the ragged sleeve of care

I used to have dreams, now I have nightmares.
I manage to awaken without memories of what I dreamt, but the sweat, the twisted sheets and the elevated heartbeat tell the tale.

I guess the tale could be  much more risque, given the symptoms, but trust me, this isn’t about that kind of thrashing about.

My nightmares, I think, are continuation of my constant anxiety level. I worry about how I’m working, raising the kids, affording all of this – just how we’re going to manage, and if we’re going to manage.

I honestly can’t see past this fall to pin my dreams on something more distant. I have no hopes, really, except for happy healthy kids, no visions of how that is supposed to come to pass.

Sometimes I think that is a failure of imagination – after all:  to do, one must first dream – but lately I’m glad that my limited creativity prevents me from spending even more time conjuring up worst case scenarios. I’m certainly glad my poor memory doesn’t let me know what happened in those moments just before I woke up, gasping.

I try to focus on the immediate goals and concentrate on getting from here to there, but maybe the problem is that I need to know where “there” is.


2 thoughts on “the ragged sleeve of care

  1. Hey, you can see as far as this Fall? I can’t see as far as lunchtime tomorrow. I can see what it will be like in two, four years – but no idea whatsoever on how we’ll get there. It’s all just a great, scary expanse of blank.


    • I HAVE to see through to this fall. My really big thing at work has to be done then, and living will recommence. I may be holding my breath till then.


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