“The simple truth of things is that bad dreams are far better than bad wakings.”
— Stephen King
Another week forward in sobriety. Last week, I planned to begin exploring some of my fears — broad territory that could easily fill several posts. But something else pushed its way to the front: relapse dreams.
I had two dreams this week tied directly to my history with alcohol. Both were vivid enough that, in the moment of waking, I felt the old emotions — shame, guilt, remorse, regret — land in my chest like they used to. Even after realizing they were dreams, the feelings lingered. They scared me.
After the second dream, I knew I needed to look more closely. These dreams weren’t random flickers of the subconscious — they were reminders, warnings, maybe even gifts. So I decided to examine them honestly and use whatever I learned to support my recovery.
In the first dream, I was in a nondescript shopping center, surrounded by faceless shoppers. I intended to buy alcohol. I remember thinking I would need to hide it carefully, but that I could get away with it. I rationalized that I had already been drinking the day before — in the dream — and since I had already “failed,” what did it matter? I woke up right after that thought. For a brief moment, I believed I actually relapsed. Shame hit fast.
As I drank my morning coffee, I replayed the dream. The guilt felt real. The deceit felt real. It made me wonder what was underneath: a hidden urge? A fear that I might lapse? Complacency creeping in? Some mixture of all three?
The second dream took place in a vague cityscape. Two real friends from years past were there — people I had trusted and who once trusted me. They had purchased nearby property and were planning to develop it. When I tried to offer advice and help, they dismissed me. They didn’t trust me. They pointed out past moments when I lied about my drinking. That part hit me hardest — the sense of loss, of broken trust, of feeling that even when sober, my past can still speak for me.
The days following each dream left me quieter, more reflective. Those old emotions — shame, guilt, remorse, regret, fear — pulled at me, reminding me of what alcohol had cost me. But through conversations with friends and my therapist, something shifted. I realized these dreams weren’t punishments. They were reminders. They allowed me to confront the emotional consequences of past decisions without actually relapsing. If I chose to learn from them, they could strengthen my resolve.
Bad dreams are better than bad wakings. These are warnings delivered safely, in sleep. And if they keep me awake and aware during the day, then maybe they’re not nightmares at all — but part of my healing.