Dream World, Real World

Last night I dreamed I was in a CIU play, but my mother was in charge.  It was opening night and during the play she was standing at the back with a podium and mic, and was chastising my younger brother for something, interrupting our performance.  It made me angry.  It was so unprofessional and rude.  Then she wouldn't let us bow at the end and I thought, "You know what?  We're gonna bow anyway."  And I grouped us all together and bowed and started clapping, letting the audience know they were allowed to clap too.

I stomped off stage afterward and was taking makeup and costume off when a co-worker came by to give me a hug and said, "I didn't know you were adopted!"  I froze.  "Your mom just told me that your her kid, but that isn't your real dad!"  I nodded.  "So when did they tell you?" she asked.  "They never have," I said.  She put her hand over her mouth, upset that she'd just blurted out the truth to me, but honestly, I didn't give it much thought beyond curiosity about how it had happened and who my real dad was.  I had things to do.

I said goodbye and stood by the other actors, worried about the outrage my mom would show since I'd figuratively flipped her the bird by getting us all to bow and be recognized for our efforts.  I voiced my concern and to my surprise, three of my cast members prayed for me.

I decided I was going to spend the night at the theatre instead of going home to what was going to end up a screaming match, and the rest of the dream was spent trying to avoid my mother and father while I wondered who my real father was.

---

Back in the real world, I helped with a wedding this weekend.  It was beautiful.  Simple, stunning.  Just right for the happy couple.  It made me wish that I had a family who would have helped me create the wedding I wanted. 

But I had to do it alone, at first.  Then friends pitched in and while that was lovely, I then had to go have the wedding my parents wanted.  With a backdrop from a play, and poinsettias.  I dislike poinsettias.  My father demanded he walk me down the aisle (which I also didn't want), and afterwards we had a party with their friends.  None of it was me or Stu except for the music and my dress, and that was just because we'd already picked both out.

But this wedding was just...wonderful.  We weren't scurrying around screaming at each other.  We calmly made the bouquets, set up the reception area (breathtaking), and had plenty of food.  We stuck around, enjoying each others' company.

When I got ready to leave, my pretend mom looked me in the eye and said, "I love you, Kate."  I stammered a reply back and she looked at me again and said, "I really mean that."  I nodded.  I can't even tell you how much it meant to me.  She knew how I was feeling and reached out, even though she probably had a million other things in mind.

They love me.  When I told them about my nightmares, they gathered around and prayed for me.  They invited me to spend time with them.  They let me help with their daughter's wedding. 

I try to keep my distance, to respect that they have family and they need their own time, but there have been several times when they've pulled me in, loved on me, and made sure I knew I was welcome.

It's an incredible reminder that I am loved, even if I don't feel like it.

Pretend

I pretended that they were my parents.

The other night I went to the movies with them, expecting the usual gaggle of kids, but there weren't any.  It was just us.

We sat in the theater, talking through the commercials, sharing jokes, and I thought about how lucky these kids are to have a mom who can hold an eloquent conversation and then listen, making the reply sound just as important and elegant.  I think how lucky they are to have a dad who teases them kindly, and frosts each cupcake like it belongs in the Guggenheim.

I think about my own parents, who are partial, fragmented, broken.  Fragile.  I took care of them. They weren't my parents.  They were lost little kids who didn't know how to connect with anyone, let alone me, their caretaker.

I look back at my friends' parents who have become surrogates for Stu and myself, and I think about how imperfect they are, but content to muddle through life and figure it out.  To keep going, to meet each challenge, to go on, even when life is cripplingly painful.

My parents gave up a long time ago.

I sit in the theater with these pretend parents, watching their faces as the movie explodes on the screen.  They get why I love it.  They understand it.  And me.

Something my parents have never been able to do.

Just for the night, I pretend these beautiful, intelligent, warm, and resilient people are my parents.  Just for the night, I pretend that my short and brutal life is something else, somewhere else.  Where my independence and uniqueness were affirmed.  Where someone actually understood my passions and encouraged them.  Where I really felt loved.

Nobody's family is perfect.  But their home reminds me of the Weasleys, a home that's "not much," but full of light and laughter and food and love.

So for the night, I pretended I was their kid, that I was valued.

I know I won't ever matter as much as their kids -- it can't be helped, I'm not actually theirs -- but for those few hours, I felt like I did.

It was incredible.

A Devil Is In the Picture Book

I dreamed last night that my mom, brothers and sister and I were in the old house in Tennessee.  We were either unpacking or arranging and there was a glass topped coffee table upstairs in the loft with picture books in it.

But there was a demon in one of the things we had brought and I couldn't quite reach it before it popped into something else.  I finally cornered it in one of the picture books and found the page it was on.  It looked more like a newsprint page and when I held it, it crackled and sparked, shocking me.

I started ripping the page in half, in quarters.  I don't know who was screaming more, me or the demon.

Then I realized that I'd never really get rid of it just by being angry at it.  My rage could never expel it.

I had to love it.

Love burst out of me and dissipated the demon.

I shredded the paper, just in case, and put it in the trash can.

My  mother was in the kitchen, polishing jars.  She'd noticed nothing.

Neither had anyone else.

And then I woke up.

I Think I Was A Romanov

Last night I dreamed that I was in a castle in the middle of a field, with a forest on either side.  There was a wall and a gate far away, and behind that were train tracks.

It was Autumn, and all the tall plants in the field were yellow and dry.

I was inside, in a small den, with a few friends and a new baby.  They wanted me to hold him, so I played with him and made him smile.  I held him close and shut my eyes, simply focusing on how good it felt to have someone in my arms.

After they left, I and my four sisters (no real-life siblings here) went upstairs to our bedroom and realized something was wrong.  We had used the elevator to go upstairs and there was someone up there.  We couldn't see them, but somehow we knew.

Then we saw her.  A dark-haired girl in a nightgown, who looked so much like us, but she radiated evil.  Our parents called the priest, but I didn't like him.  I knew he was thinking about what we looked like underneath our nightgowns.

He was somewhat of a younger man, and when he got there he made us girls sit in a circle in the bedroom with him. I sat next to him and shuddered when he touched my waist.

My sister, across from us, was very bold in her assumption that she didn't like him or what he was doing.  "We don't do weird," she said, referring to the demonic activity that was going on.  Later, we were told to search the rooms for the girl.  I had a big butcher knife.

I walked into one bedroom and realized it was empty.  Someone had cleared it of everything, which made me desperate.  It meant someone had died.  I ran down the hall to my brother's room.  It was crammed with legos and plastic animals, animals from the other room.  They had stored some of the stuff in there, and that calmed me down.

But I knew I had to get out.  I snuck outside to where the dun colored horses were running, but as I caught one and heaved myself up, the priest ran after me and grabbed onto his own horse.  I hunched close to mine, closing my eyes and letting the rhythm of its canter calm me.

We left him far behind, and I slipped through the gate, guiding my horse to the right of the train tracks.

I heard a train coming from the other direction, and I turned to see it veer very off course.  It jumped the ledge, and I began to scream, knowing there were people inside.  I then saw a train coming for us from the other direction, off the tracks.  It would pin us against the wall and crush us.  I covered my horse's eyes so it wouldn't see, but the train barely missed us and went over the ledge just like the other one.

I began to run for the train station.  When I got there, another train had arrived but it was stopped due to the first two trains falling.  Then I realized that there were two halves of the train.  Something had split it right down the middle, and that's when I knew that somehow, the priest and his evil magic were responsible.

I peered inside the train cars and saw two people I knew.  "Could you hand me my keys?" said one, completely  oblivious to her near death experience.  I looked into the other train car and saw several friends.  I started weeping, emotion sweeping over me.  They could have died. By sheer chance they had escaped the end of their lives by taking the third train.

But they were unaware, and slowly drifted past me into the crowd exiting the train.

I was left alone, no horse, no help, nothing to dry my tears and reassure me that everything was alright.

Then I woke up.