I started having walking dreams when I was about seven or so. My sister always woke up my dad when I was walking around the house crying. I always was confused on whether or not what I was dreaming was real or not. All the dreams were real to me, but everyone always told me they weren’t. When I told my parents what I was dreaming about, what I was getting in my dream, what I was doing, it was so vivid. How could it have been a dream?
I remember tasting the ice cream. I remember how the sand and ocean felt between my toes. Just because I lived in rural Kansas didn’t mean these dreams were just dreams. Or were they? As I got older, I was having a harder time determining what was a dream and what was real life. I felt objects, I felt heat and cold, I tasted, I saw. I even had conversations I would remember later, but half the time I woke up in my bed.
The worst experience I had was the night my sister was murdered. I have never told anyone about what I had seen that night or who I had seen. Who would believe me anyway? Besides, I didn’t know if what I had dreamed was real or if I had actually killed her.