jumping cats/dreamscapes

I’ve basically had a nonstop sinus infection for months now.  I slept a lot this past weekend and on my day off yesterday.  Last night, I tried to sleep, but Rilly kept using me as a trampoline.  That started around 4 am, while I was apparently still asleep and dreaming some awful dream that continued while Rilly jumped on me.

I don’t dream all that often, and I actually remembered this one probably only because I was sort of awake.  Well, I very well may dream, but normally, I never remember my dreams.  The exceptions are horribly painful/bizarre dreams about my dead parents.

This wasn’t that dream, thank God–but it was a bizarre dream.  So, one of my exes is a writer and has written books.  I think he was writing a book when we broke up–at least that’s what I remember.  I haven’t read any of his stuff since the break-up because…well…it’s weird to read your ex’s books after you break up.  I have a vague notion of what it’s about, from what I recall, but I don’t think he was that far along with it when the break-up happened.

Anyway.

So, in my dream, for some reason, I was reading parts of that book out loud–and there was specifically a poetry section that was basically awful poetry that was written about me and what an awful girlfriend I was.

Totally weird.  I mean, my ex sometimes wrote poetry, but it was not really a thing for him.  And to just have it smack dab in some fiction book was a bit odd.  And well, considering he never really publicly acknowledged the relationship, from the get-go, that would definitely never happen.  I think the closest he came to it was a random blurb in his old blog that a friend mentioned…though I don’t remember it being all that mean–just sorta whatever.  And that was probably the extent of the relationship for him as well.  Anyway, it was all quite strange, and then I woke up…not upset, really, just like: WTF was that?

And why?  I haven’t thought about him in a while.

Gotta love weird brain shit.

###

Today is the anniversary of scattering my Mama’s ashes at Never Summer.  It’s been almost three years since I’ve been there–since I left Colorado.  Facebook reminded me of this today and also reminded me that today tends to be an active awful Mama dream day.  I took a nap a few minutes ago and definitely dreamed about something–but it wasn’t Mama or ex related–thankfully–and I can’t remember what it was.

I mentioned earlier this week that I spoke with my new business coach for the first time this week.  I’m still processing that meeting, but one thing did happen that–I dunno–struck me.

When I was telling her about my goals, eventually, I had to bring up stuff about my life…my past…and the fact that both of my parents are gone.  Over the years, telling people about the fact that I no longer have living parents has been something I’ve done quickly–to rip off the Band-Aid, so to speak.  In dating, I often would tell the entire story of her ordeal right away–to just get it out there–so that we could get it out of the way and move on.  But, since moving to California and not easily connecting with people here, I’ve held it in a more sacred place.  Maybe because the day-to-day pain of living that story isn’t so present for me anymore.  I rarely cry these days, and most of the time, I’m pretty good.  I do sometimes feel shit, but I’m not actively grieving anymore.  I don’t know what to call it, really, but it’s this peaceful acceptance of what happened and this commitment to live now.  But you never really escape it–having to tell the story, I mean.  Whenever I see a new doctor or therapist or whatever–whenever I meet a potential good friend.  I’ve mostly kept it to myself at work–except for the work BFFs because they’re actual friends.  And it’s always felt dishonest, but I just–couldn’t do it.  After all these years, telling that story, again and again, feels like such emotional labor.  Even though it’s so easy to tell.  Even though I spent years writing about it.  Bleeding in public.

Anyway.  I don’t tell the stories anymore unless I absolutely have to.  And it’s always this awkward thing for me.  I think my new coach sensed that it wasn’t easy for me.  And it’s weird because–while I’ve told that story so many times–and it’s such a familiar story–this time–telling it was emotional–it meant something.  And I’m not exactly sure why.

I remember telling my last ex about it.  I remember telling him my parents had died.  Mostly because he noticed I never mentioned family.  And instead of just telling him the story, I actually asked him, “Do you want to hear about it?”  I guess it was my way of maybe getting out of having to share it.  Because I didn’t want to.  I mean–I did–because I wanted to be open about it and myself–but I also just didn’t want to go back there.  I didn’t want to endure his reaction or have to decipher his response.  And of course he was going to say yes–it wasn’t really a question, was it?  Only an asshole would say no, right?  But when I told him, I immediately wished he had said no.  Because he really didn’t have much to say.  And that was a lot of that relationship.  Me, bleeding out, and him having not much to say.  It’s taken me a long time to realize that.

Sometimes, I really just want to stop sharing the story.  Not to pretend it doesn’t exist, but just to stop having to endure the reactions of other people and to stop having to fix their reaction to my pain.

I’ve often wondered if maybe the only partner I’ll ever feel okay with will be another person who has lost both people.  Sorta like growing up in poverty.  There’s a shorthand and a recognition there that doesn’t exist otherwise.  People try very hard to understand and are usually so loving and supportive–or at least, they want to be.  But even if you’ve lost one parent or a close friend–losing both of your parents before the age of 40 is a different experience.  It’s hard to explain–even to yourself–and no amount of anyone loving you will ever allow that person to truly get it.  When I was less healthy, I used to try to express that idea to my exes.  But it always came out in ways that pushed people away.  Because that’s what I knew how to do.  It’s not that.  It’s just a simple acknowledgement that you really don’t understand the loss of losing both people who made you until it’s yours to process.  It’s such a lonely path, and I’m very lucky because I sorta knew what I was in for.  I know there are so many people who go through these types of things and can’t really process it for years and years–until trauma is a very real thing in their lives.

It’s just an exhausting thing…explaining all of that to people who just can’t understand–or even fathom–what your life is now like.  Not that it’s bad.  My life is great in many ways–even though I’m constantly trying so hard to be better.  It’s just different and it’s hard to even explain what that means to someone who has never gone through it.  Even if they were right there with you.

I’m hoping June will be less eventful than May.  May just was tough in ways I never anticipated.  Early summer tends to hold a lot of new love memories for me and mid-summer tends to hold heartbreak.  So, I’m feeling a bit quiet, emotionally, and maybe sad.  I kinda just want to hole up somewhere and not have cats jumping on me.

 

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