I had a dream.
In the dream, I went to her apartment so we could go to a healing session together.
But then I saw her pull out a knife. She was trying to kill me.
She had told me she struggled with intrusive thoughts. And I knew I had hurt her. I had hurt her. I looked at her, and said, “That makes sense.”
Then I woke up.
When I woke up, I realized how unsafe I had felt around her, and how much my unconscious mind expected that danger.
Dreams don’t come from nowhere.
This one came from the emotional work I’ve been doing since my sleepawake therapy retreat. After the retreat, I felt my emotional repertoire expand in a way I didn’t expect. I had several difficult conversations with people, and for the first time I didn’t feel that familiar choke in my throat.
For example, when someone is pushy, I used to either say a hesitant yes or wrap my no in politeness.
Now I say no. Directly.
I’m still learning how to do it, but I’m doing it.
Even with the person I had the biggest crush on for a year, the hottest person I knew, I found the courage to talk about it. It’s terrifying. But going wrong in your own way is better than going right in someone else’s.
So many things I once imagined would be emotional catastrophes turned out far better than I feared.
I’ve been practicing that courage in my career too. Career has always been my biggest fear, asking for what I want, being who I am. I was afraid of being too much, or too little.
Now I post on LinkedIn every few days. Not because I have everything figured out, but because I want to take up space. I’m training the muscle of taking up space.
And surprisingly, many people support me.
But there is still work to do, especially with those who trigger me the most. When I invited her to join a healing activity after our disconnection, my body lit up with fear. A hollow ache in my chest. Suppressed desire and rage moving through me.
Even sending a follow-up message filled me with fear.
I felt jittery, scattered. While writing this, I kept stopping to scroll Instagram every few sentences.
I can still feel the scars she carved into me. And the day I pulled the trigger, the bullet into her head. Even now, I’m not sure if it was revenge or self-defense. They might be the same thing.
She turned me into a monster.
But now I want to heal.
Come. I want to heal. I want that for you too. You once promised we would go to healing activities together.
Strangely, since the retreat, I have started to love my monster more and more.
The pain.
The rage.
The sorrow.
The jealousy.
The desire.
The lust.
The pleasure.
The yearning.
One day I stood by a canal with a friend and screamed:
“FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU!
Fuck you for making me feel so small.
Fuck you for making me believe selfishness was the only way to succeed in America.”
Then I collapsed into my chair like a baby.
Safe. Calm. Cradled by my rage.
I don’t know how things will unfold.
But I remember what Ocean Vuong wrote:
“Remember: The rules, like streets, can only take you to known places.”
And I’m ready to leave the map.
RAHHH