Recurring dreams, repeating nightmares
In my dreams, I have gone from victim to perpetrator. Should I be worried?
I have a recurring dream. Come to think of it, I have always had recurring dreams. But, over the years, the content of those dreams has evolved and changed.
The first time I became aware of recurring dreams was in my late teens. My “dream du jour” back then was dozens of disembodied fists coming towards me. I could never see who was attacking me or why; but I regularly woke myself up taking evasive action to avoid the onslaught. That dream seemed to last for a year or two and then just dissipated.
My next recurring dream was shorter lived but significantly more disturbing. I would regularly dream that the tendons in the backs of my legs had somehow shrunk, meaning that I could neither walk nor run properly. I had to move as if trying to appear shorter; and I am sure that I could feel the pain in my hamstrings and calves as I tried desperately to stand erect.
Worst of all my recurring dreams, however, always involved me driving. I was behind the wheel of an unknown car and driving normally, often through familiar surroundings. But then I would blink and my eyes would refuse to open again. I couldn’t manoeuvre my imaginary car to safety because I couldn’t see where I was going. I would either wake out of sheer fright and panic or to avoid the impact of an oncoming vehicle.
I have never been able to figure the cause of these dreams or any hidden meaning they might contain. Besides, the only person “suffering” in those earlier dreams was me; and I came to no physical harm.
However, my latest (and, at the time of writing, current) recurring dream is different in two key ways. The first way is that, in this one, I am not the victim but the perpetrator. And the second way is that this is not a dream but what I can only describe as a pre-dream.
As I close my eyes each and every night, just before sleep takes hold, I picture a man that I know and for whom I have a particular dislike. And I am throwing punches at him. To be more specific, I am throwing two distinct punches at him. Both are something akin to a left hook (though I am no expert — I have not thrown a punch in anger in about 45 years). One of those left hooks is always aimed at the point of his jaw; the second is always aimed at his rib cage.
They always connect with devastating, violent force that I can almost feel. But there is nothing more. There is no sight of the punch’s effect, no retaliation, no gratifying victory. Instead, I just drift off to sleep; like a movie ending abruptly without a satisfying resolution.
I would never punch someone (anyone) in real-life. Yet, as sleep begins to wrap me in its warm embrace, it feels like the most normal thing in the world.
No-one need feel afraid. At my time of life, I couldn’t punch my way out of a wet paper bag. But, like all the recurring dreams that have come and gone, I am left wondering if there is some deep psychological meaning that I am missing.
