I don't want to be me.
I need a vacation. Some time away. I need a break from all I should do and be and want. I need time away from the noise and mess and rush. I want to turn off my brain. Turn off my heart. Step away from my guilt and conscience and memory.
I want to escape responsibility…reality…redundancy.
I want to stop the voices in my head.
I want to stop trying to please the voices outside my head. The ones that say try harder, work more and be better. I want to stop trying. I want to stop wasting effort.
I want to experience peace….calm…nothingness.
I want to hear the ocean. I want to feel the breeze. I want the sun to warm my face.
I want my heart to beat slowly. I want my mind to feel calm. I want my body to feel rested. I want to be glad. I want to be real.
I want to me.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Dream On
Last night I dreamt about an old boyfriend. John Beard. He was the first boy who ever held my hand. He made fun of me once for picking my nose. It was fifth grade. I haven't seen him in over twenty years.
Yet, in my dream, he was a man. I was me. Not a younger or better looking version of me, but the same strung out, mini-van driving mother of two young boys who didn't shower this morning person that I am. And, he was okay with that. He was still interested in holding my hand. He had every intention of being with me, despite the fact that I had food stuck in my hair.
In my dream, I kept wanting to steal away for a few minutes to shave my legs. I felt desperate to ensure that, even though I had stretch marks and wrinkles and mom underwear, my legs be soft and hair-free.
That is, of course, when the dream morphed into a strange mountain climbing/mall shopping trip scenario that definitely did not involve my fifth grade, now manly, boyfriend.
In the waking hours since that dream, my mind continues to find his face. To relive the moment when I asked him how he kept his car so clean and the realization that this neat-nick, handsome man was actually in love with me despite how far I have fallen from youthful grace.
What do you make of that, psychiatrist sam? Does it mean that I need more spice in my marriage? Or, perhaps just better hygiene? Does it mean that I long for a distant past? As long ago as my upper elementary years?
I probably won't share this with my husband. I mean, what would I say? "Hey honey, you won't believe this crazy dream I had last night." Doesn't seem like the kind of thing I he would even be interested in hearing. Oh, right. Maybe that's the problem.
Yet, in my dream, he was a man. I was me. Not a younger or better looking version of me, but the same strung out, mini-van driving mother of two young boys who didn't shower this morning person that I am. And, he was okay with that. He was still interested in holding my hand. He had every intention of being with me, despite the fact that I had food stuck in my hair.
In my dream, I kept wanting to steal away for a few minutes to shave my legs. I felt desperate to ensure that, even though I had stretch marks and wrinkles and mom underwear, my legs be soft and hair-free.
That is, of course, when the dream morphed into a strange mountain climbing/mall shopping trip scenario that definitely did not involve my fifth grade, now manly, boyfriend.
In the waking hours since that dream, my mind continues to find his face. To relive the moment when I asked him how he kept his car so clean and the realization that this neat-nick, handsome man was actually in love with me despite how far I have fallen from youthful grace.
What do you make of that, psychiatrist sam? Does it mean that I need more spice in my marriage? Or, perhaps just better hygiene? Does it mean that I long for a distant past? As long ago as my upper elementary years?
I probably won't share this with my husband. I mean, what would I say? "Hey honey, you won't believe this crazy dream I had last night." Doesn't seem like the kind of thing I he would even be interested in hearing. Oh, right. Maybe that's the problem.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Kitchen Sink Conversation
“You’re right, you know.”
Startled, she glanced up at him. The dish slipped from her hand and clunked heavily back into the soapy water.
“You were right about the old man. He had been in prison. Thirty years.”
“I knew it,” she said. “He just had that look about him. Nothing wrong or sleazy, but. Did you say thirty years? Shit. That is a long time.”
He reached over her for the dishrag. “Yeah, well. Thirty years for murder. Or, manslaughter. Or something.” He grabbed the dripping plate as she handed it over. “It wasn’t the kind of thing I wanted to ask details about.”
“Oh, my God.” She stopped her hands and stared at her husband. “He killed someone? And now he lives next door?” Her gazed wandered across the kitchen. “I don’t know. I don’t think I like that. Who told you?”
“Well, like it or not, he’s our neighbor." He flipped the plate and started drying the other side. "I heard it from Steve. He has a connection at the D.O.C.”
“I don’t know. I need to meet this guy. I need to look him in the eye. Manslaughter is one thing, but murder?” She reached down and unplugged the drain. “I’ll get a feeling from him once I talk to him.”
“Don’t talk long.” He smirked. “You never know when those old murderous tendencies will strike again. Young woman like you. Might be too much for the old geezer.”
“Stop.” She smiled lightly back at him. He laughed as he turned to leave the room. “Jerk,” she added just before he was out of earshot. He laughed again.
Startled, she glanced up at him. The dish slipped from her hand and clunked heavily back into the soapy water.
“You were right about the old man. He had been in prison. Thirty years.”
“I knew it,” she said. “He just had that look about him. Nothing wrong or sleazy, but. Did you say thirty years? Shit. That is a long time.”
He reached over her for the dishrag. “Yeah, well. Thirty years for murder. Or, manslaughter. Or something.” He grabbed the dripping plate as she handed it over. “It wasn’t the kind of thing I wanted to ask details about.”
“Oh, my God.” She stopped her hands and stared at her husband. “He killed someone? And now he lives next door?” Her gazed wandered across the kitchen. “I don’t know. I don’t think I like that. Who told you?”
“Well, like it or not, he’s our neighbor." He flipped the plate and started drying the other side. "I heard it from Steve. He has a connection at the D.O.C.”
“I don’t know. I need to meet this guy. I need to look him in the eye. Manslaughter is one thing, but murder?” She reached down and unplugged the drain. “I’ll get a feeling from him once I talk to him.”
“Don’t talk long.” He smirked. “You never know when those old murderous tendencies will strike again. Young woman like you. Might be too much for the old geezer.”
“Stop.” She smiled lightly back at him. He laughed as he turned to leave the room. “Jerk,” she added just before he was out of earshot. He laughed again.
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