In my dreams

I slept in a hotel last night. White sheets. Unfamiliar sounds and smells, and a neon purple light coming in at the top of the blackout curtain. 

I needed to sleep. That's why I'm here. Work. Sleep. The sum total of my agreement. I paid for a hotel so I wouldn't spill my time on the commute. I've signed up for too much work and don't know how to manage it all. 

But at 0430 I was awake again. And there was so much tension in my chest I could barely breathe. 

I turned on a "get back to sleep" meditation and tried. But it didn't work so I got out of bed, and started reading about the commercialization of space, and trying to piece together the right items from the federal budget. All so I could log more hours. 

But I needed sleep. I took a pill and tried again. Listened to the meditation, tried to get my muscles to release.

And then, at last, they did.

And, in my dreams, you were there, beside me in the bed, naked, propped up on your elbow, keeping me in the hollow of your body, our legs twined together. My hand was on your chest. And you were smiling. I was so happy to be with you. 

My dreaming mind said, "Am I dreaming? This must be a dream." 

And then it convinced me that I wasn't dreaming, that it was actually you beside me. 

I can't describe the peace and joy then, knowing you were there. And it felt so natural, as it always felt natural.

I woke, and the disappointment gutted me. 

But the feeling of you there, beside me, stayed with me throughout the day, a haunting I long for. 

The reality of you was always better than the memory. 

I remember that much. Hated how my mind mis-placed things about you. 

I never wanted the fantasy. Just the man. 

Arnoud said once, "Interesting. Why is this so important to you? What does it give you to not let go?" 

Even now, it feels like I would be lying if I painted it differently than it was. 

But if you were here with me now, I would feel so ashamed. 

I got old. 

I didn't mean to, but it happened. And the pain wound its tangled threads through my life, tripping me up, tightening and choking off parts of me I'd hoped to save. But then they died anyway.

 

My hair turned white far too early. In those years your boys put me through hell. Before I'd turned 40 it was completely silver, so I thought, why pretend? 

I've taken to painting it. Purple. Blue. As if to say that I was in on the joke. 

My body didn't stay young. I still moved and ate the right things, but eventually the shape changed and got all wrong. Sometimes I can forget this, think I'm still the person I was, then I see a mirror and it fucking shocks me. It's not as though I've ever had the greatest self-image. Even in the days when I knew you, when I was fucking hot, I despised myself. So maybe I'm not the best judge on this one. 

I tried to have children. I couldn't. I think I waited too long, hoping you'd come back, refusing to think of any child without your smile. 

There was the cost, too. When you get fucked over by a covert intelligence agency, the financial situation can be quite awful. 

And so much instability; how was I supposed to raise a child by myself when I couldn't find my own footing, when I was so fucking sad? 

And then when I tried, I couldn't. 

That's a grief I still haven't come to terms with. I don't know that I can. 

I have two embryos in a freezer someplace, and a dozen frozen eggs that may not survive the thaw, and a body that has never been able to become pregnant. I just delay the inevitable because I can't quite let myself believe it's over. I will. Soon. Most of me has given up on the idea of ever being a mother. I'm just too fucking old now. But not yet. 

There are parts of me that are beautiful, though. Even if you wouldn't see them at first. 

I'm fucking strong. I know that much. I'm proud of myself for never compromising, for never surrendering that fundamental part of me, when they wanted me to negate myself, repent for my spark. Even when it cost me. I lost so much of myself in those dark years, at least I never lost that. 

I'm kinder to myself now than I used to be. I take care of my inner child, speak gently to her, hold her when she's afraid. And somehow learning how to be kind to myself means that the patience and love extends outside of me, too. And I find myself able to love better than before. 

Of course, Floriaan is largely to blame for teaching me how to be so kind. If I know how to do it, it's because he showed me first. Sometimes I'm in awe of him, and so grateful to whatever gods or angels put him in my life. I've learned so much from this kind and gentle man. 

I have the most amazing friendships. If Floriaan is wonderful, then so are the other friends who have walked beside me in the darkness. There is such richness there, such profound intellect, depth of spirit, and an ability to sit with me in discomfort. God, I love them so much! 

Okay. That's enough. I'm getting tired at last. It's nearly midnight and I have another 14 hour workday ahead of me. I need sleep. 

I never got to keep you in my life. But please be with me there.