Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Dreams
Dreams When I was in my 40s, I had a dream in which I found a well, deep in the dungeon of a castle. I dropped the bucket into the well and drew up multi-colored sparking jewels, which I carefully set out around the lip of the well.
Years passed and I began to act on that dream on a train between Boston and Philadelphia. I started polishing my first gem; a Victorian widow came to life at the tip of my pen. She was followed by two men, academics, one who taught physiology and one who taught literature, perfect foils for my lady detective. Slowly over the next few years their lives flowed out around me until I ended up with a whole novel.
I had plenty of time. I was in my mid 50s. Seven novels and one hundred short stories later some of my gems made it into print. When I stop dreaming, I stop writing. It was a long time before I realized that. I may notice, or delight in, or be frightened by a dream, but I pay no attention to a lack of them.
This year I was hit by a situational depression the likes of which I hope never to feel again. It was the first holiday season after my husband’s death. I spent five days including Christmas Eve in the ER for a series of shots to prevent rabies from an animal bite. When I was told there would be no hay shipment for the sheep I decided to let them starve rather than take on a task I had no will or energy to complete. The last straw was when my computer came down with a case of malware that left me writing with pen and paper. For three weeks I let deadlines slide by. I wrote nothing. I read nothing. I didn’t dream. I was rescued by a friend who pointed out to me that I sounded depressed. Then the hay fairy managed to solve the hay problem. My beloved computer is in the tech hospital and should come home in a couple of days. For Christmas I received enough gift cards from several people to buy an e-reader. I spent three days, eyes glued to the little screen absorbing two novels that had been on my wish list for some time. I wrote this sitting at my dining room table with a legal pad and a ball point pen while waiting for my computer to come home.
Last night I dreamed again.
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I can only hope my dreams prove to be so productive. They haven't yielded anything yet.
ReplyDeleteI had a bout of depression about five years ago that lasted for two years. It fell upon me after my mother's death around the time I turned 50. It was a hard, painful and sad experience. I had "issues."
ReplyDeleteA year and a half into the depression, a friend urged me to see a psychologist, and I did--for a few weeks and went on an antidepressant that I think took off the "edge" off the depression, but it wasn't a solution.
When the psychologist heard that my father was bipolar, I think he got big dollar signs in his head, thought I was really messed up. Wrong. His reaction made me laugh. His work might have helped me in my youth, but you don't survive 50 years with a bipolor if you aren't strong.
End of story. I sought help just as I was pulling out of the depression naturally. Stopped taking the antidepressant, and climbed out of the hole on my own.
You will too, KB. Be patient with yourself.
It's great that you can dream again and that your dreams help you and your writing so much. Being sad because of a loss is natural and even in our fast-paced culture, a person is given a year to get over a significant loss.
ReplyDeleteFor me the difficult part of grieving was having to perform a role in the workplace and with my family while my private grief went on just below the surface.
I hope for your success in recovering and I'm sure you will.
Welcome back. I look forward to reading material from your dreams that makes it way into your writing. Depression can hit anybody, luckily it is very treatable.
ReplyDeleteVery few of my dreams get written down, but I find the ones I remember are fascinating so maybe in some way they do find their way into my writing eventually. I know at least one did into a poem I like. I also sometimes wonder if different lives, different people from different times are somehow making their way into my subconscious while I'm sleeping.
ReplyDeleteGrieving is quite debilitating, especially around holidays. After my son's death, it was months before I could function well. The only thing that kept me going at that time was my other three kids, all teenagers. I don't know how well I did as a mother at that time, but at least I didn't totally abandon them
Another low point in my life (not counting when my parents and brother died) was when my husband of over 30 years had a mid-life crisis and left. I was devastated at the time, but held it together until the end of the school year. Then I had to seek help.
But we do go on although sometimes we don't know how we do it. It's been over 30 years since my son, John, died. I still write a memorial poem for him every year and he's never far from my mind.
My ex??? Well, it's been over 20 years, and I hold no hard feelings because I found I'm really happy being totally independent for the
first time in my life. I know it's different for you KB because of the closeness I feel you and your husband had. For me once I got over the betrayal and loss, I faced the fact that except for our kids and memories, we really had very little in common so that's why I'm so content now.
Depression is miserable and can strike us when we're already down, but fortunately it is treatable now. I hope your sheep and your dreams both start thriving again.
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