awake

One day I slept and stopped dreaming. I don't know when it happened. I don't know if it was when someone yelled at me because of nothing, or if it was when I started feeling like nothing. I just stopped dreaming. Even when plans existed, they were but plans, feasible, easy, possible. Immigration? Sure, let's do a feasible place, not a dream place. Doctorate? Yes, a very comfortable plan, I'll go somewhere that resembles an old dream, but possible. No dreams, just reality. 

I believe my lack of dreaming had something to do with how I felt about myself. I used to feel like a burden. I felt like loving me was a burden. I used to think I was uninteresting, boring, annoying. I felt I was my disability. I used to want to be perfect. I used to be awake at all times, protecting my heart, my health, and my mind. Hypervigilant. Afraid. 

On a January day he then showed me love in face of imperfection. I was shown forgiveness. I was shown care. It wasn't enough, of course, to magically make me feel other. No. I also tried God, but He didn't seem to be very responsive, and the demands seemed to be opposite of who I was. And so I ended up depending on his slightly rare demonstrations to reaffirm my worth. When they didn't happen, I would again crawl up and sleep, dreamless. Every birthday I was reminded that I could have dreams, because that is what my birthdays do. But I quickly felt that dreaming was pointless. I was surely undeserving. Yet, I survived. With the foundation that his love gave me, I was able to seek healing. In my healing, all those dreams that I had bottled up started making bubbles, but the bubbles would only amount to crying, not to dreaming. And suddenly the world started to shift with the puddles that my eyes created. He started to see me differently. I was deemed too emotional. I was accused of doubting too much. Of challenging too much. I couldn't give him wholeness. I was somebody else, he said. Yet, I could only be me. Yet, I was healing. Unable to give him or myself any dreams, but still me. 

I again don't know exactly what or when but I've found a way back to dreaming. Might have been the stage. Might have been that Halloween. Might have been a starfish. I can't say. But I've gone back to dreaming. And not the easy dreams that come without invitation. The hard ones, the ones we build for ourselves. Suddenly, I dream of a kiss on my neck and a hug when I'm cooking. I dream of a borrowed family that will cherish me the way I cherish them. I dream of making just enough money to take a girl on romantic dates every other night. I dream of cooking something new. I dream of a Friends type of friends. I dream of dream jobs. I dream of going back, not to where I felt vulnerable and unsafe but to a new place. I even dream the silly dream of making ends meet just through being on stage.

I still don't dream it all. You see, these dreams are fresh. A fortnight ago I still thought - thought, not felt - that I shouldn't be dreaming. When a starfish made me dream of the Maldives I got scared. I got scared of the consequences of my dreams, scared of hurting him, scared of being a terrible person, scared of others. I got scared of dreaming the minute the first dream appeared. I was scared of not only being alone, but feeling alone. I was scared of dreaming dreams that simply would not come true. 

Yet, I insisted on dreaming. Maybe because a starfish said the time to dream is above ground. Maybe because I continued to be on stage, dreaming of other worlds where I am other people. Maybe because the people who know me told me to keep dreaming, that it was worth it. I know I may be setting myself up for failure. I know I might be chasing rainbows in a world of little rain and little sun. Still, I believe the chase is worth it. Still, I've learned to fail. And dreams, dreams are worth dreaming even if they continue to always be just that, dreams. I will dream of the unknown and I will continue to feel sure being uncertain of what's coming. I refuse to sleep again.