Forgotten Dreams

The bed sheets formed a labyrinth around Lexi’s legs, constricting her movement, as she gasped awake. She grasped at what little bit of reality she could reach, digging her nails into her thigh with enough strength to almost draw blood. The gesture was meant to be grounding, but did little to ease the frustration she felt, as the terrifyingly vivid experience she had just moments ago was already fleeting. She woke for the 37th night in a row with nothing but a faint recollection of the essence of her dreams. It felt as if each night she was abducted, taught the secrets of the universe, and wiped off her memory shortly before her return. She couldn’t abandon the thought that she was supposed to remember something. That somehow, her life hinged on understanding a journey she could not recall, and that absolutely devastated her ability to function during her waking hours.

Lexi slid open her bed side drawer to retrieve the little black book she used to detail her dreams. The pages were filled with barely legible scribbles written under moonlight, often moments after being thrust into consciousness against her will. It was a practice she learned from her mother who too grappled with reality, but ultimately lost the fight. This series of troubled nights was not the first, but it was the longest, and the journal offered solace in a time when no one else seemed to understand how critical an ephemeral memory was to Lexi understanding her very existence. Lexi remembered the trepidation her mother felt about seeking help, but she didn’t understand why until she had tried to verbalize her own tormenting experience to the people that were supposed to help her. It didn’t take long for her to realize if she wasn’t careful, she would end up committed to a psychiatric hospital, and the thought of that compelled her to go mute. The journal was the only outlet she trusted, and though it offered no advise, it was a loyal listener. One she didn’t fear would betray her.

She thumbed the pages of the book, staring out the window, working up the courage to open it. She couldn’t remember a single tangible event from her dreams. Often the things she wrote made no sense, but instead served as abstract impressions of the murky river in her mind. It wasn’t supposed to make sense. At least not to anyone but her. That’s why she felt so safe seeking console in her writing. She let the pen dictate its own movement, her hand operating solely as a fulcrum for it to rotate around.

A whisper brushes my neck, telling me to relax, and my hand registers a warm embrace. I feel a vortex twist around my heart as my body fades out of perception, and suddenly there is nothing but stars. In that moment I am the space between the stars. The void. The peace is only momentary though, because soon the stars begin exploding, and from them whole civilizations are born. No one knows why they are forced into such an empty existence, but they clench to survival, not hesitating to destroy anyone and anything that threatens their continuation. I can do nothing but watch. I am a mere canvas for the story they choose to illustrate. Yet as much as the horror appalls me, I cannot bear to look away. Holding this pen, I don’t know if I am still an onlooker or an actor, but waking up blind has taught me that I too am afraid to die.

She closed the book, stowed it back in its drawer, and surrendered to the sudden weight that drifted over her eye lids. It seemed mere moments had passed before rays of light pierced through the window and eradicated the shadows Lexi drifted amongst. She resisted the impending arrival of morning, soaking in the blissful space between consciousness and sleep. The final moments of sleep she got were transient, but she was grateful that insomnia released its dictatorship over her existence long enough for her to obtain even a few restful moments of peace.

Lexi muddled through her morning, finding enough composure to pour herself a cup of coffee, and take a seat at the table. Her leg trembled anxiously, as prickling needles creeped up her spine and her stomach contracted. She stared blankly at the spiral accents in the grain of the wood table. She couldn’t tell what was upsetting her gut. Maybe her irritation from the string of sleepless nights was exacerbated by caffeine. Maybe she was overwhelmed by the anticipation of the day that lay ahead of her. She didn’t know for sure, but an eerie sense told her it was something else.

A light thud from the foyer startled Lexi out of her trance, and she slid her chair back to see what had arrived in the mail. A large envelope lay scattered amongst a few other pieces of mail. Curiosity overpowered Lexi’s anxiety as she ripped open the envelope to find the will that was recently revised by the family lawyer. Her breath caught, and a sharp pain in her temple threatened to send her into a hysterical mess. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed sprawled on the floor barely catching breaths in between sobs. The room she was is no longer existed, as she stood by the bed harboring her mother’s lifeless body. She could feel nothing but the dull pulse of her own heart. Shock seemed to subdue her movements, but the taste of suppressed agony inside her was thundering to be felt. How could you abandon me like this? she thought. Beneath her anger was utter confusion. She knew her mother battled sever mental illness for years prior to her death a few months ago, but she couldn’t comprehend why her mother had ultimately given up. The will brought a flood gate of memories back, but ultimately reminded her that even her mother, who despite her state seemed to have endless strength and wisdom, was impermanent.

How much time had passed when Lexi finally became cognizant of the room she was in, was imperceptible. Her eyes skimmed the details of the will, pausing on the line she most dreaded seeing. “Inheritance of assets from the estate by the beneficiary is contingent upon passing a satisfactory mental exam by a licensed psychiatrist.” she read. The implications of this line sent her into a trance as she digested what it all meant. Her father passed a year prior, when the stress of caring for his wife’s mental disorders ultimately took a toll on his own health. When her mother passed, Lexi, now seventeen, was left in the care of her aunt. Lexi’s parents left her a sizable amount of money to help her support herself when she became an adult, but they left the discretion of whether or not Lexi was responsible enough to manage her own finances with her aunt. Years of watching her sister’s sanity deteriorate made Lexi’s aunt paranoid that her niece would suffer a similar fate, and so she amended the will to be contingent on proof of her sanity. It was a caring move, but one that petrified Lexi in the midst of her current struggles.

Lexi knew that the illusion of her psychosis was onset by severe sleep deprivation, and her only hope of release lied in understanding what her dreams were trying to tell her. “Why did you have to leave me mom?” she whispered to herself. “I miss your stories. I know they didn’t make sense to anyone else, but somehow, they made sense to me. They made me make sense. I miss you mom. I miss the way you could see me.” she continued quietly. Then, as if struck by lightning, she stumbled to her feet and ran upstairs to what used to be her mom’s room. What if mom kept a journal? What if that’s where the answer is? What if she knew all along? The thoughts raced through her mind like wild horses. The door resisted her attempt to open it, as if trying preserve the stillness of the room it protected. Lexi slammed her shoulder into it, nearly falling when it flew ajar. She rushed to the cabinet by the bed, and haphazardly started flinging drawers open, until her fingers enveloped the soft cover of her mother’s own little black book. Its pages had adopted a yellow tint and were brittle from humidity. Lexi released the breath she had been holding and began to read. Hours passed as she journeyed through her late mothers fragile subconscious until she came to the entry her mother wrote just a week before passing.

I used to think that my purpose was to survive. But that was an ignorant thought, because a life of survival is meaningless. My survival doesn’t help anyone. I am a burden. If survival is meaningless, I must not have purpose. My very existence is an act of selfishness.

Tears stained Lexi’s cheeks. She closed the book hastily, unable to keep going. “You weren’t meaningless to me…” she sobbed. “You were the only one who understood me…” She drowned in a sea of helplessness until the flood of emotions she felt had all said their peace, and once there were no emotions left to feel, she felt empty. She once again was the void. But this time, insight started to permeate her body. Her mother was blind to the important role she played in her daughter’s life. Lexi felt if she had been able to convey how impactful her mother’s ability to simply witness her reality was, her mother would still be here. If her mother only knew that her purpose was not to survive, but to live. That her life impacted someone so dearly. Perhaps then she would have had the strength to rediscover sanity. In that moment Lexi understood what her own dreams were trying to tell her, or better yet the essence of them. Life is meant to be lived for others. When we live for others, our life ceases to be a meaningless battle for survival, and becomes filled with purpose. Purpose is the fuel that keeps us alive.

***

Lexi pulled up to the psychiatric hospital. Each step she took to the front desk was deliberate. She paused to collect her thoughts and then said with conviction “I want to talk to the patients here. I want to hear their stories, the way my mother did for me.” The receptionist gawked at Lexi, too dumbfounded to respond. “I’m sorry miss, we can’t let you do that.” She finally replied. “Then I want to be admitted as a patient.” Lexi blurted. She had considered the implications of this decision the entire way to the hospital and decided that living a life of purpose was exceedingly more important to her than her inheritance.