I grieve in the morning, before I’m fully awake, the weight of things done and undone open to attack.
I’m as undressed in my psyche as I am on my body, and it takes my beginning routine to shake it off.
Make the bed, start coffee – unsettling thoughts crowd my mind while thinking about the day ahead.
Dreams can be the impetus for the unwelcome feelings as I recall specters of children I might have had, old friends and new, and a parade of strangers helping or hurting.
I had a baby in last night’s dream. She was beautiful, but I couldn’t get to her, I had so much else to do in preparation.
My purpose is the baby, I think, dying from neglect, while I’m desperate to get to her. Perhaps she is my core self, the unblemished bit of me needing attention.
The dream doesn’t account for the weight I’m shouldering, and then I remembered how I shared some of my story to help an interviewer understand the needs of those abused, how we pay even in the telling, but how necessary the sharing is for change and healing.
© seekingsearchingmeaning (aka Hermionejh) and Abstractly Distracted’s Blog, 2010 – current