TW: Suicide method
Very early on, after Bret died, I couldn’t dream about him. I couldn’t feel his presence at all.
I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to dream about him–I knew that when I’d wake up the next day, I’d have that weird anesthetic-type feeling where the pieces of reality slowly fit themselves back into their new places in my world; that awful feeling when you know something’s wrong but you’re not sure what that is exactly.
That hazy feeling was one I had gotten familiar with over the years. When I’d wake up the next day after he’d been arrested for something, and for a brief moment, I had to wonder where he was and what had happened. Or when we’d fought so terribly that I’d taken our daughter and left, waking up at his aunt’s house, at a friend’s house, or even many, many states away after a last-minute flight from Texas to my family home in the PNW.
The thought of waking from a dream of him following his brutal, violent, self-inflicted end was not something I looked forward to.
That first dream of him, though…it was a really beautiful thing, and I awoke thankful, feeling a strange peace through my stinging early morning tears.
It happened a few weeks (I think) after he died, and I just remember being happy that I’d finally dreamed of him.
Things began to change after that, though.
Sometimes, when I’d dream of him, it was a good dream. Sometimes they might have been a little…hot, if you get what I’m saying! 🔥 (Those were weird but welcome!)
Then the dreams started getting complicated; he’d be ignoring me in favor of other women. I’d beg and plead for any attention from him at all, and would be beside myself with thanks when he’d offer me the slightest breadcrumb of attention.
I’d awaken absolutely frustrated and sad, questioning if he had ever truly loved me.
One night, I dreamed that he was on horseback, telling me that he was going to be leaving for a while. He seemed sad and didn’t know when he’d be back. He was heading toward a big, daunting-looking mountain, and although I did not want him to leave, I knew he had to.
A few months passed, and then one night he showed back up.
He was different. Chipper. Healthier looking.
We were back in Austin (where we had lived for quite a while) at the Travis County courthouse, applying for a marriage license. (Which was weird because we had applied for our marriage license in San Luis Obispo County, California.)
We got the license, but then I watched him get into a pickup truck and drive away. I was sad, but knew he would be back.
Someday.
Over the years, there were little blips of him in dreams, but nothing big and significant like that until just a few weeks ago.
He was wearing clothes I hadn’t thought of in years–but indeed his clothes. And this silly hat he had bought years ago, which had me absolutely questioning his fashion sense. I hadn’t thought of that dumb hat in YEARS, but seeing him in it made me giggle.
In this dream, he’d been “living” in Seattle, which kind of bummed me out. I love Seattle and couldn’t understand why I couldn’t have been living there with him. There was no voice that actually said so, but the prevailing emotion was that I simply couldn’t be where he was–which makes sense, of course: I can’t be where he is. He is wherever we go when we die, and I am very much alive.
But he was in Seattle and seemed happy, maybe even a little childlike. He had his backpack slung over his shoulder because he was on his way to (and I quote) “buy a lot of soap.” This makes tons of sense if you knew him. 🤣 😂
A few nights ago, I saw that same Bret again: different clothes, but clothes that definitely belonged to him. Different hat, but one I haven’t seen in forever. He wanted to see me and let me know that he was on his way to the doctor to fix “a problem.” I asked what, and he gestured to the center of his face.
Bret passed by way of a self-inflicted GSWTH.
Immediately, I understood.
It’s been going on eight years, and maybe that’s how long it takes them, wherever they are, to work through the trauma they experienced at their own hands. I don’t know, but I’ve heard that people who take their own lives have their own healing journey to experience on “the other side.”
Maybe, after all this time, and with my own healing, he’s finally healing, too?
Maybe he’s happy and finally at peace.
Maybe he can visit, even if only in dreams, and update me on this process, even if I don’t fully understand it with my mortal mind.
Or maybe they’re just sweet dreams that let me wake up with a smile on my face, even if only for a few moments.
(Image via Bing AI)
“These dreams go on when I close my eyesEvery second of the night I live another lifeThese dreams that sleep when it’s cold outsideEvery moment I’m awake the further I’m away…” — These Dreams, Heart
About Layla Beth Munk
Layla Beth Munk is a blogger & author who was thrust into this widowhood journey abruptly and tragically on February 11, 2018. Her husband of 12 years had ended his pain once and for all. She soon made the decision that she would not let his final decision define the rest of her life or their daughter’s life, so with her sense of humor at the helm, she started writing about her newfound station in life. Grief waves still get to her, and probably always will, but with the help of her fellow widows as well as friends and family, she has been able to realize her dream of becoming a published author! Layla is so grateful to Hope For Widows Foundation for providing this level of support to her, and so many others! Layla has two amazing children, one who is grown and one who is almost grown. She lives in eastern Oregon and has a wellness & beauty background. Layla enjoys writing poetry, watching anime, and homeschooling her daughter.
Her blog can be found at laylabethmunk.medium.com and her debut novella, 24 Hours in Vegas, is available on Amazon.