Exploring The Unconscious

My husband did the unthinkable (in a dream) and it hurt my feelings.

Look, I know. There’s nothing less interesting than telling people about a dream you had. We’ve all pretended to listen while our brain takes a little nap as a friend or family member recounts their slumbering gibberish. And yet, sometimes we are so haunted by the unconscious’s nocturnal admissions (😉), so sure that there must be something important, perhaps universal, in the stories and spirits that visited us while we slept, that if we could only crowd source their meaning, we could bring critical new incite to all humanity. So, I guess what I’m trying to say is….

The other night, I dreamed my husband climbed into bed in the early morning hours, complaining about a bad back. I asked him, ‘where did you sleep last night?’. Dream Me’s line of questioning was pure of heart! I wanted to get to the bottom of what was causing my dear sweet husband’s lumbar ache! However, when he responded that he’d slept in our guest bed next to a mutual female friend slash house guest so they could finish ‘making up a secret language’ I balked. ‘We’re getting a divorce!’ Dream Me asserted. ‘I’m not doing this again,’ Dream Husband sighed dismissively, as if Dream Me makes a habit of losing my shit after harmless platonic sleepovers with other women. What followed was a cascade of images that evoked shame, vicarious humiliation, and sadness: my brother’s old Jeep, in which I was arrested for drunk driving when I was 21. An estranged elderly friend of my father’s, cleaning the bathroom with a toothbrush in his underwear. A beloved cat, now dead, but in my dream only lost. But mostly, the dream revolved around this bitch who slept with my husband. She kept appearing, with maddening charisma, to assure me that there was nothing to worry about. They were just best friends who needed a secret language and had to lie next to each other on our fold-out couch to create it! When I was jolted awake by my husband’s own somniloquistic ramblings, (‘I’m gonna kill you, motherfucker!’ he mumbled, in a casual tone), I felt utterly betrayed. I knew it was just a dream, but well into the next day, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d been deeply wronged, then gaslit. I simply couldn’t help it, Reader. It hurt my feelings.

Where do we all stand on the idea that if someone provokes suspicion, they’re probably guilty of something? Even if it’s not the thing they’re suspected of? Because sure, as a principle of parenting, you probably shouldn’t indulge this line of thinking, but when applied to a spouse of several years, it’s got to be valid, right? I mean, all that time together, they must have gotten away with something, and I’m not saying it was infidelity, but something? Look, my mom is a psychoanalyst, and while I’ve never actually read it, Freud’s Interpretation of Dreams sits on my bookshelf AS WE SPEAK. So I mean, this dream didn’t just come out of nowhere! Did it spring from unconscious resentment? Because the night of my dream, my husband did jam in the garage with another middle aged dad while I put the kids to bed by myself. I didn’t feel resentful as the dulcet tones of Everclear’s “Father of Mine” drifted through the suburban darkness. But how could I? Everclear is one of the most underrated bands of the 20th century! Also, to be fair, I had just returned from a five day solo trip during which my husband generously wrangled our two feral children on his own. Still, he is going to a concert this Saturday night while I stay at home with the kids, i.e. doing his part to exile mothers from public spaces. All I’m saying is, I let him have his fun! As parents, we all have to fill our own cups. But given the fact that I carried to term and birthed both our children, I kind of feel like my cup is a lot bigger and needs a significant amount more filling.

Freud, reliving a time he saw his parents having sex.

Has petty resentment plugged the hole in my heart where irrational mistrust used to fester? Earlier on in our relationship, I felt so deeply abandoned, so deeply threatened, by anything my husband chose to do that didn’t involve me: trips with friends, post-work hangouts, organizing a labor union (yikes, please don’t expel me, WGA!). I wanted my independence, (wine at Ardesia? Yes, please! Crossfit at SPOT? It’s for my health!) but when he asserted his, it seemed like a betrayal. I’m embarrassed that I ever felt this way, remorseful of how I treated my husband when I did — yelling ‘I want a divorce!’ at my husband definitely used be more than a dreamed-based occurrence — and grateful that he stuck by me despite my immature and hurtful behavior. But as time went on, somehow or other, the fear that if I didn’t cling to my husband he’d reveal himself to be a person I didn’t want him to be, eventually subsided. I can remember acutely how painful it felt mistrust my husband, yet it’s hard to imagine feeling that way again. (Except when I do, like after a dream where he’s clowning around in the guest bedroom with one of our friends!) It’s almost like TRUST is BUILT OVER TIME. Like when a person holds your hands while an anesthesiologist administers an epidural for the birth of your first child, or lets you weep into his chest at your sister’s funeral, or cries with you when you have to put your cat to sleep, it’s almost like he’s proven he doesn’t hate you and want the worst for you. The possibility that he’s suddenly going to yank off a hyper realistic silicone mask, the risk there’s been a monster underneath it this whole time, feels a lot less likely. Almost impossible, except maybe somewhere deep in the unconscious, confining itself to sleeping hours with only a little bleed over into day.

So sure, he’s a good guy, but does that mean he deserves to have fun? I guess the real question is, AT WHAT COST? Because when you’re a parent of two small children, letting one partner enjoy themselves usually means the other partner doesn’t get to. And in this particular scenario, the other partner is ME. Recently, a neighbor with kids a little older than mine told me how vividly she remembers tallying each of her partner’s acts of freedom against hers. “You’re so close to being past that,” she described, promising a time not long from now when hanging out with kids alone will feel easy, even its own kind of fun. It was comforting to hear that the resentment I feel when asked to parent the children I chose to bear or support the husband I chose to marry is, if not universal, at least a little more common than I thought. And maybe, like its ugly little sister, mistrust, subsides a bit with time. All to say, looks like I unpacked the meaning of my dream all by myself, so now I really don’t have to read that stupid Freud book!