Nightly Misadventures of the Unconscious Mind

photography of trees covered with snow

I awoke in the mid-night from a nightmare monochrome world where all the color had been drained out, and my very femininity was stripped from me by force. When I finally awoke from this overwhelming level of fright, I found myself gasping for air, then suddenly realizing this had been my emotional reality for decades. As I sat up recovering from this horrid nightmare, blood flow returned to my brain, and I found my bodily functions scrambling to keep me to returning to an unconscious state.

I find it quite difficult to relate the events of these surrealistic scenarios, as most of them defy explanation. All I can say is that the more I ran from my abusers to become more stunningly female each time, they always some how trapped me no matter where I went, after which forcing me back into some bland model of masculinity. Once again, I needed to start over in projecting an ever weakening beacon of hope towards the aim of once again freeing my true self.

Alas, as I awoke, I saw my pale visage and worried that perhaps the damage was already done and I have crossed a bridge too far. For many years, I seemed forever stuck between two worlds, one of which was far from my own making. In light of my recent nightmares, I find it difficult to even regain full feeling in my extremities, giving me an added degree of difficulty in attempting to relate just how far gone I feel in the wake of these night terrors.

Perhaps these words project a sort of bitterness that can’t be overcome. It may seem I’m doomed to waste away in the throes of a perpetual melancholy. But, it’s unfair to cast judgment on the eventual outcome of my greatly deteriorated state; at the very least, I find it impossible to return to any sort of restful state before a lazy winter sun rises for just a brief time over the chilled Northern landscape. Despite the days supposedly growing longer, I see the sun for only a few hours up in the sky, only to watch it duck down below the horizon before shedding much light and heat upon the wanting souls already desperate for the coming of springtime. Alas, as this is written, more than two full cycles of the moon must pass before being able to realize the inevitable, yet elusive, promise of a world once again inviting rebirth and a sunnier outlook.

It can be extremely challenging to fill these forced dead spaces between the midnight and the dawn, especially for a mind given too much to consider in the way of plotting the way forward in an uncertain world. The spice of life has often come to me in the form of great uncertainties needing to be explored, then tamed into a much needed diluted form which could be readily broken down into salient options.

Unfortunately, as I reach the midpoint of my third decade perfecting my art of communication through prose, I feel unsure whether I am still living out my second act. At times I feel as if I’m instead in the midst of a sudden thrust into my third act. Are my adventures upon this spinning globe actually wrapping up? Is it now time for me to tie up loose plot threads and accept my retirement into the sunset? Or, perhaps more accurately, must I look forward to my bow into the obscurity of the darkest night?

Last night, I sat upon a porcelain throne, attempting to clear myself of as many impurities as I could through letting involuntary actions eject excess waste, both physically and mentally. When I finally arose from my cold, pearly seat, my legs had fallen nearly completely asleep, to the point of numbness that made standing nearly impossible. I found myself pacing around in the chill of the earliest vestiges of morning just to feel my legs function again; my lower limbs felt funny and unsure of their strength or utility. Still, I would press on, and in the meantime, relate the emotional turbulence which nearly made my tattered physical state completely fail to function.

If this truly my third act, I fear it came too soon for me to fully appreciate the trials and tribulations that brought me here. I’m much too young to see what was a mixed bag of fortunes be tied up in just a few flips of the calendar with no hope of realizing my dream of becoming my best self. Perhaps, my vision has been clouded for too long with pessimism to keep me from realizing the climax of my life story perhaps hasn’t even yet arrived; yes, I certainly hold out hope that my third act hasn’t even yet begun. When it does, I long to share it with the few blood relatives I even care to relate with at this point, those that were brought into this world with the intent of a nobler purpose than it seemed I will ever be ready to fulfill.

At the very least, I’ve found the purest form of love in my darkest hours; yet, I still feel unfulfilled, despite materially having all I could ever need. I still long for some sort of realization of my talents to be recognized on a greater scale; this is not so much for my own ego to be satiated, but to feel I accomplished what I was actually borne into this earth to accomplish. Often, I fear that these journal entries are all I have to look forward to, which leaves me feeling even more wanting. Still, recently I’ve come to focusing on the possibility that these quiet, reflective days are simply the prologue of my second act, even if they feel like the opening to a third. Indeed, a potential of a reboot of this life still remains possible whenever my physical limitations ease up just enough to give me hope for a new revival.

Of course, all our days are numbered, and we can never predict the exact day on which we will draw our final breath. Whether this is truly my final act to leave my mark upon the events of human history, I must treat each moment as if it is so. I press on, hoping that these days are leading up to a second climax before a much more glorious wrap-up. Regardless of when my own time is to come, I must continue to let the spirits flow and the inevitable pouring of the sweet wine of thoughtful prose to carry me along.

As I awake from the throes of a recurring nightmare, which promises nothing but a return to my fears each passing night, I realize now that all I need to overcome these nightly misadventures is a redefined purpose. It seems my greatest task now is to use these moments of weakness to dig deeper for a new strength, wielding my pen to strike at the heart of my demons, and lay them bare. These words I write have given me a chance to triumph and record these little victories, knowing full well the inevitability of the unknown future day I do truly find myself choked by the blissfully ignorant passage of Time.

Amelia Desertsong is a former content marketing specialist turned essayist and creative nonfiction author. She writes articles on many niche hobbies and obscure curiosities, pretty much whatever tickles her fancy.
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