Sure, I’ve had my fair share of nightmares of my teeth falling out. And ones where I floss a little too hard and suddenly I’m staring at my bottom left canine, trail of blood in the sink, a look of pure terror on my face through the mirror. I’ve even had ones where I end up accidentally biting onto one of my fallen teeth with a horrible crack! making my brain rattle, only to spit them out, one by one, while sobbing and wondering how the hell (if at all) my insurance was going to cover this kind of incident.
I’m fine one second, and the next, my eyes dart around the room scanning for a familiar face.
There isn’t one.
I’m alone in a room of faces I don’t recognize.
I begin squishing myself in between bodies, trying to slither away from the crowd.
“Excuse me — oh, sorry — excuse me, sorry — if I could just…”
My voice is barely audible above the sea of people’s conversations. Door. There’s the door. I move quicker, now being more aggressive with my movements. Somehow, the people start pinching in tighter.
I resort to ‘‘gentle’’ nudges. …
Never once in my life have I done these two things at the same time.
Until I did.
The laughter of my family bled under my shut door and buzzed in my ears. The two hours and eighteen minutes spent investing in a new Netflix original movie had finally expired. And now I was left staring up at the credits rolling by, as my anxiety began to remind me why I had chosen to distract myself with a movie to begin with.
I shot up like I had been electrocuted and began pacing around the bedroom; back and forth back…
You would be pleased to hear, that we were together again, in this Dream. You would be pleased to hear, that we were watching a movie, one of violence, deceit and gore. You would be pleased to hear, that you happily explained the manipulative killer’s motives with such enthusiasm, I could bank that you were surely taking mental notes.
But then, in the midst of the climax of the movie unfolding before my eyes, I suddenly came to my senses. I realized, far too late, that I had made a grave mistake in coming back to you, like I had…
In Jungian psychology, the “shadow”, “Id”, or “shadow aspect/archetype” may refer to (1) an unconscious aspect of the personality which the conscious ego does not identify in itself, or (2) the entirety of the unconscious, i.e., everything of which a person is not fully conscious.
There’s a sharp YIPE!
“What in the actual, fuck?”
I read the words on his mouth, sharp, filled with confusion, but mostly anger. His voice is muted, muffled. Time is sluggish, dragging along; milliseconds feel like full minutes at a time. Blinking feels like it takes too long to accomplish. …
There is this ugliness inside of me.
She is a wretched part of me I can’t seem to annihilate.
So instead, I’ve resorted to keeping her locked away — caged and starved, with the high hopes that one day when I check on her, she would have turned into nothing but microscopic, insignificant dust in the tornado of my insides.
But she’s hungry.
And I’m vulnerable.
And vulnerability makes her mouth water.
Because she knows me well. She knows me so well.
We have this unbreakable bond, you see.
She was born the first time it happened. Born of confusion…
You don’t know me, nor I, you.
We’ve never met. And we never will. At least, not in this lifetime.
Despite us never having met, you’ve taught me something. Something very, very significant and valuable about this Life. Something huge. Something life-altering. Something beautiful and terrifying.
You taught me that Life is Precious, as Life is Short.
Something I had forgotten. Genuinely so.
Sure, I’d tell myself I was grateful for it all. Especially the abundance of love and support that surrounded me. But somehow, along the way… I began to just say the words without the genuine emotion they…
Some time nearing the end of last year, I found myself suddenly falling apart emotionally— like an overstuffed soft taco, its entrails slipping out of its warm tortilla, oozing in between your fingers and unceremoniously falling onto the wax paper below with a loud and sad plop!
And I have Wally Lamb to thank.
The reason I am posting this now, is because one of his books was the reason why I started this blog. Because this particular book allowed me to finally (very unexpectedly) embrace my brokenness and run with it, full steam ahead, joyously ready to put my…
They both stared at the bouquet of roses — sitting upon the table, fully bloomed, as if stretching before the morning sun at the first opening of one’s eyes.
“Describe it to me…” he said, his voice quivering.
Susie looked at him, eyes wide.
“Describe it to me… the color red…” he repeated as he trailed off.
He didn’t turn to look at her though. He simply stared ahead at the bouquet of roses before him.
He looked like he had aged ten years in just a matter of months. The crow’s feet had deepened, the smile lines now like…
“If you could travel back in time to visit your pre-abused ten-year-old self, what would you tell her?”
I blink several times, completely understanding her question, but still, I reply with:
“What — h-how do you mean?”
(It was 2012. I was barely beginning to open up in therapy. I had been seeing her for several months — once a week. This woman hadn’t even seen me cry. I was making damn sure of that. But I was desperate for guidance, and the gnarly wound on my ring finger, was proof of that. But I’d never admit it. At least…