Suspended
May 5, 2019
I bought plane tickets on Thursday. In three months, I’ll be flying out to visit my best friend in Minneapolis for a long weekend. She and her husband are opening their home to me and another friend of ours. We’re going to explore this city they love so much, eat great food and spend time with people we enjoy. Thursday I bought plane tickets. And Thursday I broke down in an existential crisis.
It all started with Erin texting to ask what day I planned to fly in on. She was going to take off work on a Friday so we could spend another day together. I realized that if she’s going to take the day off, I should at least start looking at tickets. She’s got the day off, I’ve got the week off, we’ve all settled on a date, so I should do this. I should buy the tickets. I’m looking through airlines, finding the best itineraries, and I’m starting to get more and more panicked. I’ve been texting Erin, so she calls me. She is oblivious to the panic, but she talks me through the pros and cons of the flight I’ve found. She is a wonderful friend. It’s a great price, the times work out well, I have the money to buy the tickets now, they’re not moving between now and then, no the flight insurance isn’t actually worth it, yes I should buy them. So I buy the tickets.
That night, I call the other person traveling with us, on an unrelated matter. After we’ve talked through everything, I mention that I bought my tickets. I told him I was unsure. I just kept saying, “I don’t know” and finally he says, “Madison, what don’t you know? Are you not going to go?” Of course, I’m going! But why am I so unsure? So afraid?
Because three months is a ways away.
Because my body might decide I can’t go.
How sad is that?
Not sad that I might die, sad that I’m terrified of making plans three months in the future, terrified of dreaming about three months because part of me doesn’t believe I’ll live to make the trip. And even if I do live, part of me believes my body will prohibit the trip.
It’s not that I’m worried about the financial investment. If I’m dead, I won’t care about the $250 I paid for the tickets and I’m sure Delta will be happy to have the money regardless. No, I’m afraid to let myself hope and get excited about the trip because if my body doesn’t let me go I’ll be devastated. It won’t have been the first time it happened. I’m tired of looking forward to something and having it forcefully ripped from my desperate, clutching fingers. It doesn’t matter how tightly I hold, I’m never strong enough. And my fingers always betray me.
I’ve adopted this “if it happens, cool, if not, oh well” persona. I kind of shrug one shoulder and look carefree and unaffected, but inside I am most definitely not. I’m heartbroken and I’m ashamed. Heartbroken over the dreams that have shattered at my hospital bedside and ashamed that I’ve let them just lay there in pieces. For years.
I don’t know how to dream. I truly cannot remember. I’m treading water in life because swimming in any direction seems dangerous and at least this is safe. And I’d rather just be safe.
I don’t know if you understand. It’s not been just one dream, every. single. dream. I’ve had for my life have died as many times as I almost have. When I was growing up, there was a time I wanted to have three children. Doctors have now advised me against getting pregnant. There’s a high probability I would not survive. I dreamed that I would be married by now, but I’m so deeply insecure in relationships because of the very high cost loving me comes with, financially and emotionally. Over and over again, dream after dream, heartbreak after heartbreak, parts of me have died. I don’t know how to keep opening myself up to that kind of pain. Doesn’t it become self-inflicted after a certain point?
At what point does dreaming become foolish?
Honestly? I don’t know what the answer is. So now I’m afraid to get excited or even expect to make a trip three months in the future. Beyond that, I have nothing. No vision for my life. There’s nothing I hope to attain or achieve, no milestones I hope to make it to, no one I hope to be. Looking forward, it’s all just a cloudy haze. There’s not a light, no direction. I’ve always had a path before me. Now I’m just taking a step when I can see the ground beneath me, and even then it’s just a small shuffle in some direction. I’m never far from where I am. Illness keeps me suspended. In time, in life.
Where do I go from here? How do I live?
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