Dreams of Death and Dancing Every Day

I have always been a dreamer.

Self Portrait 2016

Being a dreamer has it’s advantages as an artist. With the constant loop of thoughts, images, visions and stories I have never run out of content to create. I am rarely bored and I have an overflowing well of ideas for future projects consistently swirling in my mind, all I need to do is reach out my fingers and pull one from the ether.

I can sit quietly anywhere and get lost in my thoughts. One of my favorite past times is sitting at a coffee shop or on a street corner and people watching. I make up people’s histories, names and personalities. I think of their wonderful relationships and drama. It reminds me that everyone has a complex and interesting life like I do.

It reminds me that I am not the center of the universe.

Sometimes I think about my own funeral and try to guess what people will say about me when I’m gone. How I’ve impacted people’s lives. I have to imagine a scenario where a room full of people would gather just to talk about me and everyone dies so it makes sense that my imagination would concoct a funeral. It’s rare that you know how you’ve changed someone’s life, usually it happens and people just keep going. People rarely stop to tell you when you’ve shifted something in them. I’ve had this daydream since I was very young.

I was a very fearful child.

I would imagine my mother or my sister dying and burst into tears. I would read books in the library and imagine every possible way the earth could end and what I would do if the time came. Where would I go? What would I say? Would I hide? Would I comfort?

I dreamed of fires, earthquakes, tornadoes, bombings and war, meteors and sudden black holes enveloping the world into is dark center, only emitting radiation. I dreamed of my own death thousands of times over. I was afraid of monsters in lakes, oceans and even pools. I made my peace with death before I was a teenager. I filled journals with thoughts on my own demise.

By the time I was 17 and taking drugs with older men, I thought one of them might kill me in a rage because I said no, or they caught me when I ran away. I almost welcomed the thought. Like many other times in my life, I knew I had to either die or do something different. I had no patience for stagnation and death was too boring. I figured when my time came it couldn’t be because I had settled for boredom or I was too lazy to try something new. It had to be because it was my time.

I couldn’t die just because I had given up.

To be honest, the first time I decided to keep trying, I didn’t think I would live past 20 years old. Imagine my surprise when I had my 30th birthday. It was my first birthday sober.

There’s been a few times I thought I would die. I thought my dad would kill me or my mom a few times growing up. He had a temper and being an addict myself, I understand him more as an adult.

When I started doing heroin I thought either one of the men raping me would kill me or I would overdose.

I thought the pain of getting clean would kill me. The need.

I thought I would die at the business end of my father’s gun in my hand after that. Or when I OD’d on painkillers. Or when I cut my wrists open. Or when I took a handful of Ativan after I had a panic attack and my ex held me on the ground by my wrists. I had so many moments where the decision to keep going had left my mind and all I wanted was escape. Darkness.

I thought an ex would end me during an argument after I had locked myself in his bathroom.

I thought that drug dealer was going to shoot me in the face when I kept yelling at him.

I thought that semi famous dick bag would come after me with a gun when I outed him as a creep during the #metoo movement on accident.

I thought I would die from a broken heart when my artistic partner left.

I came close after a drunk driver had rear ended me going 60 mph.

I thought I couldn’t endure a lot of pain. I thought I would die with a bottle in my hand or drugs in my veins. Never did I imagine that I would be coming up on 31 years, sober, and happy. Every day I love myself more.

I worked in the death industry for a while simply to be close to it. That is too big of a story to sum up. A summary would never do that experience justice.

I still dream. I dream bigger than I ever have in my life.

My dreams of fame and fortune are almost gone and I have other dreams that open my eyes. Dreams that are attainable.

I dreamt of being a year sober. I met that dream and open mouthed kissed it with my entire being.

I dream about a relationship where I don’t have to settle and the person in my dream wants me, as I am, with little to no hesitation (because a little hesitation can be healthy). I dream of unconditional love.

I dream of friendships that are mutual and growth focused. I no longer feel much desire to chase after an unbalanced friendship and instead I focus my energies on people who want the same thing.

I dream of vulnerability and honesty because nothing less will do.

I dreamt I would quit smoking cigarettes and I am one month and one day without the sticky tendrils of smoke clinging to the walls of my lungs.

I dream of dancing every day and although I have yet to exercise at all, I am inching towards it, one toe at a time.

I’ve noticed that my dreams of death are almost fully replaced by dreams of love.

I no longer wonder what people will say about me at my funeral. I focus more on doing things worth talking about.