

This was a respite from the usual nightmares, the same every time – seeing Father dying. At least I had seen him smile. But it had become harder and harder to deal with the vivid images, because I knew they were just apparitions of my mind – somehow false, as though someone were fooling me. 

That day was the last straw – there was nothing else to keep me from the emptiness. When grief is gone, there is just deep, dark emptiness. Devoid of colour, sound or warmth, like the cold motionless heart I laid my hand on five months ago. There are no more tears - just an odd, desolate disconnection every time I think of father. As though all that relates to him is now part of another life – a different, infinitely better one.

At home too, we don’t talk about Father anymore. Mum and I – we stay away from anecdotes related to him, consciously ignore all his imprints in the house around us. There is just too much hurt, so we shut ourselves out, to keep sane. This has happened so many times with us, that I’ve lost count now –

One of us will be staring ahead with that haunted look now a standard feature.

“What is it?”

“Nothing. What were you saying?”

Suddenly, it’s very clear to me why depressed people hurt themselves. When you feel nothing, physical pain feels like a respite. At least I’ll feel something – that’s how you think.  

I did pick up a blade that day; just to see how it felt, as an experiment of sorts. But the moment I ran my finger along the edge, I understood how I could never do anything of that sort. Because it’s an incredibly selfish thing – to have the medics clamour around to stem the blood, or to have your family desperately trying to wake you up after you’ve downed those pills. 

It’s one of those times you thank the stars that you were born a coward.

P.S. - Freud's Interpretation of Dreams(here is an interesting piece on cartoons and dreams) is proving to be an interesting read now.