search & destroy

I have this recurring dream where I’m on a warpath. I smash, break, or tear up anything that’s around me. If I encounter someone I know — usually a family member or loved one – I scream at them until my throat hurts. I try to undermine their relationships. I tell them that I fucking hate them. I feel like a feral dog.

I’m not always sure what triggers the rampage, or if there was even a reason it started at all. I do know these dreams always end the same way: with a final declaration that there’s nothing anybody can do to change my mind. Then, I destroy myself.

Last night, it ended when I jumped into a body of water holding my dog, Lux, with the intention of drowning us both. As I gripped his tiny, furry body facing me underwater, I looked into his eyes, bulging open like the weird, chihuahua-mix he is, and utterly confused. In less than a second I knew drowning would be too painful for him; I knew he didn’t deserve to die. I swam up to the surface with him above my head and gasped for a breath of air. Then, I woke up.

If this was 10 years ago, I’d spend the morning looking up dream interpretations online and dissecting the symbolism I encountered while in my sleep state. What does it all mean? But because it’s been a decade – time in which I’ve gone to treatment and therapy, read a bunch of books, and dedicated a fuckton of energy to healing past trauma, developing healthier coping mechanisms, and ultimately, getting to know myself – I know there’s nothing the Internet can tell me that I don’t already know about how my unconscious mind operates when I let it run wild (quite literally).

Despite all my rage I am still if it fits, I sits. Image via Reddit.

I’ve always felt a bit like a wild animal. I hated being a child because I hate being told what to do. I ditched a lot of school when I was a teenager despite getting decent grades. I simply did not want to be there. I thought the adults around me were, for the most part, incompetent, and did not have my best interests in mind. (Which, looking back as a now-34-year-old with friends who started teaching because they wanted to make a difference and quickly burned out due to the bureaucracies of our public school system, was absolutely spot-on.) 

I felt restless and bored in the southwest Chicago suburbs. My only relief at the time would be when my dad would drive me downtown to drop me off at a concert at the Metro or Riviera Theatre. I also ran a zine with a few friends that we made on black-and-white Xerox machines and distributed using pseudonyms so we’d remain anonymous to the school board that eventually tried to shut us down. (Long story short: they failed.) 

I wrote a lot and read a lot, and would forge passes so I could excuse myself from classes I didn’t want to be in (usually gym) and work in the school’s journalism office on our literary magazine, or my own personal projects. I huffed some ether in the school bathroom.

I started smoking pot when I was 14 or 15, and I started drinking around the same time. Other than the few stretches of time where I’ve been in facilities or a foreign country where I didn’t want to risk getting Brokedown Palace-d, I’ve been smoking almost daily since then.

I’m 14 or 15 here. Peep Ty Pennington on the wall.

Now, this isn’t the part where I blame pot for all my problems. Relative to other drugs, including alcohol and prescription drugs, marijuana is one of the least harmful substances there is. I do believe the medicinal benefits greatly outweigh any negative effects the psychoactive compound in weed, THC, has. (This is all to say: LEGALIZE IT!) 

I will acknowledge that my frequent, consistent consumption of an array of cannabinoids has kept me in a haze for over two decades. And herein lies my allegory of the cage: 

Pot has served its purpose for me. It’s been a tool that’s helped me cope and survive in this cuckoo-bananas-shitshow of a world. At the same time, it’s kept me trapped.

I smoke because it “takes the edge off.” But, I’ve come to a place where my life no longer has any edges at all. Everything is blunted, blurred, and a bit dull. This isn’t to say I’m not happy, or that my life isn’t full of color and joy. I’m complacent, though. I feel stagnant. Like who I am now is not who I’m fully meant to be.

I’ve created a life for myself that gives me freedom, a word I often claim as my mantra. I’m a creative professional who freelances, meaning I choose my clients, my hours, and my work. I have financial freedom. I don’t own a house or a car. I’m not married, and I don’t have children. Some days I soak in the tub in the middle of the afternoon on a weekday and think, I really can do whatever I want right now, can’t I?

The cage I see myself in, currently, is one that has been self-imposed. It’s a cloud of fragrant, dusky smoke that keeps me grounded, yet not-fully-there. I do feel something bubbling up beneath the surface that’s ready to explode. Then I roll a joint, and let it simmer for another day.

I feel like a tiger pacing in a cage. I know this isn’t sustainable, and I need to set myself free. What’s the worst thing that can happen when I break down these walls?

Currently reading: The Highly Sensitive Person: How to Thrive When the World Overwhelms You by Elaine N. Aron, Ph. D.