No one really talks about how someone’s existence can be a trigger for you. How you always feel like there’s impending doom when the person is around. When words leave their mouth. When their eyes settle on you. It is unfortunate how after years and years, new relationships, intentional distance, and what may or may not be clear boundaries, you can’t seem to shake the feeling of being unprotected. Expecting ridicule. Harboring unwarranted “feedback”. Blame looming over your spirit. Quickened anger.
I had a dream.
And in this dream, (which I am writing about immediately upon waking), my family had a restaurant. This restaurant, I remember, I was watching someone else build on TV, and all of a sudden, it now belonged to us. My family thought it was a great idea to work together and start bringing customers in off rip. Then, one by one, they started disappearing, dissociating from their responsibilities, and throwing them to me. My inner being tells me that I am responsible and I must save the restaurant. I must sacrifice myself for this thing that I did not want a part in. I’m attempting to serve angry customers. I’m navigating the refrigerator, putting juice in that was already supposed to be there, clearing tables that weren’t prepared for new customers in the first place, so on, and so on.
Then, there’s the matriarch’s voice. My inner voice’s voice. The instant unsettled feeling of impending doom. The restaurant becomes my idea. My failure. My broken thing that needs to be fixed. I am now the ‘f*ck-up’ who only thinks about herself and leaves people out to dry for my benefit. With that, I had to speak up for myself. In dreams, you can barely get your words out because they are often jumbled, hurried, and causing you to be breathless. But, I meant that I was going to let them know that this restaurant did not belong to me and that I would not be forced to work here, especially after all that I had done to HELP.
Slowly, the setting shifted. I was back in that apartment. In that room. Surrounded by my belongings in an array. The strong notion to just get out. The voice continued. “You think you’re better than us.” “No one wants you here.” “She makes me sick.” *obnoxious singing* “She’s the Queen of Sheba.” *obnoxious humming* “She never wants to do anything.” They pass by the door at least 10 times. Every time laced with insult. I start packing my things. Perfume bottles. Pictures. Shoes. Clothes that I’ve never seen before but knew that it belonged to me. Subconsciously, I knew I had my own apartment and was just visiting. My saving grace. BUT, how did I get back here in the first place? Why was I back in that corner of the room? With that twin bed and all of my sh*t scattered?
She wanted me out.
I wanted out.
The voice kept going. My desire to run grew. I had about seven bags filled the brim. Stupid drawstring bags that barely closed. Reusable grocery bags that were not secured. My first thought was, how the hell am I carrying these stuff?
Real question.
Did I need to carry them?
I’m clearly carry a lot of sh*t already. My spirit is heavy.
The inner turmoil fueled by not doing enough. Not being enough. It has the voice of someone who treated me poorly. In their own “right”. And by my own insecurities. Calling a thing a thing. I never felt safe. Safe to be who I am. Say what I want to say. Do what I want to do.
I was always on defense. Had to fight for my existence. And prove and prove and prove. I deserved to exist. I deserved to be different. Think different. Not be consumed by the shortcomings of my family and their unresolved trauma. How did my existence become the catalyst to the releasing of your trauma? Criticizing me and what you claim to be my shortcomings. It was exhausting. And before I could get out of there,
I wake up.
Stuck.
I bear the burden of leaving.
I was never fully out.
Deeply rooted.
Til the irridescent haze flies,
Ella.
