Last night’s dreams were pretty weird. I think I dreamt about every regret in my life. Yes, her included.
I usually enjoy my dreams. Often enough they are like big Hollywood productions. There are exciting storylines, fantastic special effects, surprising twists. It is like watching a movie and being in it at the same time.
But last night’s fare was more of an art house cinema: dark and no happy end in sight. Which is a good reminder that although I am as “over” her as one can be, my underlying problems are still hanging over me like a depressing sword of Damocles. For so long the pain over our breakup hung over Yours Truly’s eyes like a veil of pain and sorrow and obscured the view behind it. Now that this veil has been lifted, the giant snowball of problems accumulated over the last two decades is in plain view: daunting, looming, casting a shadow over everything in my life. Why did I not seek help earlier? Why did I not go see a therapist a year and a half ago when I have originally asked for a referral? Why did I not do it over ten years ago when I was initially diagnosed with ADHD and was strongly encouraged to speak to a professional about my depression issues?
Few days ago, I was chatting with my improv friends. The conversation came to a topic of age (because as it turns out, one in our midst was somewhat of an overachiever and has just completed his post-doc at the tender age of 27). So the psychology grad in the group has mentioned her view of mid-twenties as a time of self-discovery, when one goes down the dark path inside oneself and looks at the dark and horrible figure within, points at it, and asks the eternal question: “Who are you?”. (She may or may not have had a few beers by the time I joined the party. I had a good reason to be late – I was having a slight anxiety attack.) In any case, it seems I’m a decade late to that existential internal trip as well.