Waking From the Four-Year Dream

My dream was not the annoying ticks of a clock, or the drips of a leaky faucet. My recurring dream was the agony of anticipation between ticks and drops. The cringing between heartbeats. The anticipation of, Will it or will it not come? It was not the beating of a tell-tale heart that drove the murderer mad, but the dread of the silences between. And the wait between last and next.

My dream lasted for four years. Four years of agony, of dreaded anticipation for when it would visit me again, unbidden. There is nothing worse than the agony of chances lost, of paths forgotten, and loves lost. My dream was certainly no one else's nightmare but my own.

After years of falling in love with men who broke my heart and played games with my self-confidence, I finally began dating Paul. Paul, the sweet next-door kind of guy your mother loved and to whom your dad lent his car. Paul had loved me since the eighth grade, but I'd never returned his feelings. Maybe I thought he was too nice, too perfect. Maybe I thought I didn't deserve him. Finally my senior year, I accepted an invitation to our first date. It was a decision long overdue.

Paul was wonderful to me. Funny, polite, charming, always there to hold the door for me. I think it was almost two weeks before he even kissed me. When the kiss finally broke, he pulled back slowly and sighed, his eyes rolling skyward. I think it was the first time he told me he loved me. He seemed even more relieved when I said I loved him, too.

We went on hayrides. We went to his church for squaredancing. Paul and I went to the movies, hung out together between classes and after school. Everything felt perfect. Well, almost perfect. I couldn't quite be myself around him. Paul was such a straightlaced guy, and I was worried if he saw certain parts of my personality, he'd be turned off. Like my perverse sense of humor. The fact that I cursed a great deal. That I enjoyed rude jokes and "potty-humor," as my mom calls it.

We went to a school dance together. Paul's favorite line to me was, "What am I going to do with you?" in mock exasperation. "Think long and hard," I replied, and then laughed, clapping my hand over my mouth in recognition of the double meaning. We shot across the room away from each other, to meet again in the middle, red faced and laughing. The fact was, I was only half-joking. I'd known exactly what I said. I knew exactly what I meant.

The fact was simply this: I wanted him. But how could I tell him? I didn't think that Paul knew I'd been with other guys before. If he did, he'd surely break up with me, because Paul seemed to have very traditional values. And so a big, big part of who I was, and how men had treated me (and how I treated myself) in relationships, had to be kept secret.

Dreaming the same dream for four years is not a positive thing. It makes you doubt all your decisions and choices. It undermines your current life, and keeps you in the past. Paul was the first old friend I ran into after college, when I came home with a diamond on my finger. I was married the following year, and the dreams started. I only saw Paul that one time, in 1992. I've never seen him since.

We were dates, of course, for the Snowdance, the annual formal winter ball. Paul looked wonderful, and we had a wonderful time with each other and our friends. All six of us returned to Paul's house afterward, and it was several hours before we were finally alone. I think we'd both anticipated this moment, nervous, but excited. A moment to finally be with each other, to be close. Secretly I hungered for his kisses, wanted to feel his touch. Perhaps when his lips finally touched mine, it was too much. I couldn't hold back any longer.

His arms were around me, and mine encircled his. Slowly, with my arm, I pressed against his. It was like forcing a lead bar. Finally his hand unwillingly reached my breast. It was only then I realized how far he'd pulled away from me, so that I was almost on my knees on the floor, trying to reach his mouth. He broke off, and took me home. But I don't remember. I don't remember anything after realizing he had pulled away like someone had thrust a snake in his face.

In my dream I am following Paul, almost running after him. He does not want to listen to what I have to say. I cry. I want to tell him about me, about my past, and what happened to make me act the way I did. To tell him the lesson I had learned; you won't love me unless I sleep with you. He does not want to listen. I can't run fast enough. Paul turns his back on me and I cannot see his face.

Paul broke up with me the following week. "It's me, it's not you at all. I blame myself." I was stunned. And then I stopped caring. I didn't cry. Paul, the nicest and most caring man I'd ever loved, left me. I decided I wouldn't date anyone. It was December, I was without a boyfriend for the first time in years, and I decided it would stay that way for a long time.

I survived the rest of the year, although Paul tried to avoid me as much as possible. He dated another girl for a while which made me horribly angry. This girl made me look like Cladia Schiffer, not that I consider myself beautiful by any means. But to break up with me and then date her. I was mortified.

At graduation, Paul signed my yearbook. "To be honest I really regret breaking up with you." I could barely read the words written there.

It wasn't until college that I finally got a true inkling why Paul may have left me. His brother, a great friend and someone whom I'd secretly loved, provided some insight into his brother. I called Paul shortly thereafter, but never quite talked about our breakup.

Did I marry the wrong man? Do I still love Paul? The dreams would come from nowhere. No mention of his name, no picture to jostle my mind. And suddenly I am pursuing him again trying to plead my case. I would be affected for days following my dream. Doubting my choices, my life, and myself. Sometimes I would cry when my husband wasn't home. I didn't tell him I was suffering inside.

Too long, four years is too long. In 1997, I finally told my husband, who understood. But still the dreams came. I thought if only my husband knew, maybe they would end. Four years is too long. One day I finally picked up the phone, one day I finally dialed his number and didn't hang up before someone said hello.

"Hello?" Paul's voice answered the phone. My heart raced, palms sweated. "Guess who this is," I stalled. After a hint, he knew it was me. He knew from the moment I spoke. Paul and I chatted; I was covering up the real reason I was calling. Paul was engaged; I already knew. I knew a lot about Paul. I'd searched the Internet for him, looked up his college alma mater. He was almost ready to end the conversation when I finally gathered my courage. "Paul, I actually have another motive in calling you today." Then I broke down in tears.

My four-year nightmare became my reality. I did not have to chase him down, and although I still couldn't see his face, Paul listened. I told him everything. How I never dealt with our breakup, the four-year recurring dream, my fears that he thought poorly of me starting the night I forced myself on him. How, even after all these years, how he thought of me still mattered. The expanse of my house overwhelmed me, the trembling and tears in my voice that echoed against empty walls drove me outside. Where I trembled as much from emotion as from the cold.

Paul is still a wonderful person. Not having seen a woman in years, to listen to her crazy crying and dumping ancient emotional waste everywhere would make most men hang up to escape. Not Paul. He listened to every word, reassured my every fear, and expressed his own regrets about the situation. And he at last told me why he'd broken off our relationship.

Dreams have force, I truly believe that. Just as I believe that Paul truly loved me, whether or not I truly believed his reason for leaving me. But my dream was a sign that I had not dealt with my past, and my life could not move on. Paul was married shortly afterward. I saw him last in 1992, and I've never seen him since. Not even in my dreams.