Lost...

I dreamt that I was in between places.  I often dream that.  I oft have dreams having to travel between Fort Wayne where I know that I have a house and places where I have tried to go back to graduate school.  Sometimes, I am working but not working because I know that I am on disability.  Sometimes, I am staying at Becky's grandparents cabin, although it is not in the mountains but on the water, a massive lake I believe.

Usually, I am staying in a dorm in school, but I will spend much of the dream trying to find my room.  When I am in my room, a large part of the dream is being alone in a room for multiple people.  When I was in graduate school, getting my master's, I stayed in a dorm.  My roommate would have sex whilst I was in the room.  When I protested about this, she moved out, so I was left alone.  I suppose that's the basis of the solitude.

When I am in school, all I am doing is failing classes.  I fail and fail and fail again, because I keep trying.  But I am too weary to get to most of my classes.  And my cognitive dysfunction keeps me from being able to complete my assignments.  Being in school is depressing and distressing, since I am lost much of the time.

But, in this dream, the storyline was new.  And it was one of those dreams where the story evolved and shifted.

I had been staying in a motel, where it was furnished with my own things.  It was a cheap motel, all that I could afford.  I am not sure why I left, but when I came back from wherever I was, I discovered that my room had been rented out again, because I had been gone longer than a month and had not paid my rent.  I was devastated.

I threw myself upon the mercy of the motel manager, begging her to understand my not remembering to pay.  I told her that she could just debit my bank account each month if only I could have another chance.

I am not sure why I was begging.  Perhaps because it was the cheapest place to stay.  I know that my rent was $320 a month.

She took pity on me and agreed to rent to me again, but she said she had someplace different in mind.  So, she took me out back and started walking across to this neighborhood across from the motel.  I found the neighborhood confusing and was puzzled as to where she was leading me.  It turns out that she owned an apartment in one of the buildings and was going to rent it to me.

When she opened the door, I stared in wonder.
It was a very Myrtle place.

The ceilings were massively high and trimmed with intricate crown moldings.  There were handmade glass windows that flooded the apartment with light.  The door and opening casings were all rich mahogany wood.  It was furnished with all antiques.  And off the bedroom was a wonderful old balcony with wrought iron chairs and a table.  I simply couldn't believe it could be a place for me to live and for the same amount.

But then, when I asked about moving out all the books and personal belongings still there, the woman turned rather hostile and said she was no longer certain that I was the person to live there.  It was wretched of me, highly offensive, to ask to remove the belongings.  Instead, I was to fit myself into whatever drawer space was left and to use whatever closet place deemed appropriate.  I groveled my way back into her good graces and sighed with relief once she had gone.

But fitting yourself into an apartment that is already full of possessions leaves one feeling rather insignificant.  And, being ill, not working leaves one feeling rather useless.  And living in a motel leaves one feeling rather lost.

In thinking about all the things that happened in the dream (too much and too distressing to write about), I realized just how lost that I have been feeling myself.  I am not sure if it is akin to the grief over all that I have lost and am losing in my life, with how Sjogren's and dysautonomia are wreaking havoc on my body.  But what I feel is not about loss.  It is being lost in this life.

I have no real place in this world.  My family is not really a family that has much to do with each other.  I am not working.  I do not have a circle of friends here in Fort Wayne.  And, as with what happened a little while ago, when the PTSD got really difficult for me and I disappeared from the world, my online friends did not reach out to me by phone or email or letter.  I was left alone with my upsettedness until I could make my way back to Facebook.

The holidays add much to feeling lost.  I dread the questions:  "What are you doing for Thanksgiving?"  "Do you have plans for Christmas?"  When you are home day in and day out, holidays and weekends have no meaning for you.  One day is the same as the next.  When I speak the truth, that I have no plans, that I am not going anywhere or doing anything, there is usually a push for more information, arising from a certainty that I would not merely be doing nothing.  Sometimes, I am tempted to say that I am going hiking in the Himalayas or some other tall tale.  But I know that that would eventually lead me back to the same place.

I am nothing.
I am nobody.
I have no place in this world.

Perhaps what I am trying to say is that I feel lost to humanity, in more ways than I can count.  One of those ways is belonging some place.

And I am oft lost in my mind.  I am confused.  I am not certain of what day it is or what I am supposed to be doing.  I have lost my anchor.  When I find it, the realization of where I was is difficult to bear.  And I feel lost in a different way.

If I could, I would rather be working.  I would rather be earning money, especially since money, or the lack thereof, rules my life these days.  But I would rather have a place to go Monday through Friday, to have set parameters that guide my daily existence.  But what few understand, there is absolutely no way that I could work.

I do not mean the fatigue and being ill and such.  The physical would preclude me from working, for certain.  However, I mean the mental fortitude that I just do not have.  And the cognition.

"Oh, but you are still so smart!" I hear nearly every darn time I try to talk about the cognitive dysfunction I have.   And it is simply not the truth.  I can no longer understand parts of my own dissertation!  I struggle to understand when I am listening to something, such as a sermon.  I cannot listen to audio books or even short stories on the radio.  Trying to follow them is like trying to collect berries in a basket made from chicken wire.  The berries fall through the holes, no matter how hard I try to hold onto them.  Tossing new berries into the basket mean that berries I picked earlier are lost, for lack of a better word.

I only re-read books now.  I say that, but I do not believe that folk are listening to me or think about what that means to a lifelong voracious reader.  I have a series on my Kindle that is currently twelve books.  When I get to the end, I start right back over with the first book.  I only re-read because it is simply too distressing for me to be reading and realizing that I am not comprehending anything about the new story.

It is easier to try new things with television.  However, I still look up recaps or synopses of what I am watching to ensure that I comprehend it.  So, nothing really is new to me, given that I read those recaps before ever trying something new.  So, mostly I re-watch, too.  For example, right now, I am rewatching "The Brokenwood Mysteries", since the new fifth season is now available to stream.  I just started season three.  The new season is the fifth season.

I do not look my age, nor do I look ill.  Unless I am searching for a word, I do not sound like someone who is cognitively compromised.  But I am.

I am middle aged.
I am ill.
And I have a brain that is failing.

I am also lost.