I seldom afford myself the opportunity to dream anymore. When my speech quickens and the words tumble out of my mouth in spurts punctuated by smiles and giggles, I halt before anything else can fall off the tip of my tongue and instead say But I’m trying not to get too excited about it, anyways.
It shouldn’t be that big of a deal.
It was just a fluke, some crazy mistake.
I know, I can’t believe it either.
I worry about what this premature mortem has done to my spirits. I tell myself it’s better to be careful than to be crestfallen, to plan for the worst than to let myself imagine the best.
What if it did work out?
I spent much of my childhood held by a daydream. My imagination followed me from my youth and through my adolescence, before making an Irish exit in my early 20s so clandestine I can hardly pinpoint her departure. I used to relish the quiet moments— the ones where my imagination had full reign. The backseat of my dad’s Volvo. Long showers in the upstairs bathroom. Train rides in the window seat and that sacred hour before bed, where I’d lay in a world of technicolor until dreams, the night kind, lulled my eyelids shut.
Tyler asks me if I’m okay in the backseat since the top of her vintage car is down and the wind whacks against my eardrums. She looks at me in her wing mirror, but my brain has taken me past her blind spot. I smile and tell her I’m just resting.
When I was 19, I had my first panic attack. My daydreams, once whimsical and soft, turned to waking nightmares. I grew to fear the prowess of my own mind so I filled all the quiet moments instead. Podcasts, Facetime calls, Hinge swiping, Instagram scrolling, and plans that sent me racing, always rushing, never thinking. I sprinted from my mind; she had turned from friend to foe. Sometimes, I could outpace her or lure her attention elsewhere. But more often than not, she greeted me at nighttime. I’d squeeze my eyes shut and tell myself it’s not real, it’s not real. My parents never believed in God but my brother told me There must be one. While I waited for the sun to rise, I found myself praying for something, anyone, anything, to guide me toward morning.
Since then, my mind has quieted. If I can find the courage in myself to sit still, even for just a moment’s time, it feels good. But I don’t dream the same anymore. I wonder if I ever will.
I think you will