What a Weird Dream Says About My Real Life

I’m in Fort Lauderdale, Fla., as I write this. I’m in a hotel by the beach and it’s pretty relaxed. I’m sleeping more deeply than I have in a while. I’m also having some fucked-up dreams. Since I rarely remember my dreams the next morning, I’ve decided to capture this one.

Mood music:

https://youtu.be/6aNNIyxbG5g

Sequence 1

I’m with my father, aunt and younger son in front of the old family business. Everyone’s gathered to go to a wedding or some other special event. Duncan and I aren’t going, so I’m not sure why we’re there.

My father, who can’t walk or sit up much, has the ability to do both in the dream, and to prove it, he stands up on the roof of the car. My aunt, who rarely leaves her condo these days, is there, too. She’s going to the big event, whatever it is.

Sequence 2

Everyone leaves, and I take my son home — to the house I grew up in on the Lynnway in Revere. The house is bigger than it was in reality, with exposed beams at the roof.

We enter the kitchen and I freak because the place is a disaster. The rest of the family had had a big breakfast before they left and didn’t clean up after themselves.

Sequence 3

We’re still in my old house, but suddenly my church pastor and a bunch of parishioners are there, rehearsing for either a play or special ceremony.

I’m not wearing any pants, so I run from the room to go put something on. Suddenly, I’m in the warehouse of the family business, which is filled with boxes. An interesting detail, because in reality the building is pretty empty now.

I hide behind boxes and put the pants on, as a bunch of kids from church parade by. I feel a hand on my shoulder and turn around. It’s my pastor.

He asks if I want to go to lunch. I say sure. He pauses, then tells me the other parishioners are talking about me. They’ve noted that I’m very quiet and sullen of late, which is unusual. People are worried about me. I admit that I’m not feeling like myself, and then the dream fades out as I wake up.

What’s It All About?

The best I can make of it is this:

  • I’m worried about my father and feel guilty that I’m not able to visit him more often.
  • I’m worried about my aunt because she’s become a recluse.
  • I’m kind of sad about the family business being over, even though I was never in love with it to begin with.
  • The mess my younger boy makes around the house is driving me insane.
  • Though I’m getting better, I spent the fall and winter in a depressed funk.

As for the lack of pants, all I can think of is that a little bit of reality had traveled with me into the dream, because I was sleeping sans pants.

Dream of Sacrifice by EddieTheYeti
“Dream of Sacrifice” by EddieTheYeti

Knowing You’re a Punk is the First Step in the Cure

I was an absolute punk this morning. I was incensed over tech problems, dropping F-bombs and punching the desk with my fist.

Mood music:

It’s a typical problem for someone with clinical OCD. You want to control everything, though you know it’s impossible.

In mid-rage, I learned a friend had just lost a sibling.

Rage turned to guilt.

I’m no special case. We all lose our patience from time to time and act like spoiled brats. More often than not, it’s over little things, like missing a favorite TV show or getting stuck in traffic. It’s much easier to blow up than to be stoic when things don’t go our way.

The news I received this morning in the middle of my tantrum just goes to show that someone else always has it worse. I know what it’s like to lose a sibling, and I truly feel for my friend and pray for his family. I needed a hard slap of perspective this morning, but I wish the lesson came from someplace else.

Appreciate what you have. Hug those around you, and don’t sweat the little things. If you fail at any of these, just try again.

I’ll work at following my own advice.

Perspective-is-everything

Oh, The Guilt

I’ve always been driven by guilt. I used to hide it because with guilt comes shame and with shame comes deceit. In more recent years, however, I’ve tried to use it to become a better man. Results are mixed.

 

My inability to process guilt started at an early age. Growing up Jewish, I’d get Hanukkah gelt (Yiddish for “money”) during the Festival of Lights. Not understanding Yiddish, I thought it was called Hanukkah guilt. “Why the fuck am I being handed guilt as a present?” I’d ask myself. Only in adulthood would I realize how a simple misunderstanding of language would shape my thinking.

Since then, guilt has been the gift that keeps on giving.

Guilt over not talking to my mom for six years. I have it in spades. Not because she’s blameless, but because I know that some of what’s gone wrong is my fault. And while I’ve written about things in childhood that made me unhappy, I haven’t given her credit for what she did right. But that’s a subject for another post.

Guilt over binge eating and other addictive behaviors. There’s been plenty of that over the years. After spending $30 at McDonald’s and another $20 at Dunkin’ Donuts on what used to be a typical binge on the drive home from work, I’d stuff the empty bags under the seats. Erin called them guilt bags, and she would eventually find them. (For more on that, see “The Most Uncool Addiction” and “Anatomy of a Binge.”)

Guilt over being a bad pet owner. In my early 20s, I had two pet rats. They were very loving and gentle. I went on a trip to California and forgot to ask someone to look after them. When I got back, I found them both dead. To this day I feel horrible about that. One lesson I learned from that: Don’t leave the tank you keep your pets in on the floor of your closet, because you could forget they’re in there.

Guilt over money. Guilt has also weighed me down when I’ve mishandled money (math was never one of my stronger traits) or lied to my wife over things I was ashamed of.

Guilt from letting some relationships languish over the years. In some cases, people are difficult and I need to keep my distance for self-preservation. Other times, though, I’m just too lazy to pick up the phone.

Parenthood guilt. I always try to be the parent who’s always gentle, listens carefully to my children’s every word and helps them deal with life’s big issues. I sometimes fail because I’m too tired or too lost behind a computer screen.

They say guilt is a useless emotion, that it causes you to waste all your time worrying about things you can’t control or change. That’s true to a point. But I’ve learned the value of guilt over the years as a tool to make me a better man.

For example, these days I’m trying to spend less time online and more time playing Monopoly and other games with the kids. It’s only a start, but it’s something.

Remembering food guilt has definitely kept me from further binges. And while my money-management skills still leave much to be desired, I don’t spend like I used to.

As for the stuff about my mother, another attempt at reconciling is not out of the question.

In its proper place, guilt is a good awareness tool.

Definition of guilt

It’s All Fun and Games Till Someone Breaks an Elbow

Duncan is sporting a pink cast on his right arm again, the result of a tumble off my bed last week. He was horsing around with Sean and took a spill over the side, landing on his elbow and fracturing it.

Mood music:

[spotify:track:4A065x9kJt955eGVqf813g]

Duncan went flying when Sean put up his hands to keep his brother from landing on top of him. Now every time someone asks what happened, Duncan points an accusing finger in Sean’s direction. Call it what you will — brothers being brothers, parental fail (I was on the other side of the bed reading, oblivious to the accident about to happen), Duncan being accident prone.

When Duncan came home in another cast, Sean felt terrible about it. He doesn’t like to see his little brother in pain and was equally upset last fall after Duncan fell off a set of monkey bars and broke his right wrist bones.

In addition, there’s a fair amount of guilt swirling around the Brenner house. Sean feels guilty because his reflexive action during a moment of horsing around caused Duncan’s spill. I feel guilty because I should have stopped the horseplay sooner. Erin feels guilty because she was a floor above us during the incident, talking on the phone.

There are teachable moments in all this.

The first is that feeling guilty is pointless; nobody conspired for this to happen. But we can be a little more alert in the future. For my part, the second horseplay starts, I can lay down the law and stop it.

The second lesson is that beating yourself up won’t change the outcome. Bad luck will always show itself in a split-second, before you’re fully able to process what’s about to happen. The tumble off the bed happened faster than the blink of an eye, and that’s the way life is sometimes — fast and sloppy.

As an OCD case, I’ve had to work at that last one. Those of us with clinical OCD are masters at second-guessing ourselves and everyone around us. We’ll replay the event in our heads repeatedly, looking for that quick moment when someone screwed up. But it never helps. In fact, it just makes matters worse because we let the obsession incapacitate us.

The best I can do now — the best all of us can do — is be there for Duncan and help him through it.

Fortunately, Duncan isn’t letting it get him down. He’s still every bit as active as he usually is, and yesterday he even enjoyed a string of bowling.

Despite the cast and sling, he won.

On to the next thing, which will hopefully be a lot less eventful.