I don’t often remember my dreams.
Years ago, when I allowed a doctor to convince me that part of growing older was growing fearful and that part of having a past was having anxiety and that part of being a woman was being neurotic, I swallowed his prescription for mental health right along with his description of modern life.
I bought that self-sabotage and self-hate and self-dramatization, all-consuming as they were, could be fixed, easily and permanently, by consuming pills.
Not for a long time did I suspect there might be nothing in me to fix.
High on hormones, I dreamed in high definition. But as vivid and rich as my dreams were, they revealed nothing. Except, perhaps, that life, and the choices one must contemplate in this life, should always feel vivid and rich.
Which reveals the lie.
Standing in a sterile supermarket cereal aisle, I considered which sugary snack to choose. Every box was so pretty, every possible bite so possibly pleasing. I smiled and shrugged, knowing the vapidity of the dilemma would make every choice right. Or, at least, tolerable.
I bragged about my dreams in those days. See how simple they are? See how OK I am?
When I decided I wanted to dream bigger, I said goodbye to pills and simple fixes. Then, something incredible happened: the world blew up and my life exploded. Seeking comfort during the country’s collective crisis, doctors often asked, “Would you like something to help get you through this, to take the edge off?”
I’d ask in return, “Am I supposed to be OK right now?”
Part of being human is feeling fearful, anxious, neurotic. Part of being human is making hurtful, hard, horrible choices. Part of being human is losing all that you know and love, then crawling through crisis to, what you can only hope, is safety and sleeping thought the night.
You sign the divorce papers. You pay late or not at all. You field phone calls from collection agencies. You throw up in the gym. You cry in the parking lot. You listen to the bad news and believe, for a time, that the news will always be bad. You dread going to bed for the loneliness you’ll wake up to the next morning.
What you don’t do is take the edge off, because living life is living on the edge.
Sadness, loss, pain, fear, regret, anxiety, frustration, anger, envy, boredom, impatience, dread, listlessness, worry, shock, disgust, indifference, nausea … Being far from OK does not make you clinical, it makes you human.
Life is not meant to feel vivid and rich all the time. Sometimes it’s meant to suck ass. Why? Because sometimes you’re meant to get off your ass and face the truth of why you pay late or throw up or dread the night or feel bored or marry the wrong person or leave the right person. Sometimes you’re meant to swallow what the nightmare prescribes: that it is the truth that will save you and that then, and only then, can you dream a bigger dream.
I walked into a bar and past a table where several friends were seated. A former friend sat with the group. She looked up as I passed and offered me the seat next to her. I saw in her face how difficult the gesture was, said “no” and kept walking. I moved toward another table and listened to that group’s gossip until my mind wandered to wondering what I had just done and whether it was too late to change my mind.
I’m sitting on a chair with my guitar in my lap and the mic at my lips. I’m the opening act for a famous friend and a fan of my work. She stands next to me on stage, introduces me. The crowd boos, impatient to hear its idol sing, uninterested in an unknown. She puts her hand on my shoulder and smiles reassuringly. I’m terrified. I steel myself. I sing.
