Premonitions and healing beyond the conscious mind
On this date, five years ago, I met my late partner, Alex. I suggested meeting for tacos at Chancho, a popular spot in Vancouver. I wasn’t sure what to make of Alex when we met—a veteran who, at the time, was volunteering as a medic in war zones, among other things. I was so intimidated by his rugged look that I didn’t immediately register how handsome he was. Even though we were only four years apart, I couldn’t help but feel like a child next to him. Alex was, without a doubt, the most manly man I’d ever met.
Alex made a mess eating his tacos, and I found myself carrying most of the conversation. I never imagined that five months later, we’d be exchanging “I love you’s,” a year later, we’d be moving in together, and less than six months after that, on June 3rd, 2021, he’d make the heartbreaking decision to take his own life.
Everything happened so quickly that it took me weeks, months, even years to process what we had been through. Writing became a space where I could unpack the events woven into the fabric of our story at my own pace—slowly and steadily, privately, and free from censorship or judgment. But there was another space, beyond my conscious mind, where I sought answers and healing: dreams.
I think part of me always feared that Alex could be gone, even before I knew he was a high-risk individual. Shortly after our relationship became serious, I started dreaming that he had never been a part of my life—not because he was dead, but because it felt like he had never existed in my world. “Why do I have the feeling that something very important is missing?” I remember thinking in my dream. I couldn’t put my finger on it until I woke up, flooded with relief, remembering Alex and knowing, instantly, that he was very real.
A feeling of impermanence and dread never left my side. In May 2021, I came across a post from an artist I had been following on Instagram for years, marking the fourth death anniversary of her partner. There was no explanation for the cause of death, and despite Alex’s depressive tendencies, the risk of suicide was not on my radar. Still, upon reading her words, I felt a profound fear of losing my partner. It wasn’t like me to read about something tragic online and worry it might happen to me—but that day, I did. Something inside me knew that something terrible was coming. A month later, I found Alex dead. Later that year, I learned that the artist’s partner had taken his own life under circumstances eerily similar to Alex’s.
I started dreaming about Alex within a few days of his death. At first, he was dead even in my dreams, but as the days went by, I began to see him alive, offering me a second chance to say all the things left unsaid. Two or three times a week, I’d confront him in this liminal space. Still angry and confused, I’d demand explanations. Alex remained as evasive and secretive as he had been when he was alive, perpetually tormented, even in my dreams. How sad to see him alive, yet as conflicted as he always was. “As uncomfortable as these dreams are, it’s a good sign. It means your psyche is trying to heal,” my counselor would comfort me during our sessions as I described my encounters with Alex in the corners of my subconscious mind.
The following year, my dreams about Alex resumed. This time, we were lying in bed next to each other. He was staring off, while I was staring at him, taking in his tormented and conflicted expression. He didn’t need to say a word—I knew he was going to kill himself. Yet, I wasn’t concerned with finding a way to prevent it. Instead, I wanted to find a way to support him in his final days. The decision to end his life would always be his, but I didn’t want him to die feeling worthless and undeserving of love. “There was no way to support him,” my counselor explained when we analyzed my dream together. “You can’t be there for someone who is not there for himself. You can’t connect with someone who has disconnected from himself. He’d let go of your hand and let himself go as well.”
Later that year, I dreamed that we broke up on good terms. “I’m going to be okay. I have my business to worry about, and I’ll be focusing on my projects,” Alex said. “So Alex will be fine, and here in Vancouver,” I thought to myself. The implausibility of that statement woke me up, and right away, I remembered that Alex was not okay and that he had died in the most horrible way. It felt like a reverse nightmare: having a good dream and waking up to an awful reality. Reality had become my nightmare.
The last dream I had about Alex in 2022 was of waking up in bed next to him, completely unaware that he was there. I started sobbing the moment I recognized him, but he remained quiet and calm. I finally asked the question I had been wanting to ask him all along: “Why did you abandon me?” I woke up with no answer and the stabbing pain of a broken heart. I wouldn’t dream about Alex again until January 2023.
On January 15th, 2023, I had to put down our beloved cat, Nimbus, after he was diagnosed with a brain tumor. Nimbus had been Alex’s cat for 13 years, and I took him with me after Alex passed. That night, I dreamed about Alex for the first time since June 2022. It was a pleasant dream, almost like a memory of an ordinary day— a little treasure hidden in my mind. We were waking up in bed, talking about our days ahead, making out, and smiling. It felt like a gift, a break from so much sadness. And I couldn’t help thinking Alex was happy to have Nimbus back.
I didn’t get to see Alex again for almost a year. He showed up in my dream around the time of Nimbus’ first death anniversary. In my dream, an explosion had taken place in the city—dust, rubble, and confusion. People stumbled around, looking for their loved ones. I was desperately searching for Alex, asking anyone who crossed my path for a clue. I finally found him, unharmed but in a state of complete shock. His eyes were frozen on the horizon. “Come back to me,” I said repeatedly, placing my hand on his heart. After a few seconds, the spell broke, and his eyes met mine. He placed his hand on top of mine and gently pressed it against his heart. That was the last time I saw him.
I realize now how lucky I was to dream about him, especially after hearing other bereaved people say that they would give anything for the ones they have loved and lost to visit them in their dreams. Even though these dreams are more heartbreaking than comforting, at least in this ethereal space, I get to see him alive. I wonder whether he will visit me again one day. I would love to catch up: show him my new paintings, share with him how I ended up writing, how much I’ve learned since his death, and how I never gave up on my creative practice. I have so many questions for him: “Knowing what you know now, do you feel you made the right choice? Did you ever regret it? What is it like on the other side? Is Nimbus by your side? Is it true that the journey continues? Did you find peace? Because if you did, I could find a way to make peace with it too.”
I hope he continues to visit me in the years to come, and maybe we can live in those dreams the life we always wanted together—like living a life in a parallel universe where Alex heals and chooses to live a long life by my side.
Do you ever dream about the ones you have loved and lost?
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