I don’t usually write much about my dreams, but they are often vivid and sometimes disturbing. As part of my PTSD I have nightmares a few times a week.

Yet sometimes my dreams are powerful and healing. These dreams often bring clarity about what I want in my life. I’d like to share one I had this week.

In the dream, I was in a crowd of random people I’ve known at different times in my life – family, friends, the guy in the McDonald’s drive-thru. One of my old classmates was bullying me, and I had a complete emotional breakdown. I began hitting myself while screaming and crying hysterically. The crowd begged my classmate to leave me alone, but instead he made fun of me.

That’s when my father emerged from the crowd, taller than everyone else, with a thing ring of white hair around his head. I cowered in fear, but instead of the violence I expected, he said, “Leave her alone. Part of why she’s like this is because of how I treated her.” The crowd silenced. So did I. He wrapped his arms around me and said, “I’m sorry.”

I was in heavy tears when I woke up. Those are the words I most wanted from him, and never got. I’m sorry.

I’ve had a few days to reflect on the dream, and what strikes me is that in his very late years, my father was a different guy than the man I grew up with. He changed. He grew. He tried.

For me, it was too late – there was too much damage done. I’ve struggled to let go of my bitterness toward him, but I’ve come a long way from the outright hate I felt as a teen and young adult. I noticed when he started to change, but there was no way I could trust the man after our history.

I’ve never thought of forgiveness as a goal as it felt so out of reach. I read somewhere that forgiveness isn’t a decision – that it’s something we journey toward and often are surprised when we realize we have forgiveness in our heart. I’m not quite there, but I’m sure on the journey. I’m feeling compassion toward my father. I can admit that late in his life, he was a good man. I can’t forget, but perhaps it is possible for me to forgive.

I was able to care for my mother on her death bed. One night she awoke and asked for a bath. As I gently scrubbed her tired body, she began to sob. “Bad mom, bad mom,” she kept repeating. I cried with her, but I also lovingly recited all the memories of her being a good mom – playing games with us, teaching me to read, answering all my “why” questions, cuddling with us, teaching me to work hard and love others. She had an amazing sense of humor – we laughed a lot, and never at someone else’s expense. As I spoke of these memories, her sobbing subsided.

Those were Mom’s last words. She died the next day.

I couldn’t be in Vermont with my father when he was dying, as I was with my son in the ICU here in New Hampshire. After this dream, I have the realization that he may have had the same kinds of regrets. He just never spoke of them.

My inner teenager is convinced that her father had no conscience – he always justified his most abhorrent behavior. He seemed incapable of caring for anyone but himself. That teenaged self is where my anger is stored. But my inner little one still craved an apology, and she finally got it the other night in her dream.