Every night, sometimes multiple times in a night, I dream of going back to my hometown. I dream of conflicts, of familiar places, of person after person assessing me and how they remember me.Â
This, in itself, is not strange. I'm planning to travel back there for my stepbrother's wedding, and ever since the notion was introduced, I've been terrified, worrying over these exact moments. The Boy can't go with me, and the idea of returning alone to the site of so much difficulty and the people who took control of so much of me is scarier than I can adequately describe.
What's strange about these dreams is that I am not afraid in them. The anxiety that knocks at my skull like an insistent and highly caffeinated woodpecker at even memories of what I grew up with leaves me shaky and constantly correcting myself. In these dreams, none of it touches me. No amount of criticism and condescension affects me, no conflict bothers me. I wake every night less afraid of going back.
This isn't something that my subconscious has ever been equipped to do, so I find myself thanking Morpheus more with each passing morning. I didn't ask for his assistance, but he's still giving me what he can.Â
