I had slept pretty well, except for Torbie. She decided to occupy the entire center of my bed. I prefer to sleep on my left side with my knee drawn up in front of me. Nope. Torbie's bad paw was right where I'd put my knee, not to mention Torbie was right in the middle of the bed.
I managed to sleep regardless but it was rather fitful, as I couldn't assume my "ideal" positions and had to worry about rolling over on Torbie. We should all be so lucky to have these problems, and I mean that.
Biscuit is a much better boy, he sleeps alongside one leg when he sleeps with me, which is occasionally.
After I went back to sleep, I had a horrible nightmare. I was living in a modification of my old childhood house, with Ron. It was much bigger and nicer, though, the kitchen was half the size of my current house (I do wish I had a little more room in the kitchen, when Ron's in there on his mobility device he takes up the entire floor space - or maybe I just wish Ron would stay out of the kitchen!). Ron was running water to take a bath and I was decluttering. I had a lot of "stuff" and I was trying to go through it to get the place more structured.
And Ron was at his verbally abusive finest. He was horrible to me, and I kept encouraging him to go take his bath but he wouldn't.
Then I realized, when he had the water on for his bath, other shower heads (at least 2 more) were running as well. Then I woke up.
When I got up, I used the toilet and looked in on Ron, as I didn't see Torbie anywhere. She was lying alongside him, under his arm, totally happy. That was kind of odd for me, after my dream.
It made me realize, even if God turned Ron into the perfect husband, as I type, I would still have so much scar tissue it would affect our lives forever.
It's ironic, Ron used to have nightmares about me, and wake up furious at me. In the dreams, a 'bad guy" was after us. I would "screw up and do something stupid" and Ron would know the bad guy was going to get us, then he would wake up. He always used to get so angry at me, even awake he'd be yelling at me.
I didn't much care for the whole "You're a f-up who got us killed" attitude, either. How come he never had nightmares about me leaving him? He should have.
The other day he was listening to love songs and telling me how much he loved me. I couldn't help but think:
"Is that before you called me a stupid bitch, or after?"
I didn't say it.