Offspring the Third has turned twenty-four.
He is a charming, sweet, tender-hearted young man. He works hard. He loves his kitties. He notices when people are upset, or if they need a glass of water. He roots for the underdog. He tries not to let the bitterness of the world creep into his heart.
He has taught us patience, and kindness, and how to ask for what we need. He is a magnificent soul.
Happy birthday, Offspring the Third. We wish for good things for you, always.
Herself speaks.
I've got a new nightmare. It's not really a nightmare, though, because it's not necessarily frightening or anxiety-inducing. It's just an... unpleasant and unusual occurrence, might be the best way to describe it. It is intertwined with ongoing migraine, which makes everything more vivid and which narrows the band between sleeping and waking. And it is very strange.
It's a dream. In the dream, something or someone approaches. It's a plant, or perhaps a person -- some kind of entity that has a definitive form, although the form has not quite coalesced where I am yet. I can see it, but it is shadowy, or perhaps incompletely corporeal is more accurate. It will, in due course, form entirely where I am. And the completion of its formation where I am is a harbinger of Bad Things. (The entity does not itself bring the Bad Things -- rather, its complete appearance indicates that Bad Things have arrived.)
I know in the dream that it is important that I wake up before the entity arrives completely, and the (always-short) dream consists of my attempting to wake myself up. I do inevitably wake up, too -- only to discover that the bridge between asleep and awake was a razor-thin line in the first place, and that I have been speaking in my sleep, or have sat up and am pointing toward the entity, or otherwise bringing the dream into wakefulness even as I bring wakefulness into the dream.
It has happened three or four times now, and is vivid enough and bridges the sleep/wake gap enough that Beloved Husband has noticed it and been disturbed by my behavior and the event. Definitely out of the ordinary. What does it mean?
I am at a loss to identify any particular feelings associated with the dream, other than a kind of danger is approaching sentiment (to be distinguished from active fear, which is a very different sensation).
Perhaps identifying what it is not, will help me to identify what it is.
It is not an abandonment dream. (I am very familiar with those, having previously had a very specific abandonment dream for years and years, until I recognized it for what it was and acknowledged the primordial fear of abandonment that I unwittingly carry with me. And side note, a story for another day: the abandonment dream I used to have with regularity, I no longer have -- the last time it appeared, an entity known to me made a singular, brief and reassuring appearance, and the entire dream disappeared in a puff of smoke, never to return.)
It is not a dream of anger, or powerlessness. It is not sorrow. It is not something of which I am afraid. It is something which I know is coming, which I would like not to encounter yet, but which seems inevitable.
As I write, I realize: I think I know. Or at least, there is a plausible explanation for what is lurking in my subconscious and emerging in the wee hours of the night.
I don't want to give it a name yet, because I might not be quite right. I might be, though.
We shall see.
Herself speaks.
Beloved Husband and I are in the process of making reservations for his thirty-fifth college reunion. It seems absolutely impossible that so much time has lapsed. Wasn't his graduation just yesterday, or last week, or perhaps just a few years ago? I was there -- it was just a year before my own graduation.
I am struggling with the whole concept, because... I miss the me of back then.
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I found college to be an isolating experience. I was never sure of the people around me, whether I fit in, whether I truly belonged. I didn't know how to communicate effectively, how to make and keep friends, how to ask for what I would like or what I might need. It was oftentimes quite lonely. Nevertheless, there was also so little obligation: all I needed to do was to study and do well in my classes. What a breathless freedom from responsibility. I did not fully appreciate it back then. I long for that freedom now. And I long for who I was then, too.
In days of yore, I could eat what I liked, when I liked; my body cooperated and functioned properly nearly all the time. It was youthful, nubile, helpful. What blissful ignorance, to give my body no thought, except to know that it was generally conventionally acceptable. And as Beloved Husband reminded me last night when we were chatting about college and reunions, apparently attractive -- my junior year, I was voted "person with whom one would want most to spend five minutes in the closet". (That might speak more to the paucity of alluring people in our social group than my particular attractiveness, I feel compelled to say.)
I was comfortable in my own skin. Happy to be the first on the dance floor, because dancing was always a joy. Pleased to buy Play-Doh to share with my classmates. Delighted to be the Elf at the Christmas party, because what could be better than handing gifts to people? Satisfied just being me, with the only expectations being my own. Delightful.
And now here we are, these thirty-odd years later. My body is not at all what it used to be. I am middle-aged, invisible, no longer conventionally attractive. I haven't been dancing in ages. I spend my days trying to meet expectations of clients, coworkers, other people.
I am tired.
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A few years before college, my family took a vacation to a Club Med. I was about sixteen at the time: old enough to have developed sufficiently to be mistaken for a grown woman, and also old enough to know I did not want a grown woman's attention. The best part of the vacation was blending into the crowd of young woman -- all of us in our bikinis, all of us of uncertain age, all of us enjoying the freedom that came with youth and beauty. It was probably more dangerous than I realized for the young women with so many hungry men prowling about. My aloofness and disinterest in most male attention probably protected me more than I realized.
I befriended a nice girl with a blue bikini, who was cautiously exploring the men of the resort, while I read my book under a palm tree in my favorite red bikini with the purple stripes. We played the games of catch and volleyball on the beach with the others, tied mauve sarongs around untouched hips, giggled and drank an occasional glass of wine with dinner and blushed when men much too old for us stared a little too long.
I found the photos recently while looking for some college-era pictures. I've covered my face and the faces of the other young women, because while it has been some forty years or so, we all deserve anonymity even in our innocent youthful exploits.
I look at those photos, and I wish that I could momentarily slip back into those moments: to be carefree, to have health and youth and a molecule of beauty, to dance and to play, unconcerned for the future.
It was glorious.
I no longer have that same health or youth or beauty. Perhaps, though, I can still find a time to dance and to play. Perhaps, even, at the upcoming reunions. We shall see.
Herself speaks.
With the exception of a couple of dorm rooms here and there, I have never actually lived by myself: I moved from my parents' home, to apartments with roommates, to my marital abode. That's the way it worked out, and it has always been fine.
As I am more and more firmly ensconced in middle age, though, every now and then I think about what it might be like to live by myself. It's not that I don't love my People -- for I love them tremendously -- it's rather that I have reached a point in time where caregiving and maintaining communal spaces and attending too/anticipating other peoples' needs, in combination with middle-aged exhaustion, has left me completely worn out. And so I occasionally think about: what if the only laundry, was mine? What if the only dishes, were mine? What if the only grocery shopping, was for what I needed? What if the space, was mine alone?
What if I only had to look after myself?
(I function under the assumption that my People are all tending to themselves/being tended to by Others when contemplating these things, because that relieves me of the guilt/obligation of worrying about them.)
In all honesty, the few times I have had the opportunity to look after just myself, it's been a little weird. As accustomed as I am to tending to others, I am the tiniest bit at a loss if I am only tending to myself. It's not bad, though.
Sometimes I contemplate what RV I might like, if I had a solo space for myself. And sometimes I contemplate what kind of small house I might like. I'm particularly fond of several of the designs of the Ross Chapin architects (link here: https://rosschapin.com/plans/small-houses/): the Edgemoor Cottage, for example, or perhaps the Egret or the Spruce House.
I think that perhaps I need to take more time for myself -- maybe find a way to go solo camping safely. Something that gives me the time to tend to myself (something I am terrible at), without the obligation to tend to other people as well. It would be restorative, I think.
One day at a time.
This week was positively replete with maintenance appointments.
The kidney doctor reported that all the screens looked good, no sign of any further kidney stones -- and so, I have been released into the wild, with no further need for follow-up unless additional kidney stones appear. Yay!
The dermatologist conducted just a routine survey. We didn't do the whole-body review (I only feel a need for that once a year), but we did take a close look at the problematic areas, especially my face with the previous MOHS surgery sites. Everything seems OK, with nothing obviously new having appeared. Free for another six months. Yay!
The neurologist appointment was a little more important, since I am desperately seeking better help for the migraines that have increased in frequency and severity lately. We've agreed to try one more medication for the next six weeks. It's one I've tried before but did not have success with -- but I suspect the previous failure was due to encountering a very strong migraine trigger at the time. Now that I have a better feel for the triggers, perhaps it might be helpful after all. Here's hoping. The next step will be medicinal Botox, which I need to research. I'm a little bit in despair at this point.
The only appointment remaining on the calendar this year is one more follow up from the recent surgery, the last week of the month. Things feel okay, and so I can be brave for that one.
I will be glad not to think about what is happening body-wise for a bit after that. I would like to just... be.
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