I woke up during a nightmare this morning, flailing around, upset and angry. It wasn’t what you’d think. No boogieman. No clowns. No monster under the bed. Just a monster in my head.
Tomorrow is my birthday. I’ll be 42. According to Douglas Adams, 42 is the answer. I’m looking forward to an entire year of ultimate knowledge and wisdom. It’ll be a welcomed change from previous years, as I’m still waiting for that instant moment of clarity and comprehension as promised in the Adulthood Brochure. I’d like to wake each morning knowing my exact place, the world’s expectations from me, and seeing I have what I need to meet them. I miss school in that respect. There was a schedule, an outline and a clearly defined path: if I knew the material, I’d get an A; if I complete this project according to this list of must-haves, I’d do well. Everyone would be pleased. Everyone would be happy. Everything was safe.
This was actually DH’s observation. He said that the skills a person needs to excel in school are the willingness to follow the rules, behave, pay attention, and complete the assignments given. The students who did those things, day after day, year after year, were the gems of the school; we speak from experience. He also observed that the skills to succeed in school do not help a heck of a lot once you’ve graduated. It seems the bullies, the cheats, and the bull shitters are the ones in charge. They are our CEOs, our middle managers who never did the job they manage, and candidates to be Leader of the Free World. The ones who got by on a wing and a prayer in school, the ones who relied on charm and manipulation, they somehow became to whom we, the rule followers, are answering. They insulate themselves with yes-men, fully aware of the smoke being blown, and redirect that smoke to join the mirrors. They are the ones in charge of the rules and keep changing them to stay on top. We liken it to a game of chess…. But chess requires strategy, not narcissism and manipulation. The chess players of the world are usually from the good-guy gene pool. Let’s not insult them.
Let’s go back to where we know which path will lead us to our destination. That’s what I’m hoping for in Year 42: The answer to Life, Universe, and Everything.
It’s been a very busy week for me. I’ve been baking like crazy for a party, trying to keep up with a writing challenge, and teaching our youngest the ins and outs of job hunting. While I’m happy to do all of that, it’s very stressful and stress, good or bad, triggers my symptoms. The best way to avoid a bad breakdown is to space out my activities but I haven’t been able to this week. Today will be my lightest day: 2 more loaves of bread and a cake, arrange an appetizer plater, write at least 3,000 words to keep up on the challenge, get the dog to the vet, and check that all applications for employment sent are followed up. This would have been a drop in the bucket before I got sick. I would have motored through without batting an eye. It’s really not a lot, except for the writing, which takes time and concentration. I was in tears last night and I’m willing to bet on an encore performance tonight.
That brings me to the nightmare. My dreams are always complex, symbolic, and makes me question the legality of baked goods I get from a friend…but I’ve always had strange dreams so I think she’s in the clear. My nightmares are psychologically terrifying, because scaring myself with a clown or a shark in the pool would be too normal and and far too easy.
I dreamed DH wanted to divorce. Yes, that is terrifying to me. It plays on my fear of inadequacy. Much of the dream was me pleading with him and reminding him that he had “just said yesterday we were good”. I threw things at him with the force and efficiency of a whiffle ball, frustrating my dream self even more. I woke up physically biting my arm and my heart pounding as if I just completed a Zumba class. NOT a good way to start a busy-for-me day.
But where did this come from? DH is fabulous and I do not doubt his love and devotion. Not. One. Bit. Of all the people in my life, he is truly my safe place. I know I’m feeling inadequate about how I budgeted my time this week. It was well planned on paper. I wrote at breakneck speed last week but didn’t complete a fraction of my goals this week. Inadequacy loomed over me when I requested a specific consideration that was ignored-- by a repeat offender-- because my few preferences never seem to matter and, therefore, neither do my efforts. But dreaming of DH abandoning me? My unconscious obviously decided to mess with me right where it would hurt the most.
Once the Xanax kicked in, I saw the connection. Today is June 10th. Tomorrow is the 11th. Monday is the 13th. In 2008, strange interactions at home on 10th and 11th culminated with my then husband announcing our divorce on the evening of the 13th. (And, yes, it was a Friday.) His words are still crystal clear in my head: you bring out the worst in me. My mind has a twisted sense of humor.
At the time, the termination of my first marriage was painful, humiliating, and scary as hell. I joined a support group, I talked with my psychiatrist, I worked with a woo-woo life coach. By my birthday of the next year, I was doing well. The split was emotionally difficult (the business end was quick and fair), but it was certainly the right thing to do. We weren’t right for each other. I wish my ex nothing but the best.
A week of daily stresses and my inability to deal put me back in the mode of believing I’m broken. It’s true that I’m not equipped with the tenacity I once had to multi-task and switch roles quickly, but broken isn’t the right word anymore. My mind cracked, then shattered, and the pieces were put back together— though I’m not certain they are in the right order. Unfortunately, the glue takes far too long to dry, and, like anything smashed and reconstructed, it’s never as stable as it originally was.
I need to let the glue dry.
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