I got sent to my room (a lot) when I was little.
I wouldn’t eat my lasagna (yuck!), I fought with my brother – always, I would (try to) explain my point-of-view about [something] and it came across as arguing.
Alone time when I was a kid was part punishment and part refuge. Being alone really wasn’t so bad. When toys, books, and other people weren’t allowed, I found ways to entertain myself.
Every kid does.
Imagination: Every kid’s friend. A part of a child’s life that parents tend to (choose to) forget about sometimes.
The stories I made up, the crazy things I did, the pretend situations I inserted myself or someone else into…
Even just staring at the wall became interesting, because I would see colors in the blank spaces, after focusing for a long time. I’m not (entirely) crazy. They’re called phosphenes.*
And I would question life and everything when I was (or felt) alone.
What if life is just a dream?
If life is a dream, whose dream is it?
What happens when they wake up? Or I wake up?
Or they die?
Do I disappear? Do I not exist? Would I die?
What would happen to my family?
Would we (I) start over?
Am I even really here?
I remember asking those questions – and following their trails – when I was 7, looking out the window of the car as we moved to Southern California from Oregon.
Moving didn’t feel entirely real. And I didn’t want it to be real.
This was before U2 said it: “You're kept awake dreaming someone else’s dream.”** This was way before Inception.***
Sometimes life doesn’t feel entirely real.
When someone dies. When someone gets diagnosed with [ ]. When your experience of something exceeds your expectations – good or bad. When you see someone hurting right in front of you and you are powerless to stop it.
Sometimes I would love to be able to insert myself into another life, or insert someone else’s into mine, or pick my life up and place it in a different setting or a different time.
Maybe those questions were my 7-year-old way of escaping my life (and the move).
But this was – is – my life.
I can’t wake up from it. I can’t have a do-over. I can’t hit the Backspace key.
I couldn’t when I was 7. I can’t now.
As unreal (or too real) as it feels at times, it’s my life.
And I am not a character in someone else’s dream.
*One definition: Experienced by “people who go for long periods without visual stimulation.”
**“Electrical Storm,” – U2
***Inception ©2010 – [Tangent: I thought Inception was terrible. It started off with what could have been an interesting premise, but then it disintegrated, turned into an action movie and forgot its own plot for a while. Couldn’t decide whether it was supposed to be a suspense thriller or action or something undefined. If it couldn’t decide what it was, how was I supposed to? It changed focus – I checked out.]
