So, I had this really fucked up dream about RA the other night that I can't get out of my head. There is shame in that I had the dream at all, and in the content of said dream. But worst is the shame of remembering the dream with a wistful sort of longing that I can't dismiss.
It isn't that it was him. It's that what he did in the dream is what I so long for in my everyday awake life. He could've had the face of Mussolini and I'd be dreamy for an Italian dicator, I know this. But I can't shake the damned dream, and I can't shake the damned face in it.
Damn.
The dream was all about being taken care of, see. It was all about him loving me . Being attentive to my needs, picking things up that I'd dropped, kissing me with a hand on both cheeks (of my face...come on!), of him rushing home to be with me in our bed, to hold me until I went to sleep.
I woke up with heavy legs and the horrible feeling of wanting desperately to go back to sleep and continue the dream and also of never wanting to sleep again because the dream was about the wrong person. I mumbled, "Fuck, I need to get out more," and then promptly got out of bed and fell over.
I'd get out more if only I weren't so afraid of getting so tired so quickly that I'd have to reveal that I need to sit down and rest to whomever I'm out with. I'd get out more if I thought it was worth the trouble. The energy. I'd go out more if I thought I'd get any sort of action out of it. I'd go out more if I thought the person I was getting action from was going to come back for more.
I'd go out more if I wasn't so afraid.
This whole honesty thing is really getting to me. When I didn't admit that I was scared, I went out all the time. Since realizing that I act mostly out of fear, I've been afraid to leave my house except for compulsory job-related outings.
Right now, for example, I'm afraid to go to bed because I promised a friend that if I felt bad in the morning, I'd call the doctor. I suppose the morning comes regardless of whether I go to sleep, but it feels like I'm slowing its arrival by staying up past when I know I should be up.
I really need to get out more.
I should have run more when I had the chance. I should remember this if I ever get the chance to run again. I should run until my body quite literally won't let me. Since it certainly won't let me now.
What's that about, exactly? I think I'd like it better being like Uncle Hai: Have MS and no treatment for it but to waste away in a bed somewhere where no one can see you. Because this whole, let's-treat-it-and-slow-it-down thing is really deceiving. It's SORT OF slowing it down, at what pace we don't know, for how long we don't know...er, maybe it's slowing it down. Maybe it's not. It's so hazy.
And I don't deal in hazy. I deal in absolutes. Either I'm wasting away or I'm not. If I'm not, then I want to work, to run, to work out, to date, to fuck, to dream, to cheer, to jump up and down. And if I am wasting away, then I want to stop working, go to bed, and wait for a time when I can call Dr. Kevorkian to give me a nice shot and get the fuck outta here.
I hate the grey area.
I hate the not knowing.
I hate the neurologists who don't understand that I'm a person.
I hate that I'm alone.
But I hate most of all hearing, "You're not alone!" from some chipper spokesperson, some fucking brochure, or some goddamned do-gooder, well-wishing friend who thinks that giving me a hug and saying they'll see me tomorrow is enough. I AM alone, goddamnit. Every fucking night when I get in bed I'm alone. Every fucking morning when I wake up, I'm alone. Every fucking time I cry, I'm alone.
And I don't want my mom, or my dad, or my sister, or my best friend, or even my semi-friend, or any of my swimmers or their spouses or their parents to console me. I want someone who loves me for me, for my fucked up body and my mind and my teeth and my hands and my toes and my messy apartment and my bed to just be there at the right time to hold me and tell me it's going to be alright not because the sun will come out tomorrow; not because s/he thinks that's what you're supposed to say in these situations; not because s/he doesn't know what else to say; but because for that moment, as long as I'm being held, I'm going to be okay. Because someone is there to take care of me in the truest of vulnerable moments. Because finally, finally, someone else can be strong for me, and I can let go.
And I'm petrified that that's never going to happen.

Posted by twids at 9:25 pm