About thirty-eight years ago my grandpa died. I was seven, and I had a nightmare the night of his funeral. There were two Grandpas, but one was monster-ish. An evil twin, if you will. And I always thought Dad and Grandpa were a lot alike, and my brain has harbored child-like conclusions ever since.
You know the nightmare made a lasting impact, because here I am all these years later writing about it, remembering it in vivid detail—being chased by the evil Grandpa through my backyard while the good Grandpa, the Grandpa I knew and loved, couldn’t do anything about it.
That dream was wake-up-in-a-sweat-terror for a little kid who’d only ever heard of death before.
But I’m actually not here to analyze 40-year-old dreams. Today I’m pondering the reasons why after Dad died in 2021, I was too anxious to sleep. Because anxiety is my issue now.
I didn’t want to have a nightmare like that one about Dad too. But after Dad died, I consciously thought that nightmare could come back to haunt me, and I DID. NOT. WANT.
So I stayed up late every night for several weeks watching Golden Girls reruns until my body was overwhelmed by sleep and I had no choice but to close my eyes.
Hi, my name is Emily, and I avoid and repress fear.
In 2015, my dad filled out one of those prompt journals I’d given him a year or two before on Father’s Day. I was already sick by then, but had no idea with what. (At that time, the Rheumatologist from Hell said I had fibromyalgia.)
Anyway, when Dad gave the filled-out book back to me for my birthday, I teared up. I was already a basket case then because of life, but also I knew how much he hated writing, so it meant a lot.
Honestly, when I gave him the book, I didn’t actually expect him to answer the prompts. I just thought he should know that I thought a permanent record of his stories would be pretty cool.
After Mom and Dad left our apartment and returned home, I cracked the journal open to a random page, started reading, and was like “Nope. Not prepared for feels today.” I closed it immediately and never dared read it again until nearly a decade later, almost four years after his death.
Mom read it a couple years ago. “I think it would make you feel better, Emily,” she said then. I nodded, not doubting her for a second. But also? I just couldn’t.
Part of working on my anxiety, though, has been facing emotions I habitually avoid. So the other night I put my big girl panties on and asked Dan to get the book out of my cabinet. He handed it to me along with a box of Puffs—just in case—and left me to my reading.
Mom was right. It was a comfort to read. It felt like he was right there. His handwriting. His voice. I’m making baby steps. It’s going to be okay.