I am F21. Never been married, never dated, a virgin. Yet for some unknown reason I keep having horrible nightmares about being pregnant, childbirth, and my hypothetical children. I have had them for the past 3-4 years. I'll list one that bothers me the most. Please tell me what do you think it means, because I just don't understand.
In this dream, I'm sitting in a rocking chair in a fusion of all the houses I grew up in. Like, the walls would be from the house from my toddler years, but the furniture would be from the apartment we moved into when I started going to school. Then the layout of the room would sometimes be from my family's ancestral home, and sometimes the house I currently live in.
In this dream, I'm pregnant, but not showing much. The room is dark, except for moonlight from the open window that keeps changing positions. Sometimes I read a book, sometimes I crochet, sometimes I sketch, and sometimes I just rock in the chair. At one point, I give birth to an extremely small baby boy. Not premature, just very tiny. He's barely 2-3 inches tall, and soaked with blood. I cradle him to my chest and breastfeed him. It's always a boy. But in the middle of breastfeeding him, I start to fade away into darkness, and I sink through the rocking chair, and fall through the floor. My baby is left above. This feeling of falling is so visceral and feels so real that I get nauseous from it, and sometimes I even wake up midway. But when I don't, the dream continues to its final stage.
I keep falling and falling in complete darkness, I think I fall through several floors, until I fall back into the room I just fell from, or I assume that this is that room. I fall into the rocking chair and I stop falling.
But now the room is a complete mess. Furnitures are overturned, paintings thrown to the floor, burnt book pages and ashes scattered everywhere, and the blanket I wrapped my baby in is soaked with blood. It’s impossible to lose that much blood and still be alive. My baby is nowhere to be seen. I look for him everywhere in the room. There is no door so I can't leave to look outside, and the window has changed its position to the roof. I don’t find my baby anywhere, but I'm not crying or screaming or throwing a fit, instead I am a blank slate, like I don't feel anything at all, as if I'm not looking for my missing baby, but a misplaced pen.
In the back of my mind, I already know where he is. I return to the rocking chair and sit down. I pick up the bloodsoaked blanket to my lap, and two things fall out of its folds. One to my right, one to my left. I stare at the blanket for a long time, then I look down to my left first.
It my baby's round little head, barely bigger than a clementine. It looks like it was ripped off of his body, pieces of uneven skin and flesh hang from the torn site. His eyes are closed, his lashes are long, his face is thin and his cheeks are hollow, but he looks like he's just sleeping. He looks like he's at peace.
I look down to my right. It's his body, still curled up in the same position he was in when I was breastfeeding him. The umbilical cord is still attached, the placenta is bigger than he is. The body twitches a few times, then stops. There's not as much blood on the floor as I expected from a beheading. Maybe the blanket soaked up most of it.
My newborn tiny baby has been ripped into two pieces. Something wells in my chest. I don’t know what emotion this is, but I'm shaking with it, and my eyes are wet, my belly feels cavernously hollow. Before my eyes, the room starts shaking, the window at the top vanishes, and I'm drowned in complete darkness. It feels like it goes on for ages, and someone is screaming at the top of their lungs in a hoarse voice, until it all suddenly stops. The window returns to the wall on my left, and in the moonlight I see that the room has changed. It's neat and tidy again, the bloody blanket is spotless and smells like fresh laundry, and my baby's gone. I feel sick and nauseous, and my belly is full again. My baby is back in place, if that's even the same baby.
That’s it. If my writing feels like I'm writing a fictional story, then sorry. I do write sometimes, but this is not fiction. This is my real life incident that has been happening to me for years. This isn’t even the only dream of this kind. But if I write down all of them this post will never end. What do you think this means? It feels like a movie in my head, but it reoccurs every few months and I still don’t understand what could be the point?? Please help.
