Parts of me are shifting again. Last week, I was up for my usual 4:30am gym wake up call and thought about how when I was 13, my goal in life was to go to London. I have gone twice now and it was everything I thought it would be when I was 13. I thought to myself, “that’s one dream you had that you made come true.” For the first time in a recent memory, I felt like I had done something right in my life and I felt relief. I was not a blank slate drifting aimlessly through the years after all. I had a real, heartfelt, passionate goal and had met it. Goals that were born entirely from me have been in short supply, hence my professional stagnation.
Later that day, I cried. I briefly thought about 28 year old me and how she/I didn’t deserve any of that. It just swelled up out of nowhere and I went along for the ride. I felt relief. As I slept later that night, I had a dream and I remembered having it. Upon waking and recalling this, I came upon the realization that I hadn’t remembered my dreams in years. My recall was fuzzy and not anything revelatory, but it was something important that had gone missing without my knowing it.
Since that morning last week, I have remembered my dreams multiple times now. I also cried again, but for no reason. I find this so encouraging, as if I have scaled a psychological wall and can feel again. I did some reading to find out if this is a PTSD “side effect” and found only anecdotal reports of people who remembered their dreams very well before the trauma and then lost that ability in the wake of their diagnosis. I know this was more a more recent phenomena for me. I had explicit recall of my PTSD nightmares as well as the happier dreams from that time.
Prompted to remember other types of dreams I had for myself, pre-cancer, I looked around at graduate programs in fun topics, like public history and museum studies. One program I was admitted to twice and I didn’t go, which was a blessing because that was when I became ill from Hashimoto’s Disease. This was 12-13 years ago now. I am perpetually disappointed in myself and how my professional life has turned out, but I took two major hits to my health in a short period of time, during the time in a healthy woman’s life cycle when she figures out what she wants, both career and personal life. I was too busy trying to feel and be a healthy person. I read some old journal entries last night- cancer recorded in real time- and I talked about getting out of my career. Not coincidentally, today was my biopsy, nine years ago. It’s a state holiday, ensuring I will never forget it.
I thought space and time would help me get over this. I traded on the only thing I had- my career- to get away. To run. I don’t regret leaving everyone who didn’t support me, nor do I regret leaving Dr. Overinvolved, though I miss him so, but it truly WAS a self-preservation move. I didn’t trust him to hold the frame anymore even though I really wanted to because I needed him in my corner. In my old journals, the magic of being heard and seen and felt was positively blazing out of my words. I was so high off of the experience. But I didn’t trust the magic, either. It had to be an illusion, a shaky bond built on a rotting foundation. I’m not sure that it was. Perhaps I was wrong to run, simply due to the magic, because there’s been none since. Everyone, especially the train wreck PTSD cancer girl, needs magic in their lives.
My writing was so musical in those old journal entries; I recalled the letter I wrote to him about the trauma situation, a full two pages single spaced. I let myself fly on those pages. It was cathartic and authentically me, all by design. I let him see me, something I rarely do. I have always been someone to keep hidden (because of my fatness, because I was The Other Woman) and I know that there is an extremely short list of people who know me absolutely. He’s one of them. The man I met a year later who was one of the reasons I moved- he knew me. After that, no one knows me anymore. Not even BFF Melinda. Recently, I’ve made it a point not to be known because being known resulted in my doctor being weird and sent a man who said he adored me running for the hills of Thousand Oaks as soon as it dawned on him I was real.
In my old journals, I saw a me who had no choice but to pick up weapons she scarcely knew how to use and fight. And fight I did, often with success. Many of the events I wrote about I had simply forgotten. I miss having that kind of fire, and those kinds of battles to engage in. It’s no wonder I am so bored. My world was on fire and it was all up to me to fight it. The fight was not cancer itself, but against an inefficient, unsafe, paternalistic system I knew very little about at that time. Now I know how to shoot that arrow and drive that armored car, skills I would argue I make very little use of these days. Perhaps this is where my future lies. I want to be in the ring with my gloves on (or off, for you hockey fans out there), not handing out the refreshments.