Once out of every six months or so, I experience a stranger lying in bed with me.
This “stranger” isn’t some random guy that I picked up at the bar. He’s a very real, very solid figment of my imagination.
It happened again last week. I was sleeping on my stomach when I felt someone laying on top of me caressing my mid-section. This time around however, it felt more like a dream than it did real. Usually these dreams feel extremely real. Picture yourself lying awake in bed with your eyes closed, and you feel a stranger laying next to you touching you (I mean physically touching you as in real-life) who shouldn’t be there – who literally is not there at all.
But this time felt more dream-like. I can’t explain how or why, it just did. Perhaps I wasn’t as lucid as the other times? I don’t know.
It wasn’t sexual and it didn’t make me horny. I had a lucid dream last night where I grabbed the nearest man I could find so I can have my way with him – I know what those dreams feel like, and this wasn’t one of them.
It was pure love, pure tenderness, without any want or need. I felt undeniably loved on a scale that I never felt with anyone in real life. Only in my dreams…
And because it felt more like a dream, I was able to relax and enjoy it.
“This is what it feels like,” I thought to myself, “to be loved.”
I sunk in and soaked up as much of it as I could. I didn’t want to wake from it. And just as I have experienced in past dreams, love is inspiration and feeling like you can achieve anything.
A few days later, I went to Newport for a mini-vacation with a few friends. It turned out with me being the 7th wheel. All couples, and then there was me – always and forever, the odd one out. The ugly duck.
I’m not the type of person who care’s about this kind of stuff. I can hang in both worlds, single and couples alike, it don’t matter none to me. Although, while I find myself sitting alone, it’s the pity party from others that I don’t care for. If I don’t feel sorry for myself, why should they? I happen to like sitting alone. Writers are weird like that.
Anyway, I do however, suffer from a condition.
Before the trip, I was struggling with low-energy. I felt like I just didn’t have the energy (or money) for a weekend trip. I couldn’t get excited about it.
And the more I couldn’t get excited about it, the less energy I had for it.
I couldn’t get stimulated, you know what I mean? There was no challenge. Nothing to write home about.
It’s just that, I don’t know….What is it? What’s my problem? If the stranger in my bed accompanied me to Newport, I’d want to go – I’d be excited to go. You know what I mean?
There’s no love for Mel.
No, that’s not true…..my friends all love me. Well, most of them do anyway.
Maybe it’s just that there’s no inspiration for Mel? Maybe Mel is tired of drinking? And that’s what this trip was all about; drinking. I have to drink to replace true inspiration – true love. I have to drink to escape not feeling connected or understood by others. I hear cocaine works for that too…
The less connection I have with people, the more I want to drink. I was just kidding about the cocaine part, trust me (I’m way too cheap).
I’m tired of drinking. I’m tired of feeling like the only way I’ll have fun is if I’m drunk, or getting drunk, or have a beer in my hand at least. And it sucks that I’m tired of it. Other than writing, beer is the only thing that fills me with that special inspiring love that the stranger in my bed provides.
A freaking stranger in my bed that doesn’t even exist!
I hear my mother upstairs yelling about a pair of underwear she can’t find.
Mom – “Where are they? Who took them?”
She thinks everyone takes her stuff.
Minutes later I hear my dad shouting for me outside my bedroom door.
Dad – “Mel, you in there? Can I come in?”
Me – “Yeah.”
Dad – “Neh?”
Me – “Yeah.”
Dad – “Yeah?”
Me – “Yeah.”
He comes in and places an ice scraper on my desk.
Dad – “Here’s your ice scraper.”
Me – “What are you doing with my ice scraper?”
Dad – “It was in my car.”
Me – “Oh, okay. Hey can you tell mom that my underwear is missing too?”
Dad – “Okay.”
As he leaves my room, he shouts up the stairs to my mother, “hey Mel’s underwear is missing too!”
I went upstairs to find something to eat and I say to my mom, “all my underwear is missing. They’re all gone from my drawers. I have no drawers in my drawers.”
Mom – “Yours is missing too? Check the dryer, or the laundry pile in my bedroom.”
She was completely serious. My dad however, saw the humor.
Dad – “Maybe Fran (my brother), is wearing them by mistake.”
Me – “Yeah, he takes everything. MOM! I want to make chocolate milk!”
I scream this like the kitchen is on fire.
Mom – “You’re going to have to wait until tomorrow.”
Me – “Why? There’s milk here.”
Mom – “I don’t know how old it is. Don’t drink it!”
I give it a sniff, look at the date…
Me – “It seems fine to me.”
I fish for a glass in the cupboard as I hear my mom frantically getting up off her recliner shouting warnings at me.
Mom – “Don’t drink it it’s bad! I don’t know when I bought it. You’re going to get sick!”
She flew into the kitchen and grabbed the milk out of my hands before I poured it into my cup. I’m not joking or embellishing any of this, but she was looking at the expiration and making up dates that weren’t there.
Mom – “See, right there it says DO NOT SELL AFTER FEBRUARY FOURTH. Don’t drink it.”
Me – “It doesn’t say that, are you serious? It’s only January 27 and the expiration doesn’t say February fourth, it says January 30.”
She takes the carton of milk into the living room to fetch her reading glasses, sloshing its contents as she hobbled on her knee replacement.
She was moving really fast. She doesn’t even need a cane anymore.
Mom – “Okay, it says January 30, but it still smells bad.”
Me – “Really? It smelled okay to me.”
Mom – “Than taste it if you don’t believe me.”
She hands me the milk.
Me – “No way I’m not tasting it, you taste it.”
Mom – “My stomach’s already messed up, I’m not tasting it.”
My dad shouts at us from the living room – “I had some yesterday and it tasted fine.”
We ignore him.
Me – “If no one’s going to taste it, I’m pouring it down the sink.”
My mom watched as I tilted the contents of the milk into the sink. She hates wasting food – even expired food.
Mom – “No wait, don’t waste it. I’ll take a sip.”
Me – “I don’t want you getting sick.”
Mom – “No, let me taste it. Stop pouring it out.”
She gets a glass and pours out a sip. She tastes it.
Mom – “Well, it seems okay….”
Me – “Really? Here, let me taste.”
I grab her cup and take a sip.
Me – “It’s expired. It’s definitely expired.”
It was disgusting. How can she not taste how disgusting it was? After making all that fuss?!
And that’s what I did in the last 20 minutes of my life before coming down here to write about it.
I wasn’t going to write about it, but I’m pretty much laying everything out on the table tonight what with my stranger in the bed and all.
My life is filled with these episodes.
And in the meantime, my crazy aunt who my father claims as a dependent on his tax forms (along with her 40-year-old son), is ALWAYS lurking behind me. No matter where I am, she’s there wanting to be where I am. I’m making eggs in the morning? Yep, she’s there wanting to use the burner. I’m making some tea? She wants to wash dishes so I can’t reach the keurig.
And she talks incessantly. Whereas I reply in an even monotoned to everything she says “okay, sure, yes, thanks, okay, that’s good.”
And on and on she goes.
This isn’t funny. This is sad. I clearly have problems. Clearly!
“The entire world population can’t be insane, so it has to be me. It has to.” According to The Road Less Traveled, I’m a text book neurotic.
And the shitty thing is, until I can find someone who understands me – someone who understands all the shit I write about – I won’t have an anchor. I won’t have anything that holds me in place and says to me no, you’re not crazy, you’re not alone, and yes, you’re loved.
Okay, I’m going to end this post before I start having an irrational conversation with my rational brain.
“Please don’t involve me in this.”
I’m not! I just said I’m ending this post.
“You know you’re not the only one with these thoughts, right? You sound like a damn baby when you complain like this. Everyone wants to feel loved, not just you.”
Okay got it. Goodnight.
“Seriously, you have to stop transfixing. And besides, do you actually feel this way? Or are you just bored and feel like writing? Is not feeling loved or having a connection a serious problem for you?”
Yes, I think it is. I mean, I’m not doing it because I’m bored. I really think it’s an issue.
“Well, the more attention you bring to this “issue”, the more power you will give to it.”
Yes, I know….
“You’re not special Melanie. No matter how much you want to believe you are, you’re not. You’re not any more special or different than anyone else. That’s the true basis for your “issue”. You’re grappling with humility.”
I’m too tired to have you write out an explanation to that, so I’ll just have to take your word for it. This post is already too long as it is.
“Okay, get some sleep. Maybe we can write about it tomorrow. And what the hell was your last post about?”
I don’t know, I just felt like writing.