Is this a Visitation Dream?

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Sometimes, when I am desperate to speak to my mother.

When I need advice, or am stuck on something I’ll ask her out loud—I tend to do this when I am alone— to come talk to me in my dreams, so I can consult with her.

 

Most recently, it was over what I should do with my mom’s house. The house I grew up in.

 

The question: “Mom. Should I rescue the house we grew up in from foreclosure?” — Then I waited later that night to dream.

 

How the “yes” and “no” of this will impact me:

 

  • If, “yes”, then that means I’ll have to take out a huge home loan to repair it, so I can rent it or sell it.

 

  • If, “no”, — then we lose it completely and have to pay back taxes on it or sue our dad.

 

In the dream, I was with my mom. Painting the walls of our childhood home. Loving the house and getting it ready for rental. For some reason we decided to paint the walls a chocolate brown, and after we painted it, we didn’t like the result. At the same time we both said, “Why don’t we try a gold overlay?” And we laughed because we had the same thought.

 

Then the dream morphed, into different scenarios, not related to the house. In one case, I was driving a truck along a cliff, and she was my co-pilot. I began to steer in the wrong direction—and she corrected my path.

Or if these are merely dreams?

Do any of you have experiences like these?

 

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The Grievers’ Despair

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No one knows it like we do.

The grievers.

Those who have lost.

Forced to rebuild and start over.

Expected to be alone.

In the sidelines.

To watch the happy home.

No longer ours.

Interlopers.

Weakness never an option.

Vulnerability a defect.

Happiness an illusion.

As children, we did not know despair.

That deep dark cave.

That feeling of emptiness and unimportance.

That apathy that exists when life is lost.

Despair.

We came to know later.

Forced to face our shadows.

Our demons.

Monsters from our past and present.

We used to slay dragons.

We used to curse demons.

But now we welcome them.

We are pain.

We are suffering.

We are despair.

Two roads split in the dark.

To the same place.

Happiness.

Despair.

One cannot exist without the other.

Right. Wrong. Way.

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Life seems to be a process of letting go. Over and over and over again– and over again. I am barely growing accustomed to not having my mom around. I still miss her so much. Long for her phone call. Long really for someone who really gives a fuck about me. I don’t mean to be crass, but it’s true. My mom. Moms in general. Really are, for the most part, the ones who really care about what happens to us on a daily basis.

So, in an attempt to be a good daughter, I have tried to keep the little family I have together. But to be crass again, they are assholes. Self-centered shits. Some therapists say, whatever you think of others, may be what you think of yourself. Well, that may be true, I am an asshole and a shit and sometimes a big murky pond of diarrhea, but you know what, I, at least try to care, or pretend to.

This past month has been yet another of separation. I see my therapist on a weekly basis. Sometimes, I think it’s good; other times I think it’s bad. But, I hope for the most part it’s good. Recently, in one of our sessions I came to the realization that my objective to keep the family together – in writer terms—has been in the “right-wrong-way”. At least that’s what we call it when our protagonist/hero, is trying to resolve their objective with proper intention and bad thinking coupled with some bad actions.

What have I been doing?

No. No. Not sleeping with another married man, but trying to salvage my relationship with my brother. How have I been accomplishing this you ask? Well. Emails, texts, phone calls. Reminders of our youth. Nostalgia. Words. Lots of them. Recently, all he has been able to say to me is, “the only thing we have in common is that we came from the same parents.”

OUCH. What a shit! Right?

So. I’ve resolved to do as he and my stepfather do and (yes, we don’t share the same father, but I guess he forgot that, I have no relationship with said biological dad either— another shit, right?), anyway, I have resolved NOT to give chase. I’ve resolved not to beg my object of affection, my dear brother, to be a part of my life, instead, I am releasing him while leaving the door open in case he wants to come through again. Life hurts, but begging is a form of self-flagellation I don’t need to participate in anymore.

I ‘m learning that family isn’t a blood relationship; it is a bond between two people or clan of people who want you in their lives. Who care about you. Who love you. This is all I want, and let me tell you, it’s liberating. Maybe, now, romantically I will call the right one in, now that I am no longer on the right, wrong way.

Mistress NO More!

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I’ve always known better. Heck , I was raised Catholic, not that that means much these days, but I did it— I had an affair with a married man. He is 12 years older than me and his wife is 7 years older than him, which technically means his wife could be my mother. I’ve seen pictures of her, she’s definitely older, but that’s neither here nor there, this is an affair.

How it started. Seven months after my mom passed, I was reunited with HIM in a production staff meeting. I was brought on to a show to help write a TV pilot. HE happened to be producing that pilot. I had worked with him previously on other films and we had the same boss for eight years, until I left the production company to pursue my own writing career. He hit on me then, and I refused him because he was MARRIED, which didn’t matter much to him anyway because he found another side-dish to play with, but we became friends and I became privy to all the women he dated on set.

Even then he said his marriage was over, that he and his wife stayed together for their son. His wife is an airline stewardess and they made the agreement for her to fly during the weekdays, if he would be home on the weekends with their son. A perfect space for infidelity.  He would spend 4-5 nights a week with me.

After we caught up, he confessed that he’s always been in love with me and felt this reunion to be serendipitous, “meant to be”, whatever—and so it began. He said that he was separated, intent on getting a divorce, once his son left to college.  But recently, I found out that this was not that case, that the divorce wasn’t even on the table, that I was in fact his mistress.

His weekday concubine.

He claimed that once his son left to college this year, and got the divorce finalized things would change. That he would be with me on weekends. That we would have a life together.  All the cliches.  We have not had one weekend in 10 months. It’s been three weeks since his kid left to Berkeley, and I’ve learned that he is currently a financial disaster and has had to borrow money from family and friends just to pay bills, a difficult task since he was accustomed to make over 500k a year.  Now, his wife pays the mortgage and he pays simple bills.  He says, now, without money he cannot get a divorce.  How convenient.

All this came as a surprise, because we would go out on elaborate dinners on one of his credit cards. Card he could be using to pay his house. He busts his ass working in a job that pays a fraction of his income to pay towards the house he and his wife built and apparently plans on keeping, AND  in my experience, if you really want out of a relationship, you get out. If they were really separated and getting a divorce, wouldn’t they logically sell the house, split the profits and move on?

Pain and humiliation finally set in, when I found out I had been duped.

Oh, he was skillful with his life.  He had me convinced he was separated, made it even seem like they had an open relationship and were merely waiting to get the son off to college.  That they slept in different rooms.  Didn’t have sex. How could he  if he spent 4-5 nights a week with me? How could a divorce not be in the making?

Deep down, I knew something was off, but I ignored my instincts.

Why?  Because I didn’t want to be alone.  And he also having lost his father years ago, could relate to my grief.  He knew how much I loved my mother.  He would hold me. Tell me he loves me. Endure my depressive states. Kiss me.  Hold my hand.  Let me cry. He made no judgements.  He also presented a good case for staying in the facade of the marriage he didn’t want to be in– for not divorcing immediately —for his son.  Given that my father figure has been anything but amazing to me, this got me, this lured me in.  I believed him.

But boy did it hurt when I found pictures of him with the wedding ring he claimed not to wear. When I found Thanksgiving pictures of him and his wife, her with a ring he claimed she didn’t wear. I confronted him and he said, “It’s for the kid.” — I still believed him.

Yeah. I know. Stupid. Naive.  Me.

I told myself it must be true, I mean, what kind of husband can get away from being home four to five nights a week? What husband can get away with spending tons of money on dinner on his mistress?

He claims he doesn’t have sex with his wife.  That he sleeps in a separate room, that that’s how it’s been for years. That her sex drive has diminished and he has no desire for her anyway—yeah, I don’t believe it either, I’m sure they have some sex. I asked him if he still loved her, even just a tiny bit. I begged him that if he did, to go back to her and leave me alone. To work it out, not for his son, but for him and his wife, after all they have built a life together, but he said there is no way it would ever work out, that he’s been emotionally and physically out of his marriage for over ten years and there’s no going back and divorce is imminent, but from what I see, not right now.

I realize none of this matters. I realize I was wrong. I sinned, even if he was “in the process” of divorce, he was not divorced.

I was weak.

I couldn’t bear being alone.

Grief without a partner is bad. Sometimes all you want is a body next to you to reassure you that you will be okay. Someone to hold you and love you, even if it means losing your self-respect and ignoring your morals and values. I didn’t want to go in as a mistress, in fact, every Monday, like clockwork I would tell him I didn’t think what we were doing was right,  that we should be together when the divorce is finalized, that it was not only affecting me, but his wife and his son.  That is was wrong.  But he convinced me otherwise.

I didn’t want to go through this ending, but that’s what happens when you look for signs from the afterlife.

I swore my mother would bring my husband to be. I prayed the sign would be a number, possibly something related to her birthdate. My mom was very keen on numbers and numerology. When I found out his son’s birthday was the same birthday as my mom’s, I was sure this was the sign. Especially when he confessed that he’s been in love with me since the moment he met me ten years ago. Yeah, I bought it.  I bought it all.

But my mother wouldn’t want this for me.

So, today, I took matters into my own hands, via text,  who needs a face-to-face these days with all our social media.

Maybe some of the fog of grief is lifting and I’m beginning to think again.

I basically texted him a message saying that I need to move on, that he has clearly chosen the life he wants to be in, and I can’t be half in anymore. That we can be friends someday, but not until I’m in love with someone else and I have my life back on track. I’m not really sure if we can be friends, but I didn’t want to make it ugly. This is already ugly enough. He was supposed to be with me on Sunday, per the plan,he didn’t even cancel and that was it for me, reality hit me like a ton of rocks— he’s really not getting a divorce.

He lied.

So, today I realized I can’t be his beck and call girl anymore. That maybe it’s time am alone.  Really, alone. I can’t be a mistress or a weekday concubine. I deserve better, so does his wife and kid. Please pray that I continue to be strong in my resolve.