Start Living

I find myself missing my Mom more and more with each passing day. Little things set me off. Like today, I was watching Bones on ┬áthe computer, and I learned something interesting, and I turned to her to tell her, and she wasn’t there. And then I burst into tears and wrote a sobby Facebook status uipdate about how much I miss her.

We have her ashes. We want to scatter them in her rose garden, as we scattered Dad’s in the rest of the garden. Finding the right moment for this has been hard.

It’s all so different now, and there’s a dull ache in my chest that I’m sort of starting to get used to. It’s similar to the one I have for my Dad, but it’s strangely sharper. Maybe because her loss is more recent than his. Maybe it’s because despite everything, the fact that I’ve lost my Mother hurts like hell.

And yet… despite all this, I feel an odd sense of freedom. I’ve been out the past two weekends. I performed at a dance show in the first weekend of September, and did the DVD editing this past weekend. I worked on it through until Wednesday, every night. And I didn’t have to feel guilty that my sister and the rest of my family were being forced to look after Mom when they might have wanted to do other things, or take a break. It was actually nice to give them time to do stuff together, just the three of them.

Also, I think I’ve started to fall in love (insert happy giddy, nervous-wreck grin here). I can count on one hand the number of people I’ve been romantically interested in. My longest relationship lasted only 9 months and I broke it off (seven years ago) because between university and what I perceived as family obligations, I couldn’t make time for her, and I couldn’t be there for her when she needed me as her girlfriend. It hurt us both (her more), and I am very, very lucky that I can still count her amongst my friends. The last time I attempted a relationship was in 2008/early 2009, and with my Dad being depressed over his recent retirement and Mom’s mental health failing, I felt too guilty to pursue it. Which wasn’t fair to her either. Again, I’m very lucky that I can actually count her (and her wife) as two of my closest friends.

Since then though, I’ve doubted that I could actually feel romantic love any more. Or infatuation, or simple “OMG, I have a crush!” giddiness. I haven’t wanted to pursue romance. It’s got to the point where I’ve been wanting to be artificially inseminated, get pregnant and raise a child on my own because I didn’t think I would ever meet the right person and fall in love.

Not that I’m saying this girl is the right person, I don’t know that yet. I don’t even know if she’s interested in me, or if she could become interested, or even if she’s attracted to other women. Though she might be? Maybe? Possibly?

All I know is that at this point, this giddy “OMG, I have a crush!” feeling is so alien to me that it gives me such a huge sense of joy to know that I can feel it in the first place. All I know is that I want to protect her and love her and make sure no one ever hurts her again. And if, if, if I can only do that as a friend, you know what? So be it. I won’t push it and I’ll take it very, very slow (I’m good at that, I think?) and I’ll see what comes of it.

I’m starting to live.

It’s a nice feeling.


Just A Dream

I don’t usually remember my dreams. And when I do, all I recall are hazy snippets that don’t make sense, and are soon shrugged off and forgotten. I think I can remember five nights where I woke up, fully remembering all I dreamed: great tales of fantasy and adventure, of giant robots, space travel, dragons, mountain-climbing and huge tidal waves of red fish at my high school.

Hey, when all you read is fantasy and science-fiction, it rubs off on your subconscious, ok?

I love remembering my dreams. The stories my brain comes up without me rival anything I’ve ever read.

But last night I had a dream that has… not so much shaken me, as left me with a bizarre sense of longing. It wasn’t a nightmare, it wasn’t scary. It wasn’t filled with daring and adventure, and there were no fairies and dragons and great battles. It was completely mundane.

Most of it took place in my room, as I recall.

And I had a son. Noah. Just a day or two old.

The dream carried on, just going about the normalcy of taking care of an infant: feeding and bathing and changing nappies and keeping the cat away. People came to visit (oddly, the parents of the new child in my class are the ones I remember the most clearly). They wanted to hold him and made a huge fuss over him.

The baby had blonde, slightly reddish hair and big dark eyes. He was gorgeous.

And then one minute I was in my dream-bed with my dream-baby, and the next I was awake, in an identical bed, sans baby, and the reality that it had all been just a wonderful dream fell around me like a tower of blocks.

I expected to forget it, as often happens. I can hold a dream for moments after I wake but the more I try to remember details, the more it slips away.

But not this time.

I remember that baby, and I want that baby even though I know fully that he was something my subconscious concocted.

The whole day this dream has bugged me. The broodiness that never really goes away these days is back with a vengence.

The funny thing is, though I’ve always wanted a daughter, I now know exactly how much I would love a son.

And one day, hopefully soon, I will have a baby. And if it’s a boy, I have a name that goes really well with “William” for a middle name (after my Dad).


Until then, I will sit and be the Scary Broody Single Lesbian ™, and wait for the time to be right.

Until then, it’s just a dream.