A dream of high school and our defiance there. Standing up to a teacher who abuses his power to intimidate. But not us. Not in this dream. We stand up to him and call him a name. Then we wake up seeing his face, him looking at us in wonder that we have done such a brazen thing. But we wake up with adrenalin and dread. Now what will happen? What will he do now that we have dared to speak up? Will he be like our father? Will he be like Michael? What will we suffer now that we have climbed out on that limb? What will we endure now that we have walked out on that pier? Our morning is filled with heart racing and a trembling in our guts. We want to seize a black crayon and angrily tear marks of rage on paper. But will that be enough? How will we get this out of us?
We will be seeing Henry, the psychiatrist today. Will we be able to tell him about the dream? Will we be able to show him our pain, our hurt, our trembling? Or will we back down like we always did? Afraid, afraid, afraid. Oh how we wish we were brave. Oh how we wish it.
But our mantra is always there in the background. Be good. Don’t stand out. Don’t be noticed. Be passive. Behave. Do what you’re told.
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