I Am Jeep

I dreamt I was in my Jeep. 

I was pulling my horse trailer with my Jeep, but it was so heavy, such a load.  I was having such a difficult time moving, maneuvering on this busy street.  I was trying to stop on a hill, feeling like the place was Topeka, but the load kept pulling me backwards, back towards the other traffic.  I was going to hit other people, cause an accident, hurt others because I couldn’t control the load I was pulling.  I could feel their displeasure, hear their grumblings about me being out of control, a danger on the road.  I put my foot on the brake, until it was clear to the floor, but I kept sliding backwards.  I could feel my panic, that I couldn’t stop, that I was trying to, hard, but I couldn’t make the brake work like it was supposed to.  My Jeep was broken.  I looked around, in my blind spot, at the floor board, at the intersection ahead.  I pushed harder, like I was the Jeep, like my own physical force could make the difference.  It did, just a little, but the real luck was that the light changed, and I was able to move forward again and out of that intersection, up and leftwards even though I was in the right lane.  I was relieved that I was able to get the force going to pull that load out of danger, to keep moving forward even with the precarious weight rocking and tugging behind me.  I pulled up into a parking lot, to get off that street,needing a moment of emotional relief.  Then I was within the mall itself, moving slowly to dodge all the people and obstacles, biting my lip in nerves and consternation that I felt trapped by all the people and didn’t want to hit them, not sure how I ended up in here.  I couldn’t keep going forward because the way narrowed, blocked with irregular glass buildings, so I turned a hard left.  But the load behind me was unwieldy and it kept shifting sideways, trying to slide down the hill again, down the angled parking lot, as if on ice, and it was pulling the Jeep with sideways along with it.  A nice woman at the store helped me, sort of pushed the load back on track behind the Jeep so I could get it straightened out again.  She was looking at fabric, at lace for a little girl’s collar.  Her husband was with her, and they were joyful about their family, about their little girl.  He was interested in the way his wife wanted to pretty up the dress.  I told the woman I was sure I had just seen lace like what she wanted at a different store.  There hadn’t been much of it, maybe only a couple of pieces, but it looked so much like the design on the dress.  She called it red roses, but it was more of a leaf design with a tracing of vine and some of the leaves were embroidered with a bit of red.  We went to that other store, down the road, she followed me and I led, where the street was more level.  This fabric place was much larger, with fabric in rows high above one’s head rather than like a little stall in a mall shop, and bins of extras in between the aisles.  I felt like I worked in that shop, having brought them business because I think some of the other ladies overheard us and came to this same store.  But it wasn’t my store, and I didn’t work there, I just felt a small sense of responsibility and satisfaction in helping so many other people, even if by accident, even if in just a small way.  I think I left then, pulling out of the parking lot with my load of horse trailer.  Moving on down the road.

Quite Freudian.  No question about it.

I am dissociating to deal.  I have concluded this is a positive approach at this point in time.  I dissociate to provide a space for creating a persona who can afford to be compassionate to myself for allowing myself to be embroiled in such a destructive situation with a person who embodies all the worst misery of everyone I have ever known, and maybe some of the best, and to be compassionate for someone who is a living zombie due to childhood trauma unresolved and has adopted the predigested societal norm for men wherein if a man feels diminished and emasculated in this culture, there is always woman who can be squashed lower, treated even less humanely, to pour upon all of one’s hate and to project all of one’s flaws and angst in order to make oneself feel higher, better, to pass on the abuse.  I can build, in this dissociative space, upon this brain pattern of someone who survives and nurtures despite the fear, despite the inability to trust, despite the knowledge that she is being actively lied to.  I can choose compassion because to do otherwise is to self destruct.  And then, I can work at adding energy to that new person while allowing the old person to dissolve.

Insanity?  Yes.  Defense mechanism?  Survival mechanism.  I am aware of what I am doing and am choosing to place my energies there in order to survive.  Why?  Dunno.  Genes must survive.  Yes, we must exist. 

I do not buy into that theory of mind which purports how we are looking for someone to heal us.  That smacks deeply of codependance theory, that we expect some external source to fix us, that our goal oriented behavior is strictly to right the wrongs.  Far too directed a behavior to attribute to a baseline emotional state, that and the notion that we reenact previous abuse to take on the power role, perhaps it in order to try and understand it, when most likely it is rather  due to a pattern which is so ingrained into our mindset and emotional wiring that we go there as easily as sliding on ice.  Obsession, trauma, baseline dissociative states taking over where a genetic instinct of prewiring for survival, for bonding, for mother-child empathetic instinct as strong as any foal already primed to run within an hour of birth, became usurped by our motile, mobile, mutable brains.  Twisted by our aggressor, conqueror mind society.  Any pathway that critical is deeply wired.  Twisting to a breaking point, no release, no positive emotional stimulation, provides a pathway ripe for the pleasure seeking, co-opting behaviors of addiction.  No, when we bond, we are looking for others with whom our behavior patterns mesh to the point that it feels normal, that familiar and usual, conditioned response for good or ill.  Fitting into that role, that emotional state, that mental and emotional dance playing behind the scenes.  That we create an opportunity to heal each other is a great potentiality, but that requires both parties to be mindful of their wounds and actively working through them rather than acting them out.  I thought he was working through them.  Not in the least.  Not until he has managed to destroy everything.  I used to study Pele, my first Goddess. She who destroys yet also creates.  I do not feel he has left anything creative, no fresh and fertile soil in the making.  He blasted me with all the power of a gamma ray burst, left my hopes, my dreams, my personhood, irradiated, sterilized.  I must step out of everything and find a new planet, a new home, a new pattern.  I who I was am no more.

Too bad.  I spent a lot of years learning to like that me.

Espir Anima.  Spirit animated.  Form unto the breath of living from the breath before life.  Into ape-kind we become, the pattern maker, that which attempts to find order amidst the chaos, creates chaos amidst the order.  I choose to go lower, and higher, and the paradox.  Synthesis mind. 

Ego, my dearest ego?  It was fun.  But the burden I bear is too great.  I cannot steer.  Yet, I have not let it go.  Others may help me right it.

I wonder about the rose lace.


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