Broken? Dreams

Many of my fellow dog walkers on Sunday were talking about snowless winters on Gabriola. They were trying to remember when the last one occurred and conjecturing on the possibility of having one this year. 

I reckon our chances are good this year. It’s stayed mild since summer—one afternoon in late Fall a fabulous fourteen degrees. My Geraniums are thriving—not blooming but still lush and green.

This is my second winter but my first without concern for the cost of running my spa. It’s too big; on the other hand, I can float on my back. But as long as I can walk, I want one. It’s become a way of life—a ritual of stress relief and a private celebration of a lush life here. Then it’s pyjamas and the chaise longue by the fire.

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Ethel is growing. She eats often and seems larger compared to Fred than before.. Fred is huge. Ethel has always looked like a sliver beside him but she is fleshing out and I’m thrilled. I credit the change to her operation; it’s wonderful to believe the intervention was so beneficial. 

I’ve started waking shortly after three am and rising at four. I spent decades rising at four but since the onset of C-PTSD, I started going to bed much earlier and rising later.

Rising so early in winter makes the long wait for light a challenge. Sheba is full of energy when she wakes and she wants a lot of attention when I like to write. We have to wait five hours for the convening of our dog-walking group and she gets antsy.

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I went to France (Nice) for the best year of my life. I went to learn French and I remember how proud and thrilled I was when I had my first dream in French. It seemed terribly significant to me as I struggled to fulfill a life-long dream.

Last night I had my first dream about being … I’m never sure how to describe myself, plagued as I am with bad speech and seizures. Should I say “disabled?” I often say “broken” or “fucked up.” I won’t say “mentally ill;” I don’t like that way of putting it. It feels so “drama queen.”

Whatever you call it, I had a dream about it. 

When I have a seizure, I can be aware in the moment but not remember my momentary lucidity when the seizure is over. That’s to say, if someone says to me, “Take my hand.” I may but I won’t remember that afterwards.

In my dream, I wasn’t having seizures; I was limp and mute and people around me were trying to figure out who I was and what was wrong with me. Although I couldn’t move or speak, I could hear and understand them.

But my consciousness was not on what I overheard. I have no recollection of what they said. All I remember was being limp and mute. End of story. There was no stress in my dream; I felt no emotions whatsoever. It was weird. It’s as though being “broken” has debuted in the lexicon of my dreams

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Today is brilliant and sunny (and cool). I’m glad it’s not raining because I’m going to Nanaimo to get an estimate for repairing my car and I’m taking Sheba. The automotive shop is right beside a park.