Old dreams

When I was young, I remember having pleasant dreams.  The ones I remember are when my toys were alive (like Toy Story) and we would talk and play together, and for those dreams I wasn't alone.

As I got older, Nice dreams became rarer.  As a teen and twenty something, some of the good dreams were, ahem, spicy shall we say.  Haven't had that kind of dream in forever.

In college (Summer 88), I remember a dream that was me going to the McDonald's down the street and enjoying a Big Mac.  I really don't like Big Macs, but that summer I was so broke I literally didn't have two coins to rub together.  Being able to afford such an extravagance was a dream come true.

Summer '88.  Living next to McD's didn't help

I've written several times that I almost constantly have nightmares now.  I don't remember my last pleasant dream.  That doesn't mean I don't have them- I just don't remember any. 

 

My dreams these days are usually me trying to go somewhere but I keep getting further away.  Others are sort of typical, taking tests after not attending class, or such.  In many dreams, I’m extremely frustrated or angry, and unable to make anything right.  Some are my being pursued by something I never see, but I know to be caught would be fatal.

 

Still, most are memories gone wild.  Rescue squad calls gone tragically wrong, or dead victims returning to blame me for their deaths.  Many involve being rejected by loved ones or abandoned by everyone.

The last ones are the worst, as I wake up exhausted, sad, or depressed. Sometimes that would last for days.  

The rescue ones tend to be the ones that repeat- frequently enough that I know what happens next but can't change it.  Like I'm just a spectator, or it’s a kabuki play.

I don't remember any good dreams since before transition.  Even before. 

 

 

I miss them.  

 

Dream of a House

I want to get this down before it leaves my memory.  Last night I had a dream in which my mum and my old dog Nittany appeared, as did Wife, Daughter, and my Older Brother (OB) as he usually appears in my dreams: like he was when we were in high school.

The dream began (or at least this bit) with my approaching a house that my parents just moved into.  It was white, as were all the doors.  To my left was another door which was mostly window, like at a beach house.  It had horizontal blinds, and OB exited it along with a coworker from the past (whose name I won't use.)  

Once I entered the house, the first room was large.  The walls were white, and the carpet was tan, which I would discover all over the house.  There was a wraparound corner couch (blue), a TV, and the far side opened to a small kitchen with a fridge and stove.  That floor was tiled with tan tiles.  My dog Nittany (dead now 7 years) lay on the couch, sleeping.

Halfway through that room, on the left, was a staircase that I climbed.  It led to another floor.  There was a small room off to the side, with a small bed, a crib, and stuffed animals, all red and pink.  There was a door on the other side that led to another bedroom, but I didn't enter that- I knew these were guest rooms.  Exiting back to the hallway (where the first stairway ended), there was a short staircase of maybe 5 steps which led to a large kitchen, with wooden cabinets and marble counter.  The floor was tiled to look like brick and was the only floor that wasn't tan.)  There was a large kitchen "island" as well.  It was the biggest non-commercial kitchen I'd ever seen.  

Walking to the other side of that, and turning left I entered a large room, maybe 50 by 40 feet, that was mostly empty except for a large, overstuffed couch along one wall and a huge, almost wall sized high-definition TV, on which was a football game.  On the right-side wall were large windows, again like one would see in a beach house.  It was night, so I didn't see the view.  I knew this was the main "living room" and wasn't finished.  After all, they'd just moved in.

While all rooms (except where I mention) were lit, only the kitchens had light fixtures in the ceiling.  I saw no lamps or lights in any other room, yet they were lit.  

The living room had two adjacent rooms.  To the left, past a hallway back to the stairs and guest rooms, was a large entry (no door) to a room maybe 30 by 40 feet with another exit on the right-side wall (90 degrees from the one I entered).  Suddenly my brother was there.  I said, "this would make a great game room" and he agreed.  I then said, "I assume you have your room already picked out."  He smiled and left the room.  I proceeded through the other exit into a long room, which also opened to the living room.  

This room was maybe 40 feet long and 20 feet wide, with windows on the far wall and the right side wall (which lined up with the living room windows.)  On the left wall was the entry to another up stairwell which I took.  It went to another floor with narrower halls.  At the top of those stairs was the entrance to a room on the right, some steps up to a room ahead, and a stairwell going down to the left.  My daughter was standing there, and we hugged.  I told her I missed her so much, and she said she missed me too.  She said that the room to the right was hers.  I looked through the open door (only the second interior door I'd seen) to see a large room with a canopy bed with floral yellow covers, and some of her art on the walls.  There was a white dresser and doors to what I knew was a walk-in closet.  She turned and went into her room.  I saw the room ahead of me was huge, with windows along the far wall, but I didn't enter it.  On the left of that room, I saw another kitchen similar to the one in the entry room.  I went down the stairs to the left.  I remember thinking "we don't need all this space."

This led to a darkened hallway with two exits.  This hallway was lit by small wall sconces that had yellow glass shades.  These walls were paneled in cheap fake wooden paneling like from the 60s.  I took the left exit, where my mum met me.  This was completely normal (despite her being dead.)  She said she had a surprise for me.  She opened a large set of dark wood double cabinet doors, and inside was a 40-inch TV with large stereo speakers below it.  The screen was all static, as the cable hadn't been hooked up here yet (but it was upstairs?).  The room with this TV was narrow, like a finished basement, and it had wooden benches lining the walls.  The room was lit by two floor lamps again with yellow glass shades.  I asked her where OB's room was, and she said he had a suite of rooms on the top floor, where I also knew was a balcony.  I never found out where my parents' rooms were.  

In any case, she indicated an entryway with two steps going down to another room.  This room was small, maybe 10 feet by 20, with a door on the right wall.  The far wall had a window that faced out to a driveway and a highway, which I could clearly hear.  The carpet was a gold shag, but the walls were white.  The only furnishings were a rust covered couch, and another floor lamp with a yellow glass shade.  Mum said "this is your room."  

Through the other door was a stairway going up, but not connected to the others.  I followed mum up to the next floor, which was back to the white walls and tan carpet.  She went into yet another kitchen.  To the right was a hallway, at the end of which was another large room.  Wife was there trying to figure out where to put things, as this was her room.  It had a balcony on the other side through sliding glass doors.  To the right was a stairway that I knew connected to my daughter's room.  

That's when I woke up, feeling very sad.  The house was massive and twisting, and I knew I hadn't seen it all, but I'd seen enough.  It was where life was going on without me.  I'd seen places like this in dreams before with rooms upon rooms, but they were always businesses or such.  This was the family house, where they would be happy.

Is there such thing as Early February?

 February is here, short as it is.  It's so short that we're already almost at mid February.  Time flies.

Or it doesn't.  I don't know if it's the meds or what, but I could sleep 24/7 these days.  I spend over 12 hours in bed if I'm not working, then lay on the couch, enduring the day.  I have lots to do- my dissertation proposal, cleaning, and, if I wish, hobbies.  All I want to do is sleep.   It's not like hard labor, which many people do for a living, but its definitely the Darkness having its way.  And when I sleep, that's when the nightmares return.  At least I wake up from them.  

Lately the nightmares have been along a similar vein.  I have a destination, but no matter how much I travel, it keeps getting further away.  But not last night- last night was a Fridays dream.  I was doing a table shift at TGI Fridays, in the upstairs section (I worked at Fridays 1989-91).  All four of my tables were seated at the same time, and things just fell apart.  I was glad to wake up from that one, despite seeing old friends in the dream that I hadn't seen in decades: my coworkers, exactly as they were then, even if I wasn't.  I was as I am now: old, slow, and tired.  

Then I read the news about devastating earthquakes in Turkey and Syria, and I have no reason to complain.  1800 dead- crushed.  Horrible.  Helpless.

Be well.  

Silly Thoughts

As you can imagine, dear reader, there are many posters hanging about the university.  Advertisements of all kinds for different classes, programs and events are everywhere.  Unlike my day, they aren't confined to the occasional corkboard, as there are now electronic posters with shifting pictures, circles and arrows and a paragraph on... sorry.  Started channeling Arlo Guthrie again.

Yesterday was one of those events advertised.  The center where I work held an LGBT all campus welcome jawn in a large sweaty hall in the student union.  It was quite the success, with a lot of people coming, many organizations tabling, and free food (including Swedish meatballs, brie, and chicken amoretto.  Not mixed together.)  There was music as well, but all I could hear was the bass line and drums, as I was on the other side of the room.  

In any case, during the event, I had to run down to the center, which was two floors down.  As I walked, I saw a poster that caused me to pause.

"BECOME AN EMT"

As long time victims, I mean readers of this blog know, in my youth I was a volunteer Emergency Medical Technician (EMT.)  I would eventually become a Paramedic, but that doesn't matter.  I volunteered with an ambulance and a rescue squad.

As I wrote in a previous entry: "Doing this work radically changed some of my thinking back then.  Back when so many people my age thought they were invincible, I looked death in the face.  I watched friends die.  I saw things that hurt and haunt me to this day.  What does that do to someone still in adolescence?  Well, it makes us less fun at parties for one thing.  It puts things in perspective as well.  And for someone who carried the Dark Secret I had inside of me?  Yes, I have PTSD. Not just from the Paramedic days, but from repressing my Truth and swallowing my Pain."

All true.  I still think of what I saw every day.  I think about the people who I tried to help, but couldn't.  When I sleep, I have consistent nightmares of helplessness and failure.  

So why in the world would that poster give me pause... and cause me to consider re-certifying my EMT certification?  My EMT and other certifications ran out decades ago (I keep my CPR current when I can get a course.)  Well, at first glance, I figured that the course might be free, as it would be paid by the University in exchange for  service on the University Ambulance.  Fair trade.  And beside, ambulance work, while not easy, was nowhere near as traumatic as rescue work.  Usually not as bloody.  In fact, in the old days, they were a lot of routine transports.  But here were also heart attacks, births, strokes, and suicides.  The ones that still haunt me from those are the suicides- one in particular.  

I can't say I regret letting my certifications expire.  At the time, I'd met wife, had a steady job, and was ready to move on from that work.  I still stop at accidents when I came upon them (one day I'll have to tell the story of the Christmas accident in Delaware) if no ambulance had yet arrived.  I like to fool myself, once in a while, that I still make a difference.  Heck, I'm considering donating my old helmet to a museum! (Spring Ford Historical Society)

Is it a desire to reclaim my lost youth?  Do I miss the adrenaline rush?  Not really.  The fact is that in my middle age I feel useless.  I want to make a difference  again- directly- in a way that I can see.  

But then those pesky facts get in the way.  I'm really in no physical condition to run ambulance (not that many ambulance people I met are paragons of physical fitness) due to my back, hip, and knees- which were partially destroyed in the rescue days of my youth.  Also, I looked into the program- it isn't free.  Like my undergrad days, they are for-credit courses, which means tuition: $726 per credit hour.  It's a four credit course, so... $2904.  That's too rich for my blood... and bank account.  If I had that money, there are other things I'd need to do first.  Like pay bills.  Or send my mum's ashes to Scotland.  Or...

In any case, I guess my mind is writing checks that my body (and sanity) can no longer cash.  I already have enough bad dreams and flashback.  I think that, in this case, it's best to let this "opportunity" go.

Be well.

Dreams are Personal

I can't think of anything more personal than dreams.  Nothing- not fears, intimate encounters, secrets, is more personal.  When one reveals their dreams, they reveal their soul.  Dreams are the ultimate secret. 

For so many transgender people, living their Truth, or surgeries are their deepest dream and darkest secret; a secret that many take to the grave.  How many transgender women needed someone to "scrub" their homes of any feminine clothing or things before family found out post-mortem?  How many pass never living that dream for even a moment?

A week ago

Some say I'm living the dream, as I am full time as myself.  I usually reply that, no, I'm living a nightmare.  But has living my Truth been my biggest dream?  My fondest wish?  

No.

My biggest dream, beyond any other was to grow old with my Wife.  Once I decided "yes, she's the one" that has been the goal.  Even before that- the idea of growing old with my life partner- if I could do that, then everything else would be at least ok.  I remember thinking on my wedding day, as I looked into Wife's eyes... this is it.  This is the rest of my life.  

Well, I screwed that up over 8 1/2 years ago, didn't I?  

Lately I've wondered if I should detransition- if we could be a family again.  But I already know the answer to that: we can't.  Wife doesn't want to.  So even if I wanted to detransition (I don't), it wouldn't matter, I'll still be alone.  I'll die alone.  I already know this- always have.  I just dreamed of living out my days with my Wife.  That isn't going to happen no matter what.  

So when someone tells you their dreams- listen.  They're revealing who they really are.  

But be careful!  Dreams, like Hope, lie.  

Two Pillows

I've mentioned many times on social media that I often cry myself to sleep.  That's true- I'd say 90% of the time.  (The other 10% is when I drink myself to sleep, or when I'm so tired I'm asleep before my head hits the pillow.)

When people ask me about it, I usually just say "I cry about all I lost," which is true, if vague.

Last night (Weds, Aug 7) I was very tired, so I retired relatively early.  Yeah, I'm old.  I read until the melatonin started kicking in, closed the book, and turned out the light.  Without thinking, I rolled over onto my side, and pulled a pillow to me.

My Bed, today.  See Mum, I make it sometimes!

You see, since I was in junior high, I've used two pillows.  I remember thinking that TWO pillows- that was the pinnacle of luxury.  My room was on the third floor of the house, where there was no heat in winter (the house was heated by a wood burning stove downstairs, so the first floor was toasty; the second floor was slightly chilly; and the third floor was freezing) and the only cooling in the summer was a small fan and windows.  It was what it was- I was just glad to have my own room. And... I had two pillows, so I was great!

After dating a year, and being engaged a year, I married Wife in 1993.  Every couple who sleeps in the same bed, they choose sides.  She slept to my left, with my right side facing off the bed.  Wife also had two pillows (and she was very possessive of them, so almost nightly I'd steal them.) I would wrap my arms around her, spooning, and we'd both quickly fall asleep.  I would drift off to the sound of her breathing.  J'entend ton coeur.

The end of this month marks six years since I was thrown out of MIL's house.  I remember that day like it just happened.  I remember my daughter's tears.  I remember holding Wife as she cried with me in the driveway before I left with the last load.  (Most of everything went into storage.).

August 2019

I had dinner with the people who helped me move.  Then, I went back to my new home, where I lived at the charity of a dear friend.  I brought my pillows with me.  I collapsed into bed, and cried for years.

The loneliness.  The rejection.  The unfamiliar smell of an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room.  My Wife and daughter were miles away.  I found out later that Wife had daughter sleep in our bed that night, as she didn't want to sleep alone.

You see, like me, she had problems falling asleep alone.  Whenever I was traveling for my job with Games Workshop, both of us had major insomnia.  I remember many nights while in the U.K. That I couldn't sleep a wink.  One week, I didn't sleep more than an hour total.  

Codependent?  I guess.

So last night, I pulled my pillow to me and started crying.  Why?  Same as always.

After nearly six years, I still miss being curled up next to Wife.  The smell of her hair.  Softness of her skin.

Yes, I miss my daughter, whose childhood I've missed.  I miss my dearest friend, Lisa.  But when I climb into bed, instead of my bride of 26 years...

...All I have is a pillow.

Dream of Dogs

Last night I had a strange dream, in that while it was a nightmare, it wasn't as bad as they usually are.

The dream took place in the house where I grew up in Spring City, which is a very frequent location for my nightmares.

House where I grew up, 1987

There had been a big family dinner or something and all my aunts and uncles from my dad's side were there (but none of my cousins.)  They'd all left except one of them, whom I will just say is the only one I don't get along with.  There were piles of dirty dishes everywhere, and the only food left was partially eaten broiled flounder.  For those that don't know, seafood and I don't get along either.  I hadn't eaten at all, and I was responsible for washing ALL of the dishes and cleaning up the place while the adults sat in the living room, smoked and drank beer.  Never mind that my mum does neither anymore.

Ok, so far, this was familiar ground.

And like usual, I kept shifting back and forth from the little boy I was to my current female self.  Now, my parents had a dishwasher in the 70s, but they rarely used it, as it was LOUD.  So I had to wash them by hand.  This would take hours, as there were literally dozens of plates, serving vessels, and a forest of cutlery.  It all smelled of broiled fish.  The sink was small, so I knew I'd have to wash, dry, refill the sink, wash, dry, ad-infinitem.  Again, this is a common nightmare.  Usually this nightmare includes my older brother, usually as a teen, laughing and throwing things at me, and/or dropping dishes and blaming it on me.  Not assisting of course.  Dishes are "women's work" even though whenever he says this, I'm a young boy.

But not this time.  In fact, in last night's dream, he wasn't around at all.

So, I'm scrubbing, sweating, getting fish down my cleavage (I don't know how either) when the dream takes a turn: a small German shepherd mutt enters the room.  It's Rusty, my grandfather's dog (both died in the 80s.)  Rusty was a small mutt of some kind, and didn't much like me.  However, he was wagging his tail and wanting attention.  So I dried my hands, and squatted down to pet him.  I wasn't surprised to see him, even though I knew he was long gone.


As I petted him, my dog Nittany (died in 2016) walked into the kitchen and we did our usual greeting ritual where she snaked over onto her back and I scratched her tummy. It's really hard to describe. Nittany was neither young or old- kinda in between.  She was glad to see me, and when she righted herself to her feet, she gave her standard big sneeze.

Nittany getting a tummy rub

There I was with Nittany and Rusty, when I saw another German Shepherd walk by.  I stood and walked into that room, and saw Sheba.  Sheba was one of the dogs from when I was growing up.  I think she died in 1979.  She moved slowly (hip dysplasia) and gave me a good sniffing while Nittany gave her a sniff as well.

Sheba in our backyard, mid 1970s.  Back where the swingset is there, later was the location

 of the burn barrel where I burned my girl stuff in 1983

This made me wonder- where was Sabre?  Sabre was my favorite dog growing up.  He died of cancer in August 1983, a week after I burned all my "girl stuff."  I went over to my mum, who was like she was when I was a teen.  The living room smelled of cigarette smoke, stale beer, and fish.  I asked her where Sabre was.  She said "he's about to die, so we locked him up."  She said this without her Scots accent (which was really weird.) I I asked where, and my dad yelled at me to get back to work, and the relative commented about how I was "good for nothing."  After some back and forth and threats, I was told that Sabre was down in the cellar locked up.  I went down the rickety wooden steps (which I think were original to the house) and Nittany followed me.

Now, this house was one of the oldest in Spring City, having been built in 1848 (there was a stone "plaque" on the outside of the third floor stating this.)  The basement was unfinished and not very big.  In the back of it was a white painted wooden door, through which was the "coal cellar." (You can see the door to the coal chute in the picture above, just under the porch.)  I unlocked the door, opened it, and out slowly walked Sabre.  However, he looked terrible.  This hair was stiff and matted, and his massive tail wagged slowly.  He and Nittany sniffed each other hello.  Sabre was so much bigger than Nittany.

Sabre.  I think this picture is late 70s.

I petted Sabre for a bit, and he nuzzled into my breasts.  He then looked at me with fogged over eyes and walked back into the coal cellar.  I left the door open, but I knew he wouldn't follow me back up the stairs.  This is where he lived now- waiting for the mercy of death.

I was so angry as I watched Sabre lay down on the cold stone floor.  I ran back upstairs, Nittany following, to confront my parents.

But that is where the dream ended.  I woke up feeling a mixture of deep anger and sorrow.

Nittany visits my dreams occasionally, usually to be petted, sniff me and lick my face.  However, it's been decades since I've seen Sabre and Sheba.  Rust showed up once a few years back before Nittany died.  Seeing them was bittersweet.  I knew they were long gone, but there they were.  It was as if seeing them was my "reward" for doing all that work.

I was very close to Sabre. He often saw me dressed as a girl back in the early 80s.  He didn't care.  Probably because, unlike my parents, I let him sleep on the couch.  His death (along with the end of my feminine dreams) really plummeted me into the deep depression from which I never recovered.

Still, I miss my puppies.  I'm glad Nittany still visits.  While Sabre and Sheba were my parents' dogs, Nittany was mine, and I loved her.

Nittany complaining about the humidity on a hot summer walk.