I killed someone. At least I think I did. I don’t remember doing so, not really; not the who or the where or the why of it. There is no personal “Bibulous One in The Library with the Lead Pipe:” All I know is that, buried in some place that’s lost in my past, is a maggot-infested body, rotting away, waiting to be discovered, and I know, with sick certainty, that discovery will come soon, really bloody soon. With a deep sense of dread, I sense the closeness of the investigators.
Not only do I not remember the act, I don’t remember where the body is buried, not even the name of a town. I just have a vague recollection of it being folded awkwardly into my old boarding school trunk, a large wooden box with an ancient padlock. My father had travelled the world with it, before passing it on to me. When they find that, they’ll surely trace it back to me through my father’s old service number, stencilled in white paint on the top. That’s what will lead to my discovery, and the inevitable, awful shaming; that bloody number 3125355, 3125355, 3125…
I don’t remember a time before I had this dream (you knew it was a dream, right?). Certainly it was there in my teens at that same boarding school. It’s not a constant, but returns from time to time to stalk me. It’s not even just a dream; I’ll be awake for hours afterwards, convinced that there really is a body, desperately searching my memory for clues pointing to what I might have done that could have left me so full of guilt and fear.
A week or so ago, after something of an absence, the bloody thing returned, as vivid and disturbing as ever. I resolved to describe it to the counsellor I’m seeing in our next session. I rather sidled up to the subject, not sure how it might be to talk about this recurring nightmare for the first time. I probably wasted ten minutes deliberately not talking about it, but she’s patient and used now to the way the really difficult words trip over each other on the way out.
It was weird. I was describing this hideous, ugly thing that’s terrified me for at least 45 years, and what I saw on her face was not a frown of concern and sympathy but a smile of acceptance and recognition. My immediate thought was that she hadn’t understood how awful and serious a revelation this was for me, so I ploughed on and her smile just deepened!
Eventually she put me out of my misery. This dream, or variants of it, is apparently quite normal in people who hide part of themselves from others. The dream, it seems, is my subconscious processing my long-hidden secret life and the paralysing fear of its discovery. I perhaps shouldn’t be surprised; my masochism was hidden away, barely acknowledged even by me, from the age of 8 until a few years ago when BibulousOne emerged, blinking, into the sudden bright light of Twitter.
I felt a huge sense of relief that the dream could be rationalised so easily, perhaps mixed with a little foolishness at not having worked it out for myself.
I don’t mind if it comes back now.
I might even enjoy digging around in my past to see what else lies buried there.
I also have a similar dream, where I’ve killed an old lover named Angie. Similar to Miss D’s comment, often the scenario is that the body is in danger of being discovered so I have to move it.
For context, Angie was someone with whom I first explored many of my kinks. My traditional suburban American rearing made this exploration partly shameful for me, until I started accepting that side of myself. But to this day, I feel like I have to hide parts of myself from society, that the real me is known by so few. Hence, this quote from your post resonates so strongly with me:
“This dream, or variants of it, is apparently quite normal in people who hide part of themselves from others. The dream, it seems, is my subconscious processing my long-hidden secret life and the paralysing fear of its discovery.”
Thank you so much for writing this.
I have two or three recurring dreams, and all of them have to do with the same thing: being afraid of losing control. Mostly they occur in times where I feel life is running away from me, and I have trouble keeping up the pace. Knowing what the dreams are about does seem to make them less scary.
Rebel xox
Omg I have that same dream!! I’ve had it for many many years! Sometimes the body is buried under my patio and then we move and the land is sold to developers who are going to build a mall and I know that’s when I’ll finally be discovered and I feel shame and fear. Sometimes it was dumped in a well and it’s about to be discovered from digging for new pipes, etc etc. different scenarios but always that same sickening feeling of shame and regret for what I did, and for trying to get away with it.
Thank you so much for adding this comment. What a similar scenario you paint! Your story adds to what already heard from the therapist in putting this dream in its proper place.