Dreams, Sleepwalking & Late-Night Mafia Interrogations: A Night in the Life of Me

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been living a rich, double life. By day: responsible adult (ish). By night: high-definition dream cinematographer, multilingual negotiator, occasional furniture rearranger. I’m basically Netflix, but weirder, cheaper, and with more nudity.

My dreams are not the soft, pastel kind where you float on clouds and eat marshmallows with unicorns and rainbow. Oh no. Mine are blockbusters. Full color, vivid detail, 4K Ultra HD with surround sound. I remember the texture of the carpets, the shade of someone’s socks, and who guest-starred in each bizarre episode. Often, the cast features people from work (of course), all acting as if this is totally normal… and also, most of them are naked!

And before you even ask: NO, it’s not sexual. It’s just… strangely logical in my dream brain. Like, "Oh, of course Kelly from dispatch is completely nude in this board meeting. She’s clearly got nothing to hide!" Meanwhile, I’m giving a PowerPoint presentation on how to herd llamas through a shopping mall. Standard.

Another thing? There’s never a smartphone in sight or computer. It’s like my dreams are set in a nostalgic pre-2005 world. If I need to call someone, I pick up one of those old-school home phones with a curly cord and a satisfying “click” when you hang up. I’m out here living Stranger Things without the danger.

The best part? Some of these dreams come in seasons. I’ll have a dream in March, forget all about it, and then BOOM—months later I’m back, picking up right where I left off like nothing happened. “Welcome back to Dreamland, Tina. Previously, on Season One: the talking cat was elected mayor, your cousin married a squirrel, and you missed your flight because the airport was under water with running Tom Hanks.”

According to my very loving (and increasingly sleep-deprived) husband, I occasionally get up and walk around the apartment at night. Open a window. Move a chair. Turn on a lamp. Open front door. Sometimes I vanish for a solid five minutes before returning to bed like nothing happened, while he lies there wondering if he married a haunted doll.

Then there’s my midnight storytelling. Yes, I talk in my sleep. And I don’t mean the occasional mutter. I mean full monologues. Entire dialogues. Sometimes I even wake myself up with my own voice and have the audacity to be confused about it. Sometimes my hubby start asking questions and I can answer!

I wake up in the morning feeling fresh as a daisy, humming whatever song my dream-self left in my brain, jumping around the kitchen like a caffeinated squirrel, ready to start the day with kisses and cuddles. Meanwhile, my husband is hunched over his coffee like a man who’s seen things. “You told a 20-minute bedtime story about a how do you mow lawns,” he mumbles. “Again.”

At one point, we installed a night-vision camera just to see what’s going on. Which, by the way, was both hilarious and slightly terrifying. Watching yourself walk around the apartment like a possessed librarian is one thing—but hearing your own voice say things like, “Don’t forget the suitcase full of cheese” is something else entirely.

One of my favorite sleep-talking sagas was the night I was interrogated by the Russian mafia. To set the scene: my brother-in-law is a legit shooting enthusiast. He collects gear, legally of course, and stores it all safely and responsibly. But Dream Tina? She got kidnapped by the mob, tied to a chair, and interrogated under a single flickering lightbulb.

They demanded answers: Where are the guns? Where’s the ammo? How many boxes? WHAT KIND OF BOXES? (read it with a Russian accent).

Now, I don’t speak Russian. I’ve seen maybe three movies involving Russians, and most of my vocabulary comes from subtitles and vodka ads. But that night, I was fluent. Fluent-ish. I responded with confidence using about seven words—five of which were “da.”

Apparently, I gave away the entire inventory of my brother-in-law’s collection. My loyalty? GONE. My resistance? NONEXISTENT. Mafia didn’t even need truth serum. Just a warm bed and some REM sleep.

When I show video to my brother-in-law the next day, his response was, “Well, that’s it then. You’re out. Vito Corleone’s people are very disappointed. You can never be trusted again. You’re a liability to the family.”

So, moral of the story: if you have any secrets—don’t tell me. Or at least don’t let me fall asleep near you.

In conclusion, being a dream walker/talker/night ninja might sound fun, but it’s a full-time job. I live a whole life in my sleep and still have to get up in the morning like a normal person. It’s exhausting being me, I tell you.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to take a nap. The Russian mafia said they’d be back for Season 3, and I still haven’t found the cheese suitcase.