The therapeutic benefits of writing this blog have been challenged this morning, people.
Last night I had a dream about one of my more macabre posts (one in which I contemplated whether taxidermy had been a missed opportunity as an option for my Husband’s body – read it, it’s not as bad as it sounds. Honest.)
In the dream, I had indeed taken the decision to have Him stuffed. However, He was not immobile. He was able to move about in a kind of lobotomised state. Like Nick Frost in that zombie movie, but better looking.
He was lying in bed next to our daughter, not realising He was dead. And I was frightened of Him.
I woke into a disconcerting semi-reality – half awake and muggy with sweat. I had to get up, starkers and hung-over, just to check He wasn’t lurking in the corridor.
Much to my chagrin, I hardly ever dream about M. I would love to dream about Him more, because the odd time He has made an appearance, He is always alive, flashing that mega-watt smile that my heart aches to see again.
As it is, by transcribing my psychotic innermost thoughts about His death, I fear I may have doomed myself into some kind of ghoulish Jungian dream cycle, in which He always appears as an extra from Shaun of the Dead.
Maybe I ought to ditch this as a subject and write about puppies instead.