A conversation with myself:

I’ve not been sleeping well. I’m aware that’s nothing new. In fact, with the new medication and CPAP machine I’ve been sleeping more than usual. It’s just that…

It’s just that what? I know what you’re talking about. You’re just going to have to say it out loud, or it doesn’t count.

The dream?

The dream. Tell me about the dream.

Where do I start?

At the beginning.

It started with her writing a poem, although you could hear it. It was like an audiovisual thing, with lots of colours and wavy text. And it made a noise – like a swish, swish sound… like that beat I made for one of my songs, you know the one?

I know the one. So she wrote the poem, it moved around and it had your beat. Carry on.

Right, so the poem was about her exes, including her husband, the one whose name I don’t know. It was all about them and what they’d done for her. They each had a stanza, but it was all free verse, so there wasn’t any rhythm, or rhyme.

You’re sure it wasn’t prose?

No, definitely a poem. I’ve read her poetry; it’s all like that.

So what was the problem? You are definitely one of her exes. Was it something she said about you?

No. That’s just the point – she said nothing at all about me. I didn’t get a stanza, or a line, or even a sentence. I was ignored. Deliberately. I felt so expendable, so forgettable, like an also-ran. I felt like that just after she dumped me, and I felt it again last night. My stomach hurts just thinking about it.

You weren’t mentioned at all? But what about the side text?

There was side text, I suppose, explaining it all like that in Seamus Heaney’s translation of Beowulf. Just little bits of prose. My name was in it all of once, and even then it was to fill out a sentence.

Which sentence was your name in?

…it was well-timed, like with [Boyfriend X] and [ILB] and [Boyfriend Y}…

In a list? Ouch.

And the other boyfriends in that list were expounded upon in the poetry, and the notes. I may as well not have existed at that point.

You know that’s not true, right? Think about it. You were a couple for almost three years. Throughout that time you shared a very intense love, a degree of loyalty and commitment you rarely see, and you were probably the most sexually compatible couple around. You complemented each other perfectly, both in life and in bed.

But then it just stopped. She stopped loving me.

I don’t think she ever really stopped loving you.

It hurt. It hurt so badly. It still hurts.

I know it does. The question is: why are you still having dreams about her? If it’s been ten years – fifteen, even – since you last saw her, why is she still relevant in your life? What is your brain trying to tell you?

I wish I knew. I haven’t even mentioned those other dreams.

The ones where you’re still together and she’s cheating on you?

Those. I’ve already gone though life feeling unlovable. In those dreams I feel unwanted.

Do you think she cheated?

No. No, I’ve never thought that. I’m just well aware she could have if she wanted. I always saw her as very desirable. She was pretty, clever, witty, high-achieving, and she even used to be cool in her youth, so I heard. She could have had anyone else. And she was excellent in bed. I almost always felt like nothing compared to her.

Well, that’s the reason, isn’t it? You felt like, as you say, nothing, and therefore you dream about her treating you like nothing. You have internalised the hurt, and your brain is interpreting it as distressing situations, manifesting as your greatest fear of loneliness? You tried as hard as you could, and still failed, and so your brain casts you as the forgotten one – as you say, an also-ran.

I was. I think about that a lot.

She hit you once.

I think about that a lot too.

I can’t say anything else. I don’t have an answer to any of this. Maybe I never will. Maybe you won’t either. Perhaps this is just one of those things that happens, you know, that you did or didn’t do, like the girl you had a crush on who you turned down or the girl you didn’t kiss. Everyone has those stories.

She didn’t.

Maybe she did. You just remember things. Not everyone has your labyrinthine memory.

But there’s still a problem, isn’t there?

Yes, there is. And how do you feel about it?

Honestly?

Honestly.

Hurting.