A visit from a dead friend

Two nights ago my dead friend, John, came to me in a dream. My boyfriend claims someone dead cannot be your friend, but I disagree. I suppose "friend" is a verb and since he is dead he cannot act a friend, I still hold John close to my heart. And I cherish the dream moments when he and I surprisingly reunite, for those odd, unlikely and unexplainable scenarios dreams create.

This dream came after a day of contemplation and a nightcap of tears and Nyquil. What happened to my life? Why hasn't anything happened in my life? What am I going to make happen? Why is everything so fucked up? Why can't I just start over? WHAT AM I GOING TO DO? Sometimes the questions become too much and instead of ignoring them, I answer them with tears. Ineffective, self-loathing tears.

John's appearance startled me even in my dream. He appeared as a ghost. In my dream I was so happy to see him, it had been so long. He told me to quiet down, no one was supposed to see him. His human like presence disappeared and he became a voice. He was warning me, saying, "Lindsay, I have something important to tell you." Then I woke up. Why didn't I get to hear his warning?

My dead friend took his life. It was completely unexpected. He hid his unhappiness with cynical jokes and outrageous goofiness. I had just come back from Italy and was getting my nails done with my sister and our friend Catherine. Megan, a mutual friend of John and I, called me to tell me he died. I didn't cry. I called my brother who loved John almost as much as I did. He was also shocked. Rumors of suicide were heard days later. A speeding car, a stomach full of pills, a note to his sister. I hadn't seen him in months. And I was never going to see him again. I had no idea he was in pain.

Maybe John was watching me from his perch in heaven, or wherever he is. I imagine when you die and are in the afterlife you get to watch whomever. . . He probably saw I was moving into the bathroom, naked under my robe, and assumed I was going to shower. Instead I hid in the bathroom and cried, maybe as he did in his latent unhappiness. Maybe he was familiar with my cries of desperation and futility. Maybe he related to my worry and my hopelessness. Or maybe he just saw his friend struggling and lonely.

I don't understand dreams. They are not logical and they cannot be used as predictors of the future. They seem to bridge the unconscious with the conscious, like a Tim Burton movie or a Salvador Dali painting. John's unfinished omen is a reminder of what I have and what I would lose if I don't take control of my self and my real life dreams.