Midwife to Myself

Something has switched off (or perhaps on) in my brain lately. My dreams at night are so vivid and real that I have to touch my eyelids to see if my eyes are open or closed to know if I’m awake. My head is so spacey that I dream of movies I’ve recently seen and books I’ve read or am reading or previous dreams that I can’t quite distinguish from reality… It’s like the borders between my real life and imagined life are vapors of mist, and it’s all spinning out of my control. And, as if I’ve been possessed, I’m not the clenched little anal muffin of stress I usually am, needing so fiercely to be in control that I would bleed to death rather than let go of a knife in my hand.

I feel like I’m on the verge of something great, of becoming myself, of self-fulfilling my own prophecies that I could be great. (Great at what, I don’t yet know.) And unlike past breakthroughs/breakdowns, I don’t feel a sense of impending doom and desperation and terror that if I open my head and crawl in, I might be eaten alive by monsters and never come out. This time I feel like the monsters would be faeries who would entice me to stay in their world and give up my mortal body and life.

Last week, I forgot to write my Cant column. Forgot. Completely. I don’t think I’ve really ever forgotten anything on a to-do list in my entire life. Several times in the week I thought, “Oh yeah, I need to do that,” and then decided to take a nap or doze on the couch or read my book instead. Sure, I’m stilling making to-do lists and running around like the proverbial headless chicken, but I just don’t really seem to sincerely CARE anymore. So I forgot my Cant column. So what? Who reads it anyway, other than myself and my husband and my future self when these are archived? What’s the point? But not in an angry or careless or frustrated questioning tone, but in an, easy come, easy go, it’s all good, it doesn’t really matter in the long run tone of voice.

It’s like my usually type-A personality, always have to be in control, strangling on my own need to do everything and be everything has been replaced with some laid back philosophical drowsy happy personality. And I’m not entirely sure it’s me. But I like it, I like who this is, I like being this way, and even though I know it’s probably either temporary or just another aspect of my own self, I hope to hold onto to it for a long time, but without clutching it by the throat and strangling it.

So I might be forgetting to write future columns, or flaking on my friends when we make plans, and I hope to be spending a lot of time dreaming.

Bear with me; I’m giving birth to myself.