Saturday, August 2, 2014


I've always had vivid dreams. It's to the point that those that don't know me would assume I went to sleep high on something. It's just a thing that's always been.

I've been in therapy, consistently, for just over a year. I was working with a doctoral student at first. That lasted about three months. Then she quit. I transitioned to a new therapist, and that was a rough start. She was a post doctoral fellow. Her fellowship ended in June.

I miss her. I learned a lot from her. The most challenging part: She was on myside. It's not something I've had very much experience with. I had a dear friend that moved away last year. He was the first person I had ever encountered that was on myside. He was on myside. I'm on myside. And I think, if I allow Him, God might be on myside too...

My dream: I was ending with my last therapist, Dr. S. She had this huge pile of papers. They were remnants of my journey; my past. "I need you to go through these, and decide what stays, and what goes."

I sat and started looking at the papers. The first few were things I had written. I moved those to the keep pile. I didn't have a clear image of everything. She pointed to another portion of the pile. "These are things I've given you. They are all about things you mentioned that we were going to talk about."

I didn't recognize everything in this pile. Some things we had never got too yet. There wasn't time. I put those in a special part of the keep pile. Those required more of my immediate attention. Many of them were short stories. I looked at a digital clock and realized it was fifteen minutes past the hour. I had forty-five minutes to finish, and there were still boxes, and boxes that required my attention.

A lady was there to help me. She had black rimmed glasses, and her hair was tied in a messy mop at the top of her head. I'm packing things in boxes that I'd like to keep with me, but I don't necessarily need to access immediately. She opens a box to help me get rid of things I may no longer need. She pulls out a teal, pullover sweatshirt that's two sizes too big. I remember that sweatshirt. It hid me well. "Seriously, have you seen this since high school? Chuck it in the trash!"

I didn't like her. She didn't sugarcoat anything.

The minutes started passing faster. There were boxes full of rugs and mats. I went to try to fold them.
"There's no time." she said. "Take them as they are, or leave them here!"

These men appeared. Movers, I think. They moved the boxes, and then Dr. S. came back. "Are you almost done? I have to go. I wish I didn't have to. I cherish the time we had together."
"I don't want you to leave. I really like having someone on my side."
We hugged.
"I'm always on yourside."


I walked forward, or elsewhere. On the side were two men in lawn chairs giving a play by play of the pile of papers, my journey. Casey Kasem was one of them. "What do you think she'll have to remember moving on Casey?"
"Writing is an incredible cathardic release for her. She can release her pain through the page, and it makes it easier for her to carry. But, and here's the interesting part, it's still living on the page."
"What colors would you use if you had to paint her future?"
"Blue that's sometimes lined in grey. Gloomy times can get her down, but she can see the sky still, and light breaking through."

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