After spilling^[1] my guts online, my dreams radically shifted.

While writing my fantasy epic Elementals (a working title), my dreams were whimsical and sometimes nightmarish. I rarely remembered them upon waking, but the occasional detail would stick with me in the early hours. I’d jot those fragments down in my Notes app on the off-chance an idea might bloom from those seeds. Some mornings, I lingered in that dreamy half-awake state, savoring the fleeting magic of my dreamscape.

That all stopped when Dad died. I would have nightmares revolving around his death or dying, and my first recurring one, but they were nothing like the ones I’d have before. The recurring nightmare really messed with my head. I’d never experienced anything like it. Even that one left me alone eventually, but my fantastical dreams never came back. Until I unburdened my soul. Releasing my poisonous resentment into the aether must’ve freed something in me.

I went to bed lighter, and my creative spirit finally felt safe enough to fill me once again.

I think it was my brain’s way of telling me it’s OK to shift gears. You don’t have to go a hundred miles an hour anymore. (There’s nobody left to save.) Loosen your grip, sweet pea, especially on those pesky negative emotions. I’ve kept so much bottled up inside^[2] that it’s cathartic to let go—to scream at the top of my lungs—even if my shouts are swept up and lost in the vast hubbub of the world wide web. My return to dreaming is a reward, of sorts, for letting go. I feel emotions so intensely that it’s exhausting just existing in this body. Escaping into one of my made-up worlds is a relief; I’d forgotten how much I needed that.

Speaking with the medical director of Florida PRN was humbling.

Here was a man who changed countless lives for the better, spending his free time listening to this naïve woman rambling about “making a difference” with her silly blog and memoir. I could tell this doctor sincerely cared about me, a stranger, from the way he subtly encouraged me to touch grass. I’m kidding, obviously. He’d never say it like that. My point is, I have never been told to seek therapy in a kinder way. Mom’s been begging me for years to get help processing my childhood and more recent grief, but I haven’t truly considered it. I did that day. (Yes, that means I’ve yet to actually take him up on his advice. But I will, Mom, I promise. Eventually!) I have nothing against therapy; I partook in the past and plan to do it again one day. For now, I don’t want any competing voices telling me how I ought to think about my trauma. That’s probably not the right way to do things, but it’s how I’ve chosen to move forward.

Each of us has a story and a voice, but not everyone gets the chance to explore theirs. Most people wake up early each morning to work for necessities, like keeping the roof above their heads, not to dig through the past and figure out who they truly are. I am lucky. This past year has given me the time and space to search the depths of my soul—to do the work that so many people never have the chance to consider.

For that, I am deeply grateful. Happy Thanksgiving to all!

[1] Specifically, in these posts — #1 and #2.

[2] OK, this comment likely needs some clarifying. It’s nearly impossible to keep anything inside of this head of mine—hence the effectiveness of this blog. I wasn’t always so public, believe it or not. (My first few posts were nerve-wracking.) But I have always spilled my guts to family members, tending to over-explain my thoughts and feelings. It’s best described as an intense need to be understood, and I felt very misunderstood during the probate process. It was hard for me not to set the record straight, which I had to waitwaitwait to do. Telling an oversharer to shut up or keep biting her tongue doesn’t bode well for her inner psyche.

Kinsey Keys

aspiring memoirist rummaging through my noggin, stubbornly clutching the past to my chest like it’s a newborn babe starved for mother's milk.

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