This is the third dream in which the DC implied to be my dream-world husband appears. Note that in previous dreams, I had not felt repulsed by him. In this dream, and every one involving him since, his age has changed from in his 30s to in his 50s. I am walking through the gardens of a mental institution with my mother. The day is pleasant and sunny, the flowers are more realistic-looking and less overblown and lurid than they usually are in my dreams. We walk through a tunnel of trees towards the entrance of the institution, talking about my marriage. My mother outright condemns my choice of partner, in particular the age gap between us (I am 20, he is in his late 30s). I, thinking about my marriage, am more concerned about the difficult relationship between my husband and I, than I am about the age difference. We come to the entrance, there are two cars with chauffeurs waiting outside. The double doors open, and my husband runs out. I am startled by how he has aged, he is now in his early 50s although I am still 20, and haven’t aged. He runs over to me, making a fuss of me, bowing repeatedly and kissing my hand. I am disgusted by his behaviour: embarrassed because he’s making a scene in front of my mother and all the orderlies and I have to stand there and take it to be polite, and anxious because I know he’s only pretending to be respectful towards me and I’m wondering what he’ll do when we’re alone. My mother is driven away in the first car. The institution staff go back inside, and I watch the doors close as my 50-something husband kisses and bites my neck and whispers threats in my ear. I let him get into the car first (it’s a red car). I take my time about getting into the car with him, watching him watching me through the window. The dream ends shortly after I get in the car. This is the forum post in which I mentioned this series of dreams: http://www.dreamviews.com/general-lu...m-married.html
Increasingly frustrated, I was trying to rearrange the objects on the top shelf of the refrigerator. This was made challenging by the downward slope of the shelf and the fact that there was no raised lip at the front to catch things. It was also quite full, so the weight of the objects in the back was pushing down against the things in the front and knocking them off. My dad walked up as I was once again moving things around trying to find a more stable arrangement, so I complained to him: "The fridge is full of bread—bagged bread! And milk." I screwed up my face, pronouncing "milk" with as much disgust as I could put into my voice. I've never liked milk, but thought I should provide a better reason for my objection. "The milk's going to go bad in a few days and then we'll have to throw it out." "Room for more bread!" My father kept a straight face, but I was pretty sure he was teasing me. "Look," I said impatiently, "If this is some kind of survivalist thing, we'd do better to stock complex carbohydrates than all this processed crap."
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