Can my dreams come true also?

Everywhere I look I see or hear people saying never give up on your dreams.  It’s hard to believe mine will ever come true when there’s such a gap between them and my every-day reality, and when it can be so hard for me to meet my simple needs.

The debate in my head doesn’t help, either, because it’s usually won at the core of me by the message I’ve had since I was an infant.   You’re not allowed to have what you need.  Forget it, it’s never going to happen for you.  You’re not enough, you don’t deserve it.  Keep on dreaming if that makes you happy, but it’s not going to help you.  Don’ t think you can change this, you can’t.

Intellectually I know where the message comes from but my intellect is powerless to even touch my conviction at some level that other people’s dreams can come true, but not mine.   I know it doesn’t even make sense, why should I be singled out by the universe in this negative way?   It’s like a negative narcissism.  I’m the only one in the world whose dreams can’t come true.

That’s ridiculous.  I know it’s a contamination.  There are plenty of people around who get what they need, whether they deserve it or not. Maybe the problem is that I still believe I’ve got to work hard for it, that unless I do I’m not good enough.  That knowledge isn’t helping me today.

I woke up this morning to shame and humiliation that I had to borrow money to pay for a  cardiologist.  Even writing this is hard.  I know shame and humiliation are about fear of being punished – being scorned, laughed at, hated, ostractized.  Some small part of me felt pinned under that fear.  It still does.  My heart is jumping about all over the place.

The humiliation of poverty.  It’s crippling.  My car is old and rusty now.  I met an ex-client and his wife who invited me to dinner with an architect we both knew.  I arrived in my car, and parked behind their Mercedes outside the restaurant.  Their faces dropped.  After dinner, they hustled me out of the restaurant and then went back in, and emerged with the architect and his wife.  I hadn’t left yet.  They wouldn’t even look at me as I got into my car and pulled away.  I held onto my dignity as much as I could, but inside I felt crushed, dirty, worthless.

I can still feel it today.  And in my head is the voice of my pig parent what’s the matter with you, you think anybody reading this blog is going to be sympathetic?  They’re going to say this is boring, this woman’s a victim.

The only thing I know to do is to just shut my mind to that voice.  I know it comes from what I internalized when I was small that I was stupid, ugly, unlovable, worthless – and a blight on people’s lives. I know now that it was a lie then and it still is.  And maybe somebody reading this blog would laugh at me, but that wouldn’t be about me, it would be about them.  And there’s just as much possibility that somebody else will read it and think I know what she’s talking about because I’ve been there.

I know all this intellectually, but today I don’t really know it – not emotionally.  I wish – I hope – that somebody does read this and respond.  It feels like I’m writing to somebody and not just to myself… Well, I’m not going to give up.  I’m going to carry on working on my film script, my thriller novel, my bio.  One foot in front of the next.  One day at a time.  That’s about all I know how to do.  Doesn’t feel like enough.


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