I Dream But I Don't Have Nightmares

September 29th, 2009.
February 24th, 2010.

Those are the respective dates of my mother's and father's deaths. Apart from feeling nothing and then feeling too much, there has been little joy within the mundanity that is life. Life without them... feels so strange and yet strangely familiar; I suppose I prepared long enough for these days. It's the subtleties you notice mostly - like the fact that a bottle of water can't satisfy me like a soda does, suddenly I like wrestling, and I see the cherry blossoms but they have no smell to speak of. They fall aimlessly and billow upon the wind until they meet their destination... very much like my life. Only problem is, I have no destination. I'm orphaned and alone. While at times the pain is overwhelming I can usually manage to block it out, especially when I dream.

Inside dreams they are still alive and in situations I cannot now recall. Inside dreams I have my own world wherein my escape from reality lay. It happens in the morning to early afternoon. It's known as productive sleep. During the night hours I sleep but fail to dream. Sad because my dreams are a crucial part of my recovery. Whether it's a fantasy about the wrestling entertainment world or a simple dream about being back in my parents' house and all of this an unwanted parallel world, I count on those dreams to pull me through my day... lift me from the abyss I often find myself in.

Music doesn't sound the same anymore. I go to church and yet I remain angry with God. I've not had a recent dialog with Him except to remind Him that I'm there and I understand, but don't agree. I worry about stupid things and ignore the important ones. My body can no longer fight off the small things that require an immune system. Matters are upsidedown and sideways, and yet I manage to get through these mundane homemaker tasks and maintain a routine. It's just that there's no joy in it... not even in the accomplishment of it. I stay awake to get through the day so I can dream. I dream so that I can handle being awake. The task of making the bed in the morning is symbolic of the end of dreams and the start of reality yet again, which is why I dread it. The whole ritual of preparing for the night - arranging my evening medication and setting up my toiletries for the shower - is relaxing. It's become blatantly clear to me that I equate sleep with death and while I dare not take my own life, I wish I weren't here.

How sad is it when you go to the emergency room for food poisoning and hope they find cancer - find something that presents the ultimate finality? How awful it is that I deliberately die a slow death every day when I fail to manage my diabetes. How frustrating it is that I can't seem to convince those around me of this reality.

I dream but I don't have nightmares, because my life itself is the nightmare that I seek to awaken from every single day.