Last night I had a dream that left me unsettled. It was the dream I woke from this morning with no resolution.
The Dream:
I was 17 and 32 at the same time. My mom dropped me off at what I can only describe as a group home, and as she was leaving, she told the person she left me with that she would send the paperwork tomorrow. I spent a few days there, completely isolated from everyone and everything. It wasn't a good place.
When I was able to go outside for the first time, I was in the middle of a parking lot in a strip mall. My Volvo was sitting in the lot; I ran to it, opened the backdoor, and I found my phone. I picked it up to call my mom, but there were no contacts in it. I panicked because I don't have any phone numbers memorized anymore. I sat for a minute trying to recall my mom's phone number, and I finally did. I called her, she answered, and I asked her if she had relinquished her parental rights. She said she had. I burst into tears and begged her to figure out how to change it so she could come and get me. She said she wasn't sure she could because she had already submitted everything.
I hung up the phone and thought of all of the people I could call. I thought of my grandpa, a few friends, and then I knew that I was going to call my biological father, Lance. I went to dial, but I realized my phone screen was broken and covered in shards of glass. [My screen cracked in real life last night on the kitchen floor at Jake's grandparents.] I found something to go over the phone so I could use it without cutting my fingers. The phone was dialing, and my heart sank when I remembered that his name wasn't on my birth certificate - the space marked "father" on my birth certificate is blank, so I wasn't sure if he would actually have any legal clout to come and get me.
He answered the phone, and I couldn't speak. I was just crying. And I sat there in my car with my broken phone and no other numbers in my mind weeping until I woke up.
The Aftermath:
When I told Jake about it this morning, he thought it was connected to anxiety I might feel about who I belong to now that Grammy is dead. I think he's right.
I don't talk about it much, and it's certainly something I'm still in the middle of unpacking, but I have always struggled with a sense of belonging. And it's true that I've never questioned whether I belonged to Grammy because I've always just known that I was hers and she was mine. This life without her feels a bit bewildering. After she died, I kept my hand on her arm, and I slowly moved it up to her shoulder and neck, following her warmth before it left her completely. I needed to soak it all in. In the midst of all of my questions of belonging, I remind myself that my girls are mine, and I am theirs. That always makes me feel better in some ways. But there are still so many questions of belonging. Where do I belong in Oklahoma? Belonging in specific, close relationships. Belonging outside of Mormonism. Belonging when some of my Dearest Ones are so far away from me because I keep leaving them. Belonging is comfort, and I'm missing that right now.
The Dream:
I was 17 and 32 at the same time. My mom dropped me off at what I can only describe as a group home, and as she was leaving, she told the person she left me with that she would send the paperwork tomorrow. I spent a few days there, completely isolated from everyone and everything. It wasn't a good place.
When I was able to go outside for the first time, I was in the middle of a parking lot in a strip mall. My Volvo was sitting in the lot; I ran to it, opened the backdoor, and I found my phone. I picked it up to call my mom, but there were no contacts in it. I panicked because I don't have any phone numbers memorized anymore. I sat for a minute trying to recall my mom's phone number, and I finally did. I called her, she answered, and I asked her if she had relinquished her parental rights. She said she had. I burst into tears and begged her to figure out how to change it so she could come and get me. She said she wasn't sure she could because she had already submitted everything.
I hung up the phone and thought of all of the people I could call. I thought of my grandpa, a few friends, and then I knew that I was going to call my biological father, Lance. I went to dial, but I realized my phone screen was broken and covered in shards of glass. [My screen cracked in real life last night on the kitchen floor at Jake's grandparents.] I found something to go over the phone so I could use it without cutting my fingers. The phone was dialing, and my heart sank when I remembered that his name wasn't on my birth certificate - the space marked "father" on my birth certificate is blank, so I wasn't sure if he would actually have any legal clout to come and get me.
He answered the phone, and I couldn't speak. I was just crying. And I sat there in my car with my broken phone and no other numbers in my mind weeping until I woke up.
The Aftermath:
When I told Jake about it this morning, he thought it was connected to anxiety I might feel about who I belong to now that Grammy is dead. I think he's right.
I don't talk about it much, and it's certainly something I'm still in the middle of unpacking, but I have always struggled with a sense of belonging. And it's true that I've never questioned whether I belonged to Grammy because I've always just known that I was hers and she was mine. This life without her feels a bit bewildering. After she died, I kept my hand on her arm, and I slowly moved it up to her shoulder and neck, following her warmth before it left her completely. I needed to soak it all in. In the midst of all of my questions of belonging, I remind myself that my girls are mine, and I am theirs. That always makes me feel better in some ways. But there are still so many questions of belonging. Where do I belong in Oklahoma? Belonging in specific, close relationships. Belonging outside of Mormonism. Belonging when some of my Dearest Ones are so far away from me because I keep leaving them. Belonging is comfort, and I'm missing that right now.
