I Woke Up

Last night I had a dream. A horrible dream that exposed a sore and pulsing wound, telling me that I am not good enough, and that I will die alone.

I woke up shaken. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a dream like that, one that reminds me of my child self sitting in a room questioning everything and the silent tears of a young man helplessly lost in his own despair.

I woke up sensitive to everything, especially those things that confirmed what those voices were saying. They say to me that I am not important, that I am not worthy, that I am not considered. I hear the voices of my parents in that chorus, as I am forced to sit in my room forgotten, waiting for those footsteps, afraid of every sound the old house settling would tease me with. I endured so much pain as a child and I try as a man to weather the storms that gather in my sleep.

I woke up wondering if dreams are really just fantasy or if they are a realm all of their own. How can such a fine mist tear at the granite of my will with such a ferocity? What ghosts see this man and believe they can tear at his soul without some recompense? What memories, instilled since I left the womb, can rip apart the beauty of what is?

I’m sure the demons wish to see this warrior laying surrendered to them, sobbing in the midst of despair, wondering about my will to live. Surely they have tried before, finding both success and failure in the undertaking. They know, after decades of both victory and defeat, which areas to probe to find the former. Yet I know their games too, and I know that sometimes the weakness they expose is the area I need to focus on the most. That’s the thing about demons, though masters at the attack, they are rarely well-schooled at deception. They attack straightaway, where the weakness is, never feigning to outflank the strongest parts of my will.

So I woke up, sword in hand, quivering in the attack yet strong in the counter. Throw a weak jab and I will hit you with a strong hook. Plunder weakly into range and find a barrage awaiting. Attack me if you must, but find the teeth bared of a mighty lion who has little desire to soften his bite.

That is what such dreams do. They first expose that pulsing wound and then the warrior who is expert at protecting it. I will not succumb to the gnashing teeth that lives in the hellfire of these memories. I will stand, and I will fight, with unmatched ferocity. Then, when I’ve beaten the demons and the battle is over, I will love them and forgive them as the wounds of battle heal and the blood washes from my soul.

Perhaps that is the great lesson of my life. The demons are strong but no match for a will tempered by their fire. Perhaps it is time they learned that lesson, too.