Thank you to all of you who have asked how I am doing, and I am truly sorry I am not doing a better job responding to all the intelligent comments on last week’s posts. To be honest, I am having a really rough time holding my brain together with Scotch tape right now. Last week, I could not identify an Edith Wharton quote. This weekend, I could not remember a single David Mamet play I had seen, except for Betrayal, which is a wonderful play by Harold P-nter, a fact I remembered at 2:45 in the morning when Zachary began waking us up. This may seem like nothing to most folks, but remember that my life was literature (specifically turn-of-the-century American literature and dramatic literature) for a long time, and now I can’t make my brain work properly. I am sure it will come back, but in the mean time, a real post below.
A group of us were in the woods somewhere. I do not frequently set my dreams in the woods, but such dreams are not unheard of. We were working at some sort of forced labor, with a rather nasty woman overseeing our efforts. Although the work was unpleasant, there was the assurance of a hearty meal at the end.
However, the woman in charge capriciously decided that the more favored group of woods-dwellers would be fed, while we would get a scrap of bread and a bit of water. Perhaps it was a throwback to my Nazi dreams, perhaps it was a remembrance of the woods outside my childhood home, or perhaps I have seen too many episodes of Lost.
Someone spoke up. She spoke loudly and firmly and confidently, voicing our refusal to be treated so badly anymore, as well as our refusal to remain silent in the face of such abuse.
Then the dream shifted. Our hungry band of workers had figured out how to quietly take the eggs of wild birds without even disturbing them, and we were creeping across a field in the woods, united as we gathered large, speckled eggs.
And then we were assembled again. A woman at the front of our group (oddly dressed in a penguin suit as sometimes happens in dreams) declared our strength, our courage, and proudly proclaimed it scrambled egg day. (Only a pregnant woman would dream about eggs being empowering.) We would not be kept silent under someone else’s thumb; we would join together and find our own nourishment.
I awoke thinking of all the people who have supported me as I found my voice to face my childhood. The old friends who read this blog who never comment and I do not even know are there until they send me an email out of the blue. My MIL, who reads every day, which must get her an in-law gold star. My husband, whose support for this journey has been unwavering and unparalleled. People I have never met, who have my back and listen to the truths I need to tell. And, then you, those who have lived through it, too. Until I started speaking, I had no idea how many of us there are with something like this to tell. It makes me feel stronger to know we are all in it together, but sad because I would hope there were many fewer. Really, what is it about hurting a child that makes it such a popular sport among adults?