Tuesday, August 30, 2011

WHEN IT RAINS IT POURS

Last night I dreamed I gave birth to an ugly, bloody baby and I was ashamed of it.  I didn't know it was there, inside my dream uterus.  Plus, it was probably born drunk because of its drowsy baby eyes, and I thought it was dead because it wouldn't make a sound.  Already I'm the horrible mother everyone said I would be, and my child was merely three minutes old.

I wrapped it in a shroud that quickly became soaked with blood, put it in the corner.  I tried to ignore it while I curled up on a heavy, green marble table and cried for what seemed like the majority of the dream, thinking and brewing and refusing to look at the corner my child silently occupied.  Visitors came to see me while I twisted on the table, and they would tell me jokes and I would laugh and they would ask for advice and I would give it, but they didn't know about my child and I couldn't forget it was there, and that I threw in the corner and I was so afraid to claim it as my own because it really was mine, so it must be fucked up.  

Because if they knew it was mine, they would judge me and tell me how terrible I am, and say things like, "your skewed version of how the world should be turned your ilk into monsters" and then the undead, bloody thing would scream and cry and never learn multiplication.  But that was imaginary dread, even in the dream.  Or they would laugh at my child and call it a clown and say things like "your spawn is a joke and the thought of you teaching your values and morals to a creature of your loins is absurd, nearly as absurd as the thought of a man wanting you to mother his child in the first place."  And they would laugh and so would I.

But honestly?  My values are so much better than theirs.  That's why I fucking have them in the first place.  Because I'm right.  I'm right, and I'm sick of gutless people telling me otherwise, even when it's disguised as something as nonchalant as "you're looking way too into this" or "why can't you just do XXX like Normal people."

Obviously this is a theme on my blog, reconciling my mind with other people's versions of Normal.  But my problem is not that people criticize me, because I don't give a fuck about that.  It affects me so greatly because sometimes I give trust and loyalty to people who try to push their own version of Normal in the first place, which means I push my version.

I might insist it's so people can share the things I love, but really, what if I have some sort of secret agenda to turn everyone into me?  I don't want people to be like me.  I want to be the only me there is.  Sometimes I'm even insulted when people say "you are so much alike" and then I meet that person like me and I think, "this person is nothing like me" and then I get angry on behalf of myself and that poor other person that was accused of sharing similarities with the likes of me.

But is it really so bad, not being the only one?  Wouldn't it be nice to share Not Normal things with others instead of demanding my undeniable uniqueness and individuality? 

So in my dream, I sat up on the marble table and wiped the tears from my face, because it was time to claim my Not Normal child.  And I breathed and walked over to the corner which had grown a bookshelf, and I pulled out the VHS clamshell that housed my dream child.  I cracked it open and there he was, in a bloody clamshell, and he looked just wonderful, and there had never been anything more wonderful in the history of the universe ever ever than me and this beautiful child, and all of the other things I had made in my life that were sitting on that bookshelf, (which was the one my mom and I made together) like my first painting called "a pony" and the first story I ever wrote and the first dress I ever sewed and the first blueprint I drew and the first egg drop experiment I designed and everything else, and I licked him clean and hugged him and laughed and he stretched and opened his eyes, and then...and then I opened mine, and I had to go to fucking work.

...

12 comments:

MoLinder said...

you're the most normal person i know.

and of course your child would be perfect coming out of a VHS clam shell.

JMH said...

Huh. There's really no uncertainty in your dream interpretation, is there? Maybe uncertainty is my thing.

nursemyra said...

I often dream I've left my kids at a party and gone home without them. Which is strange because I never go to parties even when I'm not dreaming. In fact, the only reason I had children was so I would have an excuse never to go to another party ever again

Rassles said...

MoL: I know.

JMH: There's a great deal of uncertainty, but it's kind of welcome. And I don't know that it's much of an interpretation as a reaction.

Nurse: See, that's because dreams are fucked up.

nuts4fruits said...

I saw this picture of a squirrel making out with a dinosaur and thought of you. squirrel and dinosaur

Jessica said...

i might be way off, but i read this and immediately thought "cool, she's gonna finish her novel."

daisyfae said...

if anyone knew what my life as a mother has really been, i'd have probably been arrested at various points along the way. but they are ok. in fact, i think i raised them the way i had to. there is nothing conventionally normal in most of it. but there's a whole fuck of a lot of love, and we all get that...

you would be an amazing mother. i have no doubt. your 'normal' is good. preach it from the rooftops...

and dreams are fucked up. stay away from the Nyquil.

Rassles said...

Nuts: That is just precious.

JT: I think you've hit it closer than everyone else - I think it's time I stop being embarrassed about writing and calling myself a writer who is working on a novel. I respect it when I hear it from people who I know can write - like YOU for example - but when I meet someone who says they're writing a novel I'm automatically skeptical and mistrustful of their abilities, and my first thought is, "I could probably write you under a fucking table, if writing worked that way" and that's no way to live life. That's a jealous, bullshit way to do things. That's because so many people used to react that way to me that I started mimic them without realizing it.

Daisy: So what you're saying is I need to just own the things that I create with unashamed pride. Good.

Formerly said...

I have the exact same dream every night, you and I are exactly alike.

Kono said...

You don't need me to tell you that you can write, you already know it, maybe that baby is your novel and the giving birth and accepting part is the hard part but really what do i know? i just a drug-addled fucking idjit ya know, so get to work and fuck what people think...

and like you i distrust anyone who tells me they're writing a book or in an MFA program, most people i know don't even know i fucking write anything, i don't feel the need to advertise, to them i'm just a fucking light bulb changer, some 26yr old told me about how she got a scholarship for poetry and how she wrote the most profound things at the age of 17 or some such shit, i wanted to pour gas on myself and light a cigarette, though i'm to polite, i wanted to tell her that there isn't a 17yr old alive writing anything fucking profound, they haven't lived enough, long story short, when people tell me about their poesy and their novel i immediately think: fucking wanker.

renalfailure said...

Of course the baby looked fine. Because you dreamed Tag Larkin was the father. That will be revealed in the director's cut of your dream.

Ellie said...

Can Nuts4fruits be any more cool?