Tag Archives: fear

Listen

Last nights dream-

I was deaf, or at least very close to deaf, I could faintly hear voices, far away and mumbled voices. I was installing a helium tank to some kind of large mechanical device. Every time I turned a lever or knob, steam escaped from the machine in violent spurts and billows. A big man was giving me instructions from about 12 feet away but I couldn’t hear him. I kept screaming “what”?! He became frustrated with me and I could tell he was yelling at me but I couldn’t make out what he was saying. As soon as steam came out of the machine I would turn the levers back to stop it. I was getting the idea that this is exactly what I was not supposed to be doing but I was so frightened by the steam that I couldn’t help myself. The big man was irate and I was becoming afraid of him as well as the steam. I was screaming, trying to explain to him that I was deaf but he didn’t believe me.

Interpretation-

Well, I actually do have hearing loss in my right ear due to years of espresso grinders always being on my right side and yesterday I was especially annoyed by this slight handicap. However I think the dream meant much more than being annoyed by mumbled conversation.

While I am making a great effort at informing myself as much as possible about my pregnancy and what to expect with labor and the caring of a newborn I need to accept the fact that things will not turn out the way I am so carefully planning in my own head. This shit will be scary. I am not the tough guy I pretend to be all the time. It’s OK to admit fear, to open the valves a little and share what I am really feeling. Opening up emotionally may even be more frightening than the challenges I am facing as a new Mother.

The “big man” who is angry with me may symbolize my rational side. He is frustrated because I am being so hesitant, he doesn’t understand the fear behind honest, the strength it takes to reveal the truth. He is a basic thinking man, a mechanical man. I have a hard time hearing him because I am locked in my fear. The “big man” (rational thought) is far away, demanding me to behave correctly, to listen. This man also reminded me of my Father. He often comes to me in dreams and many times he has given me this exact advice, “listen”.

I am listening.

 

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Filed under Feels like Sunday, I dreamed..., Memories of Dad

Pieces of Louise….because that is all that she is

I cannot escape the house fast enough.
The smell of a breakfast that’s lasted for years,
You could be born
grow up
and die
and still not sit through the entirety of that breakfast.
I am through the door
down the steps
and out.
I’m walking that heavy sticky dream walk
never fast enough.
Something inside you urges you on
warning you of a mysterious danger behind you
but you just can’t move any faster.
My gait is jerky, anxious.
I see girls with their long legs and casual stride, walking in comfortable ease, the ground below meeting their delicate feet without any hesitation.
They make walking look easy, because it should be, I know that it should be. There are many things that I know should be easy, natural, instinctual even. I never received the instructional booklet.
I see the same people every day on this street and I have never felt the slightest compulsion to either greet them or push them into traffic.
Parker High.
I can’t avoid it
it is there
like a rotting beached whale
no matter how much the smell warns you
you are curiously compelled to touch it
maybe even poke it with a stick
and watch it explode.
It is a warm morning in May and under my layers of clothing I feel droplets of sweat making their way down my chest and between my breasts.
My armpits are sticky and
my thighs rub together ever so slightly ruining my life with each moist point of contact.
I look at everyone else and they are radiant and fresh like a fucking shampoo commercial while I am frantic and sweaty.
Up the steps of Parker High.
That institutional smell already greeting me,
floor wax and disinfectant, mold and green beans.
I make my way towards the bathroom, my sanctuary.
The mint green walls comfort me and the white porcelain cools me.
I am alone and I stand perfectly still with my eyes closed
breathing
desperately trying to gain composure
breathing.
I can feel my face cooling and my heart slowing to a somewhat normal pace.
I open my eyes upon my reflection
startled and then dissatisfied as usual.
My face a splotchy mess of pale white and humiliation red.
My hair an indecisive brownish hue of waves, falls in front of my face and down past my shoulders, clumped and matted with sweat at the nape of my neck.
My petite nose I look past, no complaints.
My mouth looks tired, a mouth that twists uneasily with unsaid words and struggles to remain closed against screams that fight day and night to get out.
I do not look at my eyes.
I run hot water and wash my hands several times, use too many paper towels and hold the warm damp paper to my face, inhaling the sweet woody smell and feeling almost ready.

 

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Shamu sneaks into my bed

I have been writing for 8 hours, my back aches and my head is pounding. A pot and a half of coffee has kept the kid active all day. I feel like he is keeping me company, his kicks almost as rhythmic as my typing. I look back on what I have accomplished. Only 10 fucking pages. Seriously? I have been writing my entire life but I never really sat down and took it this seriously with a  goal in mind.

I am committed to finishing my novel before I give birth because I certainly won’t have the time to write for 8 hours straight once he pops out and demands every ounce of energy from me. My days will be consumed with breast-feeding and changing diapers and not much else. Any writing I do will most likely be a sleep deprived mess of words, lacking much sense or creativity. Or maybe I will be so inspired by my new role in life that I will start writing fuzzy childrens books with mice that wear purple underwear and ride bicycles while knitting hats for friendly whales.

Speaking of whales, I am going to have to face my all time biggest fear; motherfucking orca whales. Yep, Shamu is the absolute scariest thing in the entire world. I can’t even look at them on television without screaming and throwing my hands over my face. Those damn Sea World commercials get me every time. They show the fucking things flying, literally flying through the sky and I am supposed to act normal?

Well, I am going to have to start acting normal because I don’t want the kid to be afraid of something as stupid as a whale. I mean, in what situation am I ever going to find myself alone in the open water surrounded by killer whales? Which actually is not my real fear. I have dreams where killer whales are no longer confined to the sea or swimming pools at theme parks. They slither up and down city streets and make their way into my home, their giant black and white slimy bodies hovering above my bed, that giant eyeball staring right at me. Oh god, they are so fucking disgusting. But, I have to get over it. I cannot react to a Sea World commercial with a hysterical yelp once the kid is here, only encouraging other such irrational fears in him.

I’m not saying that I ever intend on going to Sea World with the kid. His Father can take him and they will have a lovely time while I stay home, far away from that big eye pressed up against the glass. If he brings home a giant stuffed Shamu I must smile pleasantly even if I am screaming on the inside. So, I guess this is just one more sacrifice I am going to have to make for the sake of a healthy, happy child. Pretending to like Shamu, I can handle that one.

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Filed under I am Pregnant, I dreamed..., Something that happened

Selfish

My greatest desires are for solitude and anonymity. Neither of which are possible especially now that I am bringing a new life into this overwhelmingly intrusive world.

I am a selfish ass bitch, always have been, mostly with my self. I am an only child which automatically gives a person the right to be selfish but I have taken selfishness to an entirely new level. I am not talking about the kind of “no, you can’t have a cookie, they are mine” kind of selfishness but the much more destructive kind that causes a person to withdraw from reality without any consideration for those who still reside in a world where people say “hello”.

I am secretive and sneaky as shit when I need to be. I became an amazing liar, mostly to myself. I faked a life and almost succeeded at death before I realized I was so full of shit that I could barely breathe. Terrible way to die, suffocating on your own stinking shit.

Opening myself up, airing out my rotting cavities, hanging my bloody panties out on the fence, staring into my own asshole just to see what’s in there. Offending my senses, arousing my curiosities, I peered further and found that I am not just a selfish alcoholic on the verge of collapse, that I am flesh and blood, that I am real.

Now that I am pregnant and feeling more “real” than I ever could have imagined, I would hope that I would lose some of my selfish ways and see shit from some entirely new plane of Motherhood consciousness that I should somehow have gained access to. No such luck. I am feeling even more selfish, more reserved and less communicative than ever. But I am remaining positive that the destructive nature of these emotions are being put to good use and with all hopes of a positive outcome for the kid. I am positive because now the basis of my selfishness is founded solely on love. Love and a huge amount of “get the fuck away from my kid or I will kill you” sort of emotions.

Fuck, all I do is contradict myself. In one afternoon I address and mail about 100 invitations to a baby shower that I am halfheartedly committed to and then suddenly and belligerently swear off all human contact simply because I couldn’t fit into my fluorescent Hawaiian gown.

As I resign myself to black stretchy yoga pants I realize what I am really feeling (besides the kids knees pounding into my ribs). I am afraid. Afraid of the moment when the kid is no longer just “mine”. He is going to come out and be a part of the world. He will be held by other people, cuddled by family and friends, stared and cooed at by strangers and licked by my dogs. His toes which once tickled my insides will soon be kissed by lips that are not mine. My selfish ass bitch self is fucking angry about this. I want to scream out, “He is mine motherfuckers, back the fuck off!”

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Filed under Alcoholism and other Assholes, Fashionably Unreasonable, I am Pregnant, Something that happened

Freeway fist fight

Nightmares all night long

Doors falling off cars on the highway, hanging, suspended above the road.

Man killing woman, behind closed doors, the sound of flesh against flesh.

The impact of body against wall, crashing down around me.

I try to gather the birds but they keep changing, hummingbirds become parrots, songbirds become pigeons.

“Walk home, you know the way.”

I make my way through a crowded ghetto, men with guns in each hand and women with babies dangling from their necks like jewelry. A dice game takes over the sidewalk, nowhere to walk, “Bitch, watchu doin here?” Dark clouds hide the sun, acrid smoke burns my eyes, stifles my breath, don’t look concerned, be cool. An intersection filled with Baptist Sunday service church goers in gospel regalia, purple satin flowing in nonexistent wind.

“Green light, Bitch.”

Interpretation (inspiration)

Freeway, fighting, cars, chaos-

Yesterday I saw a car pulled over on the freeway and 3 boys were outside of the car on the shoulder, 2 of them were fighting, I mean seriously fighting. One of the boys was getting fucked up. I thought for sure the one boy as going to shove the other into traffic. Obviously we didn’t stop nor was anyone else stopping to assist so I have no idea what happened. I wonder if all 3 of them got back into the car and drove home? Maybe this was a normal afternoon for them, leave to pick up some groceries for dinner and stop on the freeway for a fist fight, makes perfect sense.

However, the fighting in my dream was going on between my parents, memories of which have scarred me for life as well as their 7-year-old lab mix that I inherited. For years everyone thought that she had epilepsy because she would have violent seizures pretty frequently. She was prescribed large doses of mood altering and brain disrupting medications to treat this disorder. After my Dad passed and she came to live with us she had a couple of seizures which I chose to treat with a little less medication and a more calm atmosphere. Gradually I weaned her off of all her meds and she hasn’t had a seizure in about 2 years. She didn’t have epilepsy she had parents that fought constantly and tore the house down around her.

Birds-

In chaos we try desperately to cling on to something familiar, even as the familiar becomes less and less so.

Ghetto-

Put on a brave face through the worst of the shit and you will eventually cross the street.

I truly feel that I have “crossed the street”, I am in a better place mentally and emotionally than I have been in years. But I will never fully escape the tortures that I have endured on the other side of the street, nor would I want to.

On a side note:

Whenever I wake up from an awful fucking nightmare, the kind that leave me breathless and shaking, I shove ice cream into my face until I am calmed. Only now I digest it, fucking weird.

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The yard sale

She was a nervous child, she acted out to express her anxiety. Unease and discomfort followed her around like a heavy blanket wrapped around her ankles.

Her parents fought constantly, mostly about money as most adults ill-prepared for parenthood tend to do. She began to worry about the bills, the rent and groceries. This was on top of the already monumental tower of worries that the child carried around with her; the behavioral difficulties of her puppy who refused to be house broken, the daunting organizational predicament she encountered with her book bag that resulted in hours of preparation each school night, the nightly dinner dilemma of a full plate of food that in some unimaginable way was to be consumed fully and enjoyed and most of all was the constant and unyielding worry of the safety of her family and her home.

She felt as though her life and the lives of her family were held in some precarious position, ready to disintegrate at any moment. Somehow she had to protect them and herself from the unknown threat that lingered at the edges of every moment.

After an especially violent fight over the nonexistent rent money the child decided the time had come, she would do something to help. She had seen yard sales in the neighborhood and it seemed like a perfectly reasonable way to make some quick money and money was what her family needed.

The next morning was a Sunday and she woke up before sunrise, in fact she had not slept at all that night. She walked into the front yard and felt good about the task before her, she knew for sure that this was the right thing to be doing. She gathered most of her toys and old clothes from her bedroom, glad to be rid of the offending clutter. Arranging her belongings on a blanket beneath a tree she felt like a shop girl, humming a pleasant tune of self-satisfaction. She brought out dishes from the kitchen, knickknacks from the living room, records and books from the shelves, a clothes hamper, a step stool and a spare set of silverware that her Mother kept in a drawer.

Her first customer arrived soon after she had perfectly arranged every item on the front lawn just perfectly. The girl watched nervously as the woman rummaged amidst her family’s house wares. She wasn’t nervous about any possible repercussions of what she was doing, she simply hated seeing the items being fussed with in such a careless fashion. She was proud, possibly the first time she had felt such an emotion, of the work she had done and wished she had a few minutes alone to enjoy the moment. However more customers were filing onto the lawn and she resumed her duty as shop girl. She sold the step stool for $1 and the books for a quarter a piece. People pretty much made their own price as she held open her beaded coin purse, the heft of which pleased her deeply. Within an hour the lawn was a shambles of rumpled blankets and a few unwanted articles of clothing. The books had been carried off by an overweight housewife in a stained bathrobe, the clothes hamper drug away by kids on their way to a grassy hill, the records snatched up by an awkward young man with a bad complexion and the set of rarely used silverware was hesitantly purchased by an older woman with a cranky disposition and a guilty smile.

With a deep breath of satisfaction at a hard days work the girl held tightly to the bulging coin purse as she walked back into her house. Her Father was coming out of the bathroom and walked past her without a word. He put on a pot of coffee, sat down at the kitchen table and lit a cigarette. The girl placed the coin purse in front of her Father.

what’s this?
money
where’d you get it?
I had a yard sale
a yard sale?
yeah, for rent money
what are you talking about?
for the rent… I, I heard you and Mom yelling about not having enough money, I wanted to help
oh my god, what did you sell?
…um just stuff we didn’t need….Mm..my toys and some books
what else!
…uh….I don’t know,….some, some records and some silverware
some what!
the….the silverware that we never use, it was in that drawer….really, we never use it
oh god, oh no…no no no!
I just wanted to help, I’m sorry, I’m sorry….

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Filed under I remember, Something that happened

Last Night’s Dream – Revised

Failed suicide attempts, over and over. Men shot themselves in the face and woke up completely healed.

I walked for days from bus stop to bus stop, the bus never came. I fell to my knees in exhaustion, people passed me, ignoring me completely. The hot gravel road dug into the palms of my hands, I looked towards the road and knew that I had only to crawl a few feet and it would all be over.

I later met a man covered in maggots, I wanted to clean him but he loved the maggots, they were all he had.

My (blind) Mother was driving a hearse, maneuvering around a graveyard, stopping to give directions to the men who were once again making suicide attempts. She was giving them advice.

Ok, I published this dream earlier today and apparently many people found it quite disturbing. It was not my intention to cause anyone concern. I always have dreams like this, in no way does it mean that I am in any way feeling suicidal. I am actually in a really good place right now. I am excited about being a Mom and I can’t wait to meet my little man.

Maybe a little interpretation of the dream might clear things up a bit.

Failed suicide attempts – I feel like I have done a lot of damage to my body over the years, not caring about my health at all. I am so grateful that I am in good health now that I am pregnant.

Walking for days, waiting for bus – This part of the dream took place near where I used to live in a  somewhat rural area. I would literally wait for hours in the sun for a bus that sometimes never came. It was a flashback of sorts to that period of my life. I felt very removed from the world there and trapped by the seemingly constant stale heat.

The man covered in maggots – I have always had extreme empathy for homeless men, disfigured men, lonely outcast men. But I know that I really can’t help anyone, the best I can do is to give a smile and say “hello, in there-o.”

Mom driving hearse – this one I can’t get into.

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smelling some ass

I have never had a driver’s license. When people ask why I don’t drive I usually give my standard answer of, “I choose not to drive for the sake of every other motorist, passenger, pedestrian and bicyclist on the road.” There has to be a more involved reason, a better story behind it all. I am 31 and live in Southern California; not known for its efficient public transportation system. If I lived in New York I would be amongst thousands of people to have never had a driver’s license. But I don’t and I’m not that good of a liar to pretend that I just moved here and haven’t gotten around to the whole driving thing. The fact is….I just don’t drive.

Maybe it started when I was five years old and my Mother was going blind. She was in denial that her eyesight made her no longer fit to drive. She would ask for my assistance with street signs, directions of traffic and whether or not it seemed safe to turn or merge into traffic. I was five fucking years old! We would get lost for hours until the car ran out of gas or she simply parked and cried. The feelings of insecurity must have been intense. I also remember feeling like I had let her down every time we got lost, as if my very existence had caused all this trouble and my lack of knowledge had only exacerbated it. One time she pulled the car into a gas station that was under construction. She had no idea until the car almost turned over into a gaping ditch. That had to be it, right? Nope, she continued driving for months with me as her unwitting co-pilot.

Years after she gave up driving I dreaded the day I would have to be her driver. I knew once I had my license I would be forced to chauffeur her around. And when would that Daughterly duty end? Never, I knew I would be stuck. When I was fifteen they offered a behind-the-wheel driving course at my high school. My Dad immediately signed me up without asking me if I was even interested. He wanted out of the driving Miss Daisy job as much as I dreaded it. I showed up and I did fine with all the pen to paper parts but when it came time for foot to pedal parts, I freaked. My nerves took control and I scared the shit out of the instructor and two of my fellow classmates with the unfortunate luck of being in the back seat of the car. At one point I was on the freeway literally going twenty miles per hour while screaming, “I don’t want to do this!” I then took the next exit and pulled into a gas station (thankfully not under construction). The car had barely come to a stop before I jumped out and ran to the bathroom. I sat on the filthy floor and chokingly cried through my violent convulsions of fear. I truly had no idea until that point that driving a car would have that sort of effect on me.

My next attempt at driving came many years later when I bought a car. I suppose I figured that if I spent all my money on a car then I would force myself to learn how to drive. Plus the car was just adorable and it would be the perfect accessory. It was a 1974 Ford Maverick Grabber: original red paint with black racing stripes, 302 V8, manual brakes. You know, the perfect car for someone who is terrified of driving. I gave it a few attempts but no matter how fucking cute that bitch was I could not do it. I barely touched the gas and goddamn we were moving, stopping the thing took two feet jammed down on that brake until my calves cramped and my toes were numb. So, the Maverick sat in our driveway for about five years until I admitted defeat and sold her to a cute young boy who promised to treat her right.

The bus has been good to me. I have seen some shit I will never forget, shit that I never would have seen otherwise. I have met people who have inspired me, scared me, touched me (literally and figuratively), made me laugh and made me cry. I have watched a young girl get propositioned to be a “ho” and gladly accept the offer as long as she could get “mad faded”. I have seen Mothers dangle infants like rag dolls while screaming on their cell phones, “you the baby daddy bitch, why you trippin’ like you ain’t got shit!” I have seen drunken old men piss themselves, smiling. I have smelled more ass on the bus than I have ever smelled in public restrooms. I have repeatedly been mistaken for someone who gives a shit when it comes to a lone white girl getting beaten by five black girls. I am the last person you should run to in that situation, I will not save you, I will look the other way. And if you ask me for some money I will probably give you some even if you smell like beer and especially if you are honest and say it’s for beer. I never would have had any of these encounters sitting in a car by myself stuck in traffic. I like the choice I have made. Fuck driving.

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Filed under I remember, Something that happened