I have lucid dreams–just another side effect of my anti-depressant. I kinda like them–the vivid memories of people I once knew and the intense emotions, the darkness and hyper-sexuality of the whole scene; it’s like another life I lead when I sleep. I don’t remember a time when I didn’t have these dreams. Don’t know what I’d do if they stopped.
Then there are the dreams involving my mother. In these, I’m younger or older, usually an only child, I have a better relationship with my step-father, and Gramma’s still alive. In these dreams, my mother’s gone. I’m trying to get her to come back, but she doesn’t want to. She doesn’t answer my calls, no one can get a hold of her. I talk to Gramma and she tells me she doesn’t understand her daughter. I go to her job–no one knows of me. She’s hiding and I don’t understand why she hates me. But Daddy is there for me. I have these dreams a lot. They really put a damper on the day…emotionally. I’ve told my mom about them and she goes, “That’s crazy!” but we’ll talk more about those sorts of reactions later.
In waking life, my biological father left when I was a toddler and my mom was sole caregiver, alongside a step-father who may as well have gone too. When I was small, there would be many nights neither one of them came to Gramma’s to pick up their children after work and bring us home.
They were too young for kids.
But my brother doesn’t remember anything because I did a good job shielding him.
So I guess it’s just me, like always.
I wonder if these dreams, aside from the obvious explanation above, are my subconscious’ way of preparing me for my mother’s inevitable death that I won’t be prepared for just like she wasn’t ready for her mother’s. I wasn’t ready for Gramma to go either. She was my second mother, though my real one would probably disagree. It’s what she likes to do best these days.
My mother has been gaslighting me ever since I can remember. My memories are never accurate. Nothing that traumatized me ever happened. She was not a neglectful parent.
Even at 35, you are not allowed to call out your mother on anything, ever, and expect to have adult, rational conversation. I get, “That didn’t happen, ” which is infuriating. I wasn’t the one who was drunk all the time, I was a little sponge with events and words and shit embedded in my tiny mind and then you wonder why I’m so sensitive.
Now she’s reading these motivational and therapeutic things online and thinking about them in connection with her grandchildren’s mental health and telling me all about how my brother is shitty to his kids. It takes everything inside me to not lunge out of my seat and throttle the woman. What about me?! What about what you lacked? How are the connections not made? Where’s the introspection? Is it generational? Do we all become our mothers? Am I witnessing it?
Have I successfully ended the cycle by not having children?
Did I do good for once in my life?
I would never want to make a child feel the things I’ve felt.