Saving Myself

In a dream, children gleefully rip around an open field with the unbridled excitement of having newly discovered the infinite potential of being alive. A little girl emerges from the chaos, walks stoically toward me, and meets my eyes with a palpable ego presence that random dream characters do not possess.

I’m acutely aware that I’m dreaming. Even still, I’m fairly certain this girl is somehow a real entity. So I snap to attention, suspecting there may be actual consequences to this encounter.

“I need to tell you two things,” she commands in a way that suggests she is not a little girl, nor is this just a dream.

I say nothing.

She calmly takes both of my hands and turns them to face palm up. Slightly lifting my right hand, she explains, “This hand is simply an extension of that hand,” as she lifts my left. I immediately know this is true, although I’ve never really thought of my two hands as being part of the same continuum.

Gently bringing my palms together in front of me, she says, “And this hand will heal that hand.”

She again looks me square in the eyes.

Then, the dream ends.

Waiting for Someone to Save Me

I had an interesting childhood surrounded by many people, yet I still felt largely alone, alienated, afraid, and ashamed. Was it because my parents split when I was three and to this day I cannot recall a single memory of them speaking to each other? Was it never feeling seen by my father? Never having one meaningful conversation with him? Being terrorized by my older brothers? Perhaps it was the diabetes that made me feel so different. Generational trauma, neglect, abuse, abandonment – who’s to say?

What I do know is that I spent a lot of time secretly wishing someone would fucking do something. I was not ok, but I didn’t know why, or what to do about it. It was like being lost on a journey I never chose to embark on to a place I wasn’t sure existed and didn’t know how to get to.

I remember once in later adolescence having a high and unrelenting fever that eventually led to dehydration, hallucinations, and disorientation. I was planning to drive myself to the hospital (or die trying) when my little sister ran and asked a neighbor to take me. There they gave me a couple bags of fluids, ran tests, gave me medicine, and brought me back to earth. When I woke up and saw people taking care of me and acting like I mattered, I started crying uncontrollably.

Someone had done something!

Maybe those were the big emotions of what felt like a brush with death. But I’m more inclined to believe it was the first time I consciously confronted the real possibility that I had inherent value. That I was worth saving. I mean, these doctors and nurses didn’t even know me. How could they have possibly known I wasn’t an unlovable piece of shit?

Saving Myself

Years later, a hypnotherapist would walk me back into my past to rescue my younger self. 

“Tell me when your childhood home comes into view,” she instructed. 

“Ok, I see it.”

I approach the entrance, but stand out front looking at the doorknob for a bit. Then I start ugly crying. Hard. We stay right there until I feel what I need to feel and let it go.

“Are you ready to go in there and get that sweet boy?” she asks.

Nearly paralyzed with fear, I say, “Fuck it. Let’s go.”

I push my way in and feel relieved to discover no one’s home. I bound up the stairs and head straight for the bedroom. When I open the door, I see a little boy sitting there on the floor – all by himself in an empty ass house. 

Makes sense.

He’s so excited to see me. I can’t imagine how long he’s been waiting, but I’m here now. Finally.

“Let’s get outta here, buddy,” I say as I take him by the hand and lead him to the door. “You don’t have to stay here anymore. You’re rollin with me. And I’m gonna take real good care of you from here on out.”

We leave that house, hand in hand, and I realize the young girl in my dream was right.

This hand was simply an extension of that hand.

This hand did heal that hand.

… and maybe she was me all along.

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