Dreams and Reflections From the Kitchen Sink
I don’t know why, but lately I’ve been having some rather vivid dreams. Most of the time, I still don’t get into a deep enough sleep for that to occur; however, there have been a few times I have, and the results have been both good and bad.
Last night’s mental movie playhouse wasn’t the best. I woke up in a bit of a tizzy and could feel the warmth of my tears streaming down my face. I was aware enough to know the trigger for my crying spell this time. I had dreamed I was somewhere with a friend whom I’ve not seen since all this pandemic mess started. She was getting ready to leave, and she came to me, kissed my forehead, and said she’d see me later. That was all I could remember, but it was enough to stir the loneliness inside me. I’m sure someone is going to say, “But you’ve got your boys…” Somebody else will say I’m hardly reclusive and see people regularly at doctor appointments and during meetings. Those things aren’t the same as invested adult conversation with a special friend or companion though
I may have shared before that one of my favorite people came to visit me a few years ago, and as she sat at my kitchen table one morning having coffee, she reached across the table, put her hand on mine, and told me she was worried I was missing real human connection. You’re right. I cried. I cry over sappy commercials, so I know that’s no surprise. Her words and touch flipped my heart’s light switch. It was a reality check I didn’t want: I had to admit I was lonely. (Insert the Three Dog Night’s “One is the Loneliest Number” tune for background noise now.)
What happens with a lot of widowed folks is they pour themselves into their kids, their jobs, and/or special projects to run away from facing the obvious. Not all wids run for a long time. Some find companionship in a group or a person that helps them heal more quickly. Some though battle geography, past relationship woes, or a myriad of other struggles and find themselves trapped in a loneliness tank before they even realize what has happened. That’s what happened to me. When you add my phone catch and general personality quirks to the otherstuff, it isn’t rocket science why I feel like I do so much.
It is fairly obvious to anyone who’s been around me 1.7 minutes that my boys have been my driving force. I doubled-down and was determined to get them from Point A to Point B. To do that, I needed to keep us in the bubble in which they’d lived their whole lives. My kids have lived within thirty minutes of our current home all of their years, and for them, staying was the best choice. That meant my potential needs stayed back burner, but that’s part of parenting. Our situation lent itself to staying put even though I’m not from here (we had just moved to Michael’s hometown when he was killed) and have no close family nearby. We live in the country, so there’s no waving to the neighbor from the mailbox. There’s no walking the dog at the neighborhood park and seeing other #notmydog dog walkers. There’s the school drop-off and pick-up lane, but now that Cam is driving, that’s taken away, too.
I pay for therapy—well, I did pre-COVID—but some of my best critique and advice comes from people who know me best: people from my 3.5 bubble. About a year ago, one of those folks told me I needed to start pursuing Melinda heart fillers. He told me he didn’t care if it was a cross-stitch class with local blue-hairs, I needed something to give me a smile he’d only seen a couple times in five years. The problem is I have no clue about the 5-Ws and 1-H of that…that’s who, what, where, when, how, and why for those pondering my last statement, by the way…especially now that we are anti-social pandemicers. (Yes, I made up that word.)
Back to the dream and the tears, I find myself broken-hearted for the people living alone during this mess; the people isolated mentally, emotionally, and/or geographically; and the people trapped in the societal confines of being misunderstood and undervalued. The social gaps are becoming wider and wider, it seems, and I’m afraid the repercussions of that are going to be felt for years to come.
I thinking about ordering a hazmat suit and finding someone to hug. Hopefully, I won’t scare whoever my lucky victim might be…I might be abit clingy. I know I certainly hold this coffee cup pretty tightly while I’m sink-side.
..and it just dawned on me how close I am to being an empty-nester…I better get that second cup and have a little more reflection time before I wake the boys…oh, dear…
..until next time…
All Reflections from the Kitchen Sink posts are written by Melinda Campbell. Melinda is a retired educator who currently focuses her efforts on raising her two teenaged boys, advocating for individuals with special needs and against drunk driving, and serving in her local community. New Kitchen Sink Merchandise-Click Here?
