Absolute Yes

Though often vivid, the dreams I have while sleeping usually do not make any sense. When I am in the dream itself, either as an observer or a participant, they seem completely normal; no one questions anything. I had a dream last night about my father and stepmother and it felt very real. And although a large portion of it seemed plausible, there were parts that were puzzling.

My sister, my cousin and I had gone to North Carolina, where my dad and stepmother lived for at least a couple decades and until they both passed away. They were both present and looked as healthy as they ever had. My dad had his beer belly, bird-thin legs, the most hair I remember him ever having, which wasn't much, and of course, his fishing hat. My stepmother was in her normal attire - floral t-shirt, loose khaki pants. Her glasses were set perfectly on her face and her hair hadn't yet grayed. 

My dad and sister were in one room sorting through things, and my stepmom, my cousin and I were in the dining room. Photo albums and papers were scattered across the table that I'm pretty sure they had forever. We flipped through the albums and they were full of various photos of family members, ranging from the two of them to photos with them and my sister and me to pictures of us with our cousins and so on. The faces of everyone didn't look any different than if we were looking at actual photos.

We were doing a purge of their belongings and sorting out what would go to whom. For some strange reason, without it ever being addressed, everyone knew their deaths were approaching. We didn't know when but knew it would be soon. We carried on as casually as we would have during any other visit.

At one point, my sister began packing a box of her things. My dad left to feed the neighbor's dog. Not because he had to, but because he loved animals. The dog was a Labrador Retriever and he and my dad had a special bond. I'm not sure where my cousin was at this time but my stepmom and I were still in the dining room. She left the room briefly and came back with something small and black but I don't recall exactly what it was. She asked what else I needed or wanted, and after I responded, she asked "have I given you both a piece of my heart?"

Back to reality for a minute - I don't remember a time when my stepmom wasn't in my life. She met my dad when we were very young. I was three or four years old, which made my sister five or six. She gave us as much as any mother would, and even more in some cases.

The dream continued with everyone leaving. I didn't see anyone go but I left on a bike with a box of things. I don't know who would travel from North Carolina to Indiana on a bicycle but perhaps in the dream they were much closer to each other. 

I rode for about twenty minutes and realized I hadn't given a hug to anyone and turned back. I was now on a different bike and the box was gone. Instead, I had a small wall shelf, less than 16x20 in size. There was a shelf on top, a chalkboard below and the bottom had a few hooks. I also had a photo of a man but I don't know who he was.

On my way back, I was nearly run off the road by someone driving a semi. He came around the corner but had to maneuver the large truck in an unusual way because someone had planted corn down the middle of the road. 

I cruised along for the next few minutes and saw my dad and stepmom walking. They were holding hands, as they often did, and enjoying the sun that hung high in a flawless blue sky. They were chatting and smiling as they searched for a place to eat lunch. I caught up to them and told them why I'd come back. The three of us continued walking and ultimately ended up back at their house.

When we got inside, I noticed an elderly man in a wheelchair. No one questioned his presence and he moved about the house freely. I saw a soup plate on a small table full of chicken noodle soup. Unsure of how long it had been there, I carried it to the kitchen as broth spilled over the sides.

My dad was in the kitchen tearing bread for his homemade stuffing and we were all working to prepare a Thanksgiving meal. 

That was the end of the dream.

My stepmom died in April of this year, on the one year anniversary of my dad's death. During a few conversations with our stepbrother, we learned she left a few things for us. We drove to North Carolina in June to pick them up. One of the items was a letter she'd written to us. At the end she wrote "and if you ever need to talk, I'll be listening ... always."

In response to her question in the dream, it is an absolute yes. She had given us each a piece of her heart.

Photo by Drahomír Posteby-Mach on Unsplash

Learning What You Were Never Taught

For over a year I've been in therapy and have had sessions weekly, with the exception of a few weeks. The first therapist I started with recently took a leave of absence and will not return until after the first of year. I was able to find another for the interim, or longer if I choose. Oftentimes, I know people have a hard time finding a therapist that is a good fit for them, and maybe I'm a little naive or too willing to settle, but I've found that they are both good therapists for me for different reasons. I've even felt guilty that some people have struggled and moved from person to person trying to find the right one for them and I just settled in so easily.

One topic that comes up in nearly every session with my new therapist - and was often discussed with my first therapist - is the importance of self-care. My definition of self-care before therapy was showering regularly, eating regularly, getting enough sleep. I was immediately told that is hygiene and self-maintenance, not self-care. Self-care was defined by each of my therapists as taking time for myself, on a schedule, with consistency and the intention to do something that brings me joy. Spending money wasn't a requirement. Traveling to an extravagant location wasn't necessary. In fact, many acts of self-care can be done at home for no cost at all. People who aren't me and who are good at this practice already know this but I was never taught. 

I never sat down with my mom to do my makeup, paint my fingernails or play hair salon. I was never told to wear what made me feel good, or do something nice for myself just because. I was never told sitting with my feelings was okay, or to journal about them. I wasn't taught how to share them and express them in a healthy way. I was never told being upset or sad or angry was okay, and I wasn't taught to take time out for myself. 

I remember even as a young child being told what I'd picked out to wear wasn't okay. I picked out things that didn't match. They were either different patterns, or colors that weren't complementary. One thing would be too big, another too small. I was too young to understand why it even mattered, and I still don't know why it did. 

I remember my grandmother taking me shopping before I started fourth grade and she said I could pick out one outfit. I found a small skirt and matching t-shirt (I finally learned how to match). The skirt was multi-colored with fluorescents and the shirt was white with a picture of a lady at the beach, I think, and it was accented with the same bright colors as the skirt. She told me I wasn't allowed to get it. 

I don't care what anyone wears, and I wear what I think is comfortable. I think being able to express yourself through fashion, no matter what you choose, is important. And long after I was able to choose appropriate clothing, I was told what I chose wasn't okay. It didn't matter how I felt in it. It didn't matter how much I liked it. Expressing myself in this way was not okay. I was never shown other ways to express myself, and I certainly wasn't encouraged to do so.

None of this matters now but my takeaway from these experiences is that self-expression is not okay, whether it's by your clothes, sharing your emotions or taking time out for yourself. I'm 41 years old and still believe these things are not okay, and that if I'm sharing my feelings with someone or taking time for myself, I'm being bothersome and selfish. 

If self-care wasn't taught to me, if I can't define what it is and if I feel selfish and guilty any time I put myself as a priority, then how in the world am I supposed to do it? How can I implement self-care into my regular routine? How do I get past the discomfort of putting myself first, making myself unavailable to others? How do I come to believe it's okay and that I even deserve it?

Honestly...I still don't know. Over the past few weeks, I've been really intentional about scheduling self-care. My therapist and I agreed to take time for myself twice a week. Ideally, she'd like me to get in self-care time every day, but, you know, baby steps. I'm not downright refusing to do it. I'm even sure what is creating the resistance to do it. I just don't do it.

My husband and I agreed on a schedule where I'm out of the house, or unavailable if I'm at home, for a couple hours each of the two nights. A couple times, my plans have been disrupted by or canceled due to things out of my control. I made up for one of those nights and was able to purchase some things I need for a project I'm working on.

My first night out, I went to Panera Bread and had dinner alone. I took my laptop to do some reading. When I signed into their wi-fi network, I was told the time limit, due to Covid, was 90 minutes. I stayed about 70 minutes because I was done eating and had reached the end of a chapter. They weren't crowded, or even near it, and I probably could have stayed longer, but I try to follow the rules. 

When I left I went to a nearby bookstore to just browse, but let me be real - if I'm in a bookstore, I'm leaving with something. As soon as I entered, the employee told me they would be closing in thirty minutes. Neither of these was too terrible, but now my self-care had a time limit, and I became a bit frustrated. I walked out with a zodiac candle - Scorpio - and a boxed set of Friends-themed body lotion, body wash and bubble bath.

My therapist was pleased to hear both of these and asked how my bubble bath was. I confessed all of it was still in the box, but said I'd try the following week. Thursday arrived and it was time for the bubble bath. I undressed, put on a robe and applied a clay mask. While the mask set, I grabbed a fresh clean towel, a towel for the floor beside the tub, my bubble bath, my music, my incense and my candle. And then I noticed the toilet needed some attention. I began to fix that problem and then found myself standing on a wet floor. I gathered some towels and dried it up. My frustration had already set in and I was ready to give up, but I had promised my therapist I would try.

I turned on the water to a temperature hotter than what I would shower in, but not so hot it was scalding. As the tub began to fill, I squeezed the bottle of bubble bath into the water and watched the suds form. It honestly looked amazing! I don't recall the last time I took a regular bath, let alone a bubble bath. I do remember my dad giving us bubble baths as kids and he always made us a bubble hat. 

Once the bathtub was full, I started my music, lit my incense and candle, grabbed a cool wet washcloth to wipe the mask off my face, disrobed and stepped into the warm water. I settled in quickly and laid my head back. My therapist told me to soak until the water cooled. That was the plan...

Five minutes later the water was no longer hot. It wasn't warm. It wasn't lukewarm. It was cold. I'm not a genius, but I'm sure the water should have stayed warmer for much longer. I drained the tub part way and turned the knob for hot water. After a few minutes of holding my hand under the faucet, and never feeling warm or hot water, I shut it off completely and let all of it drain. I was done. I immediately started crying, told myself over and over again I couldn't do anything and only an idiot would mess up running a hot bubble bath. I stopped my music, blew out the candle and put on my pajamas. I continued to cry and belittle myself and told myself that doing anything for self-care was pointless. I concluded that I must not be deserving or worth it if this was how it was going to go. My past attempts had been derailed and restricted by time and now this. I felt like a complete failure. 

I can usually find humor in situations like this but I wasn't able to laugh about it this time. I was overwhelmed. I was exhausted. I was defeated. 

These feelings of worthlessness, being a failure and undeserving are not uncommon for me. Belittling myself is a weekly thing at the very least. Trying to undo a habitual way of living, thinking and doing is more than difficult, and there is nothing easy about learning to do something you were never taught.