What dreams aren’t made of

Its currently 3am and I’ve woken up from yet another nightmare, screaming – again.

Just today I felt strong, thinking about how far I’ve come. The things I’ve managed to do alone. Right now I’ve woken up feeling fragile, weak, like all I want or maybe even need is comfort. Comfort in someone else. Not me. Cos I’m not enough.

My mind is being my own worst enemy right now. Why does it use the things I fear the most and plant it in my dreams? The one place where anything could be possible. A place of possibilities, where I could have escaped to. A place where I could have been stronger than the person I am today, a warrior not a worrier.

My own mind has turned its back on me. It gave me a chance to get my shit together, but I fucked it up and now its punishing me.

My worst fear? Apparently it’s sleeping in London underground. I was wrapped up warm in a duvet, I looked around not really doubting why I was there. Now, I do wonder, what was my back story. How the hell did I end up there? Was I homeless? It was an odd feeling, but I let the warmth of the duvet, carry me back to sleep. My eyes drifted.

HOLY SHIT. I’m sleeping in the fucking underground, I don’t even stop to think why. I know who lives here and I can’t do this.

I fucking panicked. What the fuck am I doing? No, no. I can’t fucking do this. Get me the fuck out of here. I looked around, knowing exactly what would happen next and if I had any doubts, well my beautiful mind would make damn well sure I knew.

I looked around and saw the architecture in the underground, which in my dream was really a cross between a tube and train station. Ironically, I’ve spent the weekend admiring the beautiful architecture in Brussels. No, this was anything but beautiful. The long intruding face of a rat made in concrete. A heavy reminder that this place is plagued of them. Who would put that there? What facetious bastard would design a rat face as an embellishment for the London underground? Oh, yeah, my mind.

There’s no escape. In that moment, I knew, I couldn’t run. If they weren’t near me already, soon they’ll be crawling all over my body. I have to get the fuck out of here. But fight or flight? In that moment, I’m sure my brain is whizzing through my options, but honestly I feel paralyzed. To me, there’s no option where I run. Because there’s no safe place, it all feels dangerous, This is the world that has hurt me time and time again. There’s no escape.

But that gives me the answer, I panic. I panic. I panic. I hurt, it hurts. It hurts me to fight with my own inner demons. But the cost of staying in that dream would have scarred me even more. My panic increases, my adrenaline kicks in. Anxiety levels go through the roof, turning into sheer terror. I scream. My eyes strike open. I’m awake, I’m out. I look around, I’m safe. Ok, but I did that to myself. I put those thoughts in my head and it tears me apart. I thought I had you, if not anyone else in this world. I wail, in pain, like an animal crying to its death. But my pain doesn’t signify the end. My nightmare ending was the start of another day and no doubt I’ll be here again. Every day of my life is a battle, but fight or flight? I didn’t fight, so I feel weak. I let my own mind get the better of me so I feel defenceless.

I write these words with a heavy heart. They carry my pain and sorrow. With each letter I type, I feel the weight in my fingers as they hit the key. I secretly pray that sharing my story could take my pain away. I worry that you might read the story of a girl afraid of mice and rats and once again I’ll feel an outsider. But this is for those who share a heavy burden. Just as I don’t know how my pain will end, I don’t know how this story ends.

The end.

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