| | It rings so true I can feel it down to my toes...the interpretation that http://www.xanga.com/cakeplease was able to give me about my dream. That person I kill in my dreams, over and over again is a part of me. A big part of me. Knowing that opened up so much for me. It helped me figure out so many things about these particular dreams.
Why in these dreams am I always doing and saying things that I am no longer capable of in real life? Why am I traveling, searching, singing, painting, creating, arguing about what I feel strongly about?
Why is it that nine times out of ten that I have this dream do I have to find my father and tell him about what I've done...only to find out that he already knows and it doesn't matter to him.
Why does the dream so often start or lead back to my childhood home on Trojan Lane where I lived between the ages of nine and fourteen?
Why is it that when I hug my father in the dream I get this horrid sharp pain and suddenly know that he has violated me in some deep way?
It is because when I was growing up he did unknowingly and with the best of intentions I'm sure, violate me in a strange way. He took away from me a huge piece of what I wanted in life, and who I was.
He told me that writers and poets don't make any money or have any real affect on the world. He told me that I had a lovely voice but that I would never be a professional artist. He told me that my creative endeavours were all well and good while I was a child, but that they would never amount to anything. Then when I got older and was diagnosed with Manic Depression he frequently mourned my "lost future" in my hearing. You see, once I was diagnosed with a mental disorder like my older brother Kris it was certain that I no longer had any potential and would never amount to anything.
The funny thing about all of this is that I love and trust my Dad probably more than most of the people in my family, and he is also the one who taught me to sing. And I don't think it was intentional, he really believed and maybe still believes these things. Also, it's not entirely his fault that I chose to stifle that part of myself. I could have fought against it. It was still my choice.
At the time it felt like self preservation. I wanted to fit into the picture we all created together. I learned not to laugh too loud, not to strike out on my own, not to sing for pleasure, not to write my heart out, these things were "risky" and not worth the risk. These things made me different and odd, they shamed my family. It's really simple, now what can I do about it?
Obviously that part of me is not completely dead, what would have been possible if it had been allowed to blossom and grow? What might I have been capable of? What might I still be capable of? Is it possible that I am still a remarkable and interesting human being with something to offer the world?
After I had contemplated these things for a few days, believe it or not I had another dream. In this dream the man who had hurt me knocked on my door with a timid smile, came into the house with an apology, and proceeded to help me in every area of my life. I wanted to spend more time with him. He was nice. I woke up hoping that he would visit again. I love you all my Xanga friends, thank you for listening...and for sharing yourselves as well. (See you tomorrow my Pokey One.)
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| | Posted 12/24/2006 6:31 PM - 4 comments
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