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Last night I had a dream I was being chased by the mafia. I, or we, in the dream, whoever we were, had outsmarted them, or so we thought.

I saw my friend walk into a dark bar. A dark outline of black coats told my brain to run. Running towards the staircase I was ensnared by a James Gandolfini looking guy with a smug smile on his face. A smile that said “You’re not getting away.”*

I knew I was going to die. Later in this dream I discover that rather than dying I became the sexual partner to a guy that looked like Joe Pesci. I know. It’s a dream. Dreams can get weird.

Every time he would get up to go to the bathroom, or go get a coffee, I would look at the window, or the door, and think “I could run”, but I didn’t. It was like I knew I had the option, but I chose at this point not to take it.

Sometimes I lie in bed in the morning after intense dreams and investigate my subconscious. I get up quickly, feed the cats, and slide my legs back under the covers, pull out my laptop and write as quickly as possible before my memories evaporate. 

What came to me was the word prisoner. Feeling trapped has started to creep back into my life. Feeling trapped by money, by contracts, by the unpredictable hearts of men. I flashed back to my childhood. My mother frightened me on a daily basis. Her moods and triggers caught me off guard. I made an unconscious decision to become an obedient prisoner to her demands. Disobeying my mother created frightening consequences.  Her look of absolute disgust and disdain was punishment enough to keep me inline. On a whim, she would forbid me to go to a summer party that I had looked forward to all year, simply because something minor I had done had displeased her. I look back now and think, why didn’t you walk to the party? It would have taken less than an hour to walk there, crossing a motorway, and you knew the way. Why didn’t you defy her and go? I don’t know how old I was...9, 10,11?

But I knew at that age, that the consequence of disobeying her would mean paying an even higher price than the deep disappointment of missing my favourite summer fair. She might realise where I had gone, storm in, publically humiliate me in a very angry diminishing voice, grab me by my hair in front of friends, or worse still, boys I fancied and drag me out, for all to see. And of course, the main attraction of this fair, was a friend of my brother, who was the boy to whom I had taken a shining, and who consumed all of the attention of my daydreams.

Bizarrely, my mum when out at a restaurant would expect us to be absolutely angelic. Our hair and dress were always perfect, and our manners to match. One time at a restaurant, we discovered strawberry bubblegum in our pizzas. Instead of waving over the waiter and demanding a new order of food and a total refund, my mother hushed us to keep quiet. So embarrassed was she by making a fuss, her solution was for us to go hungry. Even as a kid, I knew her behaviour was abnormal. My brother and sister and I were so conditioned to obey her, it never occurred to me to challenge her. I didn’t realise it then, but I took on the role of pleasing her no matter what. My younger sister seemed to be loved without condition, high grades, low grades, she was safe. My older brother I think disappointed her, but with me, it felt like she despised me. What pleased her was ballet. Everytime I won an award, it seemed to keep her happy. 

One time (I was about 6 years old) I went on stage to dance Sing a song of sixpence. My mum often made my costumes, and they were perfectly pressed. I walked on with my wicker basket to begin my dance, and I drew a blank. After dancing around for a little bit trying to make something up, I eventually gave up and walked off the stage! If I was a mother my response would have been to laugh at how sweet it was for this little child, to do her best and then come to the decision that it was a lost cause and walk off. How confident and chilled this kid was! Oh sweetie,I would have said,  don’t you worry, that’s completely normal, it happens to everyone at some point. Are you okay? Would you like a hug? What would you like to do now?

But, not my mother. No, my mother's response was to walk down the aisle of the auditorium flooded in anger at her apparent humiliation that I had been the creator of, smack me hard on the bum and drag me off tightly by my upper arm. As I write this, I realise that the dream I had last night is a wake up call. I’m flashing back to times past in order the heal the present.

On that note, it’s now 9:10am and I’m starting to feel hungry. I will treat myself to some fresh coffee and make some porridge. 

See you soon for the next misadventure…..