Training day 35: in dreams

I had a nice little sit down chat with a military psychologist this morning. It was apparently in response to some paperwork I had filled out in the early days of DI school. I was one of fourteen Marines interviewed. Out of seventy-two.

The conversation dealt specifically with my disclosure of physiological and psychological “abnormalities” following both my tours in Iraq. And more specifically still… my dreams.

My dreams are of yet unpublished, but a few I’ve recorded in a “weathered, perforated notebook containing a dozen or so pages of hand written text from a different mindset“. Truth be told, my dreams scare me. They are of love and bliss, loneliness and heartache, rage and slaughter. They’re sex, isolation, and gore. Roughly translated, they’re raw, unchecked emotion. They are everything opposite of how I exist in the waking world.

The psychologist and I talked for quite some time about the specifics of my dreams. I explained they were always scenarios I had never been in and actions I would never take in real life. For example, getting hit by an IED as a convoy commander (which isn’t to far fetched, but wasn’t my mission on the last tour), seeing two vehicles exploding with my Marines in them, then wasting a half dozen hajjis who happened to be in the area when it all went down. That’s the PG version. When I awoke the next morning I could still feel the hate for those bastards and satisfaction I got from pulling the trigger until my magazine went dry. That scared me. I’ve had dreams of being separated from my unit with a few buddies, having to fight my way, hand to hand, back to friendly lines, smashing skulls and cutting throats the entire way. I could feel the blood gushing over my knife hand and down my arm, hot and sticky like syrup from the stove top. A blade makes a unique sound cutting through larynx. It’s no easy task. You have to saw through it.

These dreams were so damn real. Real enough to want to wash my hands when I’d wake soaked in sweat, disgusted by what my mind had conjured. My only solace was the fact the scenarios weren’t real, the people unknown, the actions abhorred. The psychologist seemed very surprised these dreams played out to the end and I carried out such horrendous acts without waking. That wasn’t normal, she said. Most people wake themselves up before the really bad shit happens. Obviously, I do not.

I’ve come to the conclusion (with probing assistance by the psychologist) I express the entire emotional spectrum through my dreams, all the best and worst, because strong emotions in the real world aren’t a luxury I allow myself. Her concern was if I had ever manifested the feelings of my dreams in outbursts such as anger, sorrow, or joy to such extremes where it could negatively affect my ability to train recruits in the future. I said I had not. At least I don’t think I have. It’s tough to say.

Admittedly, I was apprehensive in seeing the psychologist this morning. But I’m better off for it, taking away a few useful tools in dream interpretation and realizing that, although unusual, extreme, and abnormal in execution, my dreams do serve a purpose. They round me out, allowing me to express in sleep that which I dare not while awake. Let’s just hope I don’t start sleep walking.