The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

Ain't No Mountain High Enough

I've been having the strangest dreams, lately.

I won't go into detail on them, though, because I don't enjoy reading other people's accounts of dreams, too choppy and illogical for me. My dreams are no different, though, as in they are very abstract and if there is meaning to be had, I often miss it. These last few nights, though, I've been haunted by the past. Not just R., though. He was in last night's but not in the ones leading up to it. I've been visited by dead relatives, long ago friends, past crushes. I suppose my sub-conscious is sifting through the rubble of my youth, coming up with the finer things and presenting them to me as a sort of reminder of how far I've come. I have held hands with a boy I thought I loved, who is now a man, and in the dream I skipped along merrily, knowing it would a temporary thing because my allegiance was sleeping somewhere else, in a bed, next to the man I actually love. I have waded in river water next to the cement dock where I sunbathed in my younger years, despite being glaringly white and burning like bacon in a pan. As it was a dream, though, I did not burn and only felt as warm as a berry on the vine. Last night, I placated R., felt his arms around me and genuinely thought kindly of him, but knew that I would be leaving him for good. Then, I was with M., and I melted into him, telling him that he is the priority now, and as we were standing in front of a mirror, I seem to recall staring at the back of his head and marvelling at how similar to liquid gold his hair looked.

But, I wasn't going to tell you about all that.

Whatever dark veil had been over me at the beginning of this week has lifted somewhat. It was palpable before I opened my eyes, yesterday, that the heaviness had dissipated. I do think it's partially hormonal, but also, these things, for me, just have their expiration dates. My problem is, though, that I often wonder if one day I'll be someone who never gets relief from it. How much of it is within my control? Is it possible I'll succumb totally to it one day?

I keep thinking I'm going to figure it out. I have it in my head that with enough ruminating, with the proper amount of scrutiny, I'm going to discover a magic door, one that leads to a place of contentment, with huge, talking flowers and endless tea parties in a clearing in the middle of the wood. I envision myself running through a field of red, purple and pink blooms, not worrying about my bare feet or what might be moving below the surface, just running, running, running...I guess that's what my liberty looks like.

What helps, in the real world, is going outside. Honestly, sitting somewhere quiet and peaceful does wonders. I had a huge bout of anxiety and panic a couple years ago when M. and I went to Lake Placid, just as we were driving toward the tallest mountain in the Adirondacks, and I was nearly out of my mind with worry that it would ruin the trip. I said nothing, though, and I obediently went to the top of the mountain in a rickety old elevator, disembarking from it with a bunch of other tourists, and found myself quite distracted from my troubles because of the vastness of the beauty around me. I sat down on a huge slab of rock and looked out as far as the eyes could see. I could see Vermont to the east, Quebec to the north and I inhaled deeply, forcing out the worry. I didn't want to go down the mountain, feeling like it held all the secrets I would ever need in life, and it was so quiet, so uncontaminated by the world below, with prehistoric flowers still blooming between the rock. I remember being quite surprised by how quickly it had taken me, that I had instantly been possessed with a sense of calm, and I suppose that was a defining moment, one in which I figured out that whatever troubles me is not chemical. It's about how I interpret the world around me.

So, the day before yesterday, when things were particularly tense, I wandered clumsily outside to watch my girl kick her new red and white polka dot ball around the yard. I had wrapped myself in a blanket (it was unseasonably cool), and when the sun fingered its way through the cloud cover, I felt like I'd been seen by God, so to speak. I was warmed and filled with the colour pink, and I lay back on the deck and let it work its way over me. M. made me some tea (the good stuff, as I have run out of my usual tea and have been trying to avoid going to the store, so I've broken into my tea chest that I usually reserve for strangers and special occasions), and I sipped it slowly, the hot flooding my insides, and I visualized hot chocolate tributaries working through my organs. It was a pleasant sensation, though the visual may leave a lot to be desired.

I felt better, after that, and I remembered how I felt five years ago, before we'd moved in here, how I'd sat down on the edge of the deck of the house on a hot, cloudy day, how the centre of the yard seemed like it had a spotlight shining on it, despite there being no visible sunlight, and how I rubbed my round belly, baby inside, thinking 'I'm home'. I'd been so peaceful then, and, I believe it was a time in which I could say I was perfectly happy, wanting for nothing more.

When I'm not calm, when I'm feeling detached from reality or my chest is pulsing with scared-bunny terror, I feel like he shouldn't love me. I'm a bother. I'm a twit. I'm crazy. Whether he thinks these things about me or not is immaterial. I feel like it's just a matter of time until he starts to come to terms with my incurable imperfections and opts to leave me. Like now, the stress of not having money is wrecking me. I am waiting to find out about the school I'm hoping to get into, because if I am accepted by the government, I will get unemployment. If not, I am really in trouble, with no income whatsoever and no prospects. It means I will have to take a job wherever I can find one, and that most likely means retail, which I loathe. Which I know will drive me around the bend. This lack of money, though, makes me feel like a lesser person, that he thinks of me as lazy and not worthy of love. This is where my mind goes. I feel like there's a price tag on the love. Then, I wonder why I feel so anxious and on the verge of total collapse. Should I really be surprised?

He has said that he'll be happy with whatever I choose as long as I am able to pay my part of things. The traditionalist in me bristles when he says this, mostly because I don't know many women who have to 'pay their part' for anything. My circle of friends and my sisters tend to have husbands who make more money than they do, so the pressure to work at a job that pays 'X' amount of dollars isn't there for them. For me, it's very much about how much I'd be making, and then there's the added bonus of needing a job that doesn't make me anxious and depressed. I need something that I love, something to distract me from the patterns. Also, that he doesn't care what kind of job I take is a bit of an annoyance, because I interpret that to mean he doesn't think I can do much, that I should take whatever is available because waiting for something 'great' is a waste of time. Why do I think I deserve something great, anyway?

I also know that working is probably 'good for me'. It forces me to interact with others, and when I am relaxed and self-assured, I'm told I'm 'charming' and 'hysterical'. I'm always surprised when I hear that, mostly because I'm only being myself when those kinds of comments come my way, which tells me that I'm rarely myself when in the company of strangers. I don't know what triggers the curtain to go up, what makes me suddenly come back into my skin and inhabit my body. I guess there's a myriad of factors that need to be in place, and I don't think I'll ever really know what they are.

Ramble, ramble, ramble...

I might take my breakfast to the back deck this morning. It's sunny outside. It looks to be warm.