Last night, I was too tired to write. Which I am thankful for as I slept for several hours straight without dreaming. Funny, for years, when I rarely reached REM stage, I missed dreaming – dreaming came with medication withdrawal – still remember one so clearly, or a fever. Now, psych drugs mean I have my dreams back – but all my dreams are borderline nightmares. Always were.
I also remember one beautiful dream – in my mid to late 30s. I was walking by a hill covered in wildflowers. As I passed by, all the flowers changed into butterflies. No, I wasn’t on anything – that time.
I made it to therapy – hot and humid so the weaker, tired me struggled but did it. Said something to cheer up my therapist. I do that when I think she is despairing of my as a client. And, who knows, part of it might be true.
Today, I finally took my giant bubble maker wand outside to make dancing bubble circles. Then I tried making a video and take pictures of said bubbles. Making was easier than capturing.
My therapist pointed out that my surviving to date sound be considered as a self-like (she likes the term). Rootless childhood. Nothing to wrap the vines of growing up around. Not much nurture. Very little sun; lots of rain. Winds of loneliness, rot of bipolar 2 and insidious depression, hail of peer abuse, erosion of pain and loss. Guess that makes me a survivor. A Warrior Princess. One of many survivors; warrior princesses. All unique and all tied by the same ribbon.