When I was a little girl, I used to think that my life wasn't real. I liked to think that it was a dream. A very long dream. I thought that I would wake up at any given moment to my first house. I would wake up and see a thin strip of light intruding itself into my room and falling gracefully upon my grayish-blue carpet. My mom sitting next to me; her long dark hair practically touching my lips. She would be feeling my forehead. I would have a fever. She would pry me out carefully from my sheets and as she set my small feet down onto the warm ground, my legs would begin to shake. I would walk along with her, holding my sweaty hand tightly in hers to keep myself upright. She would direct me down our steep pink-carpeted staircase. I would shield my eyes from the reflection blasting back at me as we approached our small white kitchen. I would again be exposed to mom's entire collection of duck décor. She would sit me down at a country blue wooden chair and walk soundlessly to the fridge. She would scan the fridge and find the only thing I ever drink when I'm sick. A can of Sprite. Right away, I would snatch that sippy cup out of her hand and start chugging it down as though I'd been out in a desert for years.
But perhaps that's what my real life felt like – dry, wretched, intolerable.
And after many years of this fantasy, I realized something. This was my life. Not a dream. At first, I cried for I felt as though my life was a disappointment. I felt like a disappointment to everyone around me. Every mistake and hardship I faced felt like another knife piercing my virgin skin. I felt everything was my fault. But if I could just go back to that day and choose differently, I would have all the right answers. I wouldn't be the bad guy everyone makes me out to be. I thought about it constantly. But I knew I could never go back. No matter how much I tried to hurt myself to wake up. I suppose you're wondering why this even matters. And to be honest, I'm not sure it does. I'm not sure what matters – not even myself.