I talk a lot in my dreams. To a variety of people I just met. This last one, I kept trying to get something real out of a man who caught my eye. He let me touch him. There and there. And he felt familiar, in a nice, Welcome Home.
In most of my dreams, I’m definitely a straight female attracted to male energy. A lot of our dreams, I believe, are disaffected, muted, and destroyed by what’s going on inside of our bodies, hormones and allergies, sleep apnea and anxiety.
It’s why I can never eat a croissant without suffering guilt. I’m in a dream!
I have to sort through what feels real, what moves me. What is, not what I wish it to be, because his eyes are blue or his shoulders, broad, or, whatever.
When I’m awake, I’m frustrated by the words I don’t know, the words I cannot say to fix or touch or move someone else. (Much less me.)
I have no idea how I affect people, other than the imperfect words they use at the moment. And even then, I have to question whether their words are genuine, off the cuff, or bait. To survive. To protect myself.
Good. Good isn’t good enough.
The other night, I was with a friend (I’m trying to make) as she went over the highlights of her life. A nice woman, worn down by life. She’s much younger than me. She experienced a great many beautiful suitors, men who genuinely desired her for her, a great many more who would sign up to spend even five minutes with her in a heartbeat.
Me, not so much. It’s never been that way.
I look at these pictures of other women. Some aren’t so very different. Others are much less attractive in terms of weight, physical presence, the way they present themselves.
I’m just not… enough. I was never enough even for my current husband, but he married me anyway. At the time, I was hardly the ugliest girl in the school. Although, that’s what they said I was.
What do people want? I don’t know.
I’m … autistic that way.