Last night I dreamed that I lived in a two bedroom apartment owned by my real landlord, I guess in Brooklyn, but I don't know. I had a roommate, who I think was L, a friend of mine from my mom's hometown. L threw a lot of my stuff down the stairs, including the cat's litterbox. I went down and collected it while someone was seeing another apartment in the building. It was one of those dreams where I yell a lot: that if L had an issue with my stuff, she should have brought it up with me; that you don't just throw someone's stuff down the stairs; that I was the one with a good rapport with the landlord, so he'd back me up. At one point that roommate must have become another friend of mine, P, because I thought of the (real) text that P sent me about getting together this weekend, and sending me love.
This dream in particular makes me think about the dreams in which my anger tends to come up. Often it's rooted in a real incident, which makes this one interesting, because it didn't actually happen but it draws on past emotions from bad roommate situations. It isn't a rocket science observation that I must be filtering my rage at my mother's loss through other things. I'm intrigued at the fictionality of it, though - like why would I be mad at P? She is a dear friend who knows from grief, and has been quite an ally in my part of that process. I don't think I've been mad at her at all in the years I've known her. For that matter, the only thing I have to be mad at L about is that she hasn't offered any condolences. I'm trying not to be angry at people for that, because I know it's a tough subject and a lot of people just don't know what to say.
I'm still gathering my thoughts about Mom's first memorial on Sunday, and I've got some academic thoughts to work through, as well. (I'm trying not to turn this into a blog about grieving, but since it permeates my thoughts and life, it'll be part of this no matter what I intend.)
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