Buy Now Aeration
The warmth of God’s love carried me. Befitting the sadness, He or She understood the pain I was about to unleash and created the perfect scene, for at the very moment when darkness moved in to cover the cheerful glow of the sun, God allowed me a moment to grieve.
The light that once filled my heart was now shrouded. Innocence was lost and tears remained for what was taken from me. All my hope was buried with my dreams. She made me aware that I must face this unhappiness. She led me to the place to aerate the garden of my mind — loosening the soil to increase penetration of life-giving elements. I now uproot the source of my pain. Pulling at the tangled roots of my past, I fight to free myself from the stranglehold of the overgrowth of lies, deceit and denial.
With shallow breaths, I sat on the sofa squeezing a tapestry throw pillow. The cold, stiff leather squeaked as I adjusted in my seat. Shadows cast, despite the filtered sunlight that darkened the antique upholstered chairs and walls lined with bookshelves.
Laura Watson’s wavy, auburn hair cascades long curls down onto her shoulders. Uncanny to the décor of the office or her youthfulness, she dons a compassionate and caring face.
Well respected in her profession, I was aware of her accomplishments. In her books, she recommended and encouraged her patients into a more normal view of living. I deducted that Laura’s devotion to her work was the fuel that drove her to spend numerous hours a day here; listening, taking notes, offering advice and seeking solutions.
She sat across from me, Katarina LeBlanc. At thirty-two, I relive my childhood. But not as you would think. I’m being led there to revisit a time.
Clasping her hands together and leaning in, Laura asked, “Why don’t you describe the dream to me in detail?”
I hesitate while contemplating this initial visit. Exposed and feeling the fact that Laura has witnessed enough abuse to inspire her career in helping women refuse to live as prisoners of their past; to reach and live some semblance of a normal life.
Normal: I chuckle at the reference. For the most part, normal is a view. My normal is not the same as someone else’s idea of normalcy. It may even be a myth. Our lives have been altered forever, although for a time all the dysfunction felt very normal.
Laura observes closely as I search my heart and mind. With all my strength and common sense, I try to maintain control. While focusing on a sunbeam that walked up the arm of the chair, I notice by hour’s end, it has created a halo around Laura’s head.
A concentrated look form lines on Laura’s forehead as my gaze leaves her and fix on a corner of the ceiling. Maybe she thinks I’ve lost it?
I shake my head to break up the war of memories which often consume both my waking and sleeping hours. I stare back at the corner where she hovers.
My thoughts are static and crackle from the broken lines of communication of her voice in my head. I tried to relay the coding to Laura.
“We seem to share each other’s thoughts, but somehow, she knows and is trying to tell me something.”
“I remember the first time I heard her small tiny voice. It was ever so quiet, but as time passed she has became clearer and definitive, demanding to be heard.”
Quick scribbling of a pen and the slight rustle of pages quiet my sniffles. I lost my battle with an onslaught of tears.
With closed eyes and hung head, heavy thoughts battle for attention. Like a camera lens my pupils dart around as if to capture each memory in freeze-frame.
I gasp to breathe between words.
“I was seated at the vanity … in what seemed to be my old bedroom … staring in the mirror … I remember … I was unhappy there in that room … in that house … in my life … like a ticker tape … across the mirror… glimpses of my past… piercing.”
Connecting to the pain, I clutched my chest in an attempt to keep my heart in side and in one piece.
“No one thought is more prevalent … just space … emptiness … a deep void … a pit … gray … black and white … shadows … wooden … the floor and furniture all lack color, flavor … like food missing salt … bland and tasteless … there are cracks in the walls … pulling apart … ironic … we’re being torn apart … it hurts … like shin splints.”
Laura flipped a page on her notepad. Without opening my eyes, I swallowed hard and cocked my head to the side, temporarily removed from my trance.
“You were saying?” Laura nudged.
“In the mirror I see a little brown eyed girl … about nine or ten … shy and thin … her hair parted down the middle … braided on each side … like my hair was combed when I was, I smiled. … I hated that style … she’s wearing my favorite dress … I hear her voice. ‘You’ve come back!’… I turned around and she’s not there … I’m not afraid … I look back to the mirror and there she is… I said ‘hello’ … anticipation … In my head I hear, ‘I’ve been waiting’… my throat tightened … choking back a deep sadness … so sad … hard to speak.”
Sucking in a deep breath, I continued. “Her eyes seem to plead … ‘See me!’ A bead of sweat rolled down my face and blended into my tears.”
Wringing my trembling hands, I continued. “Staring at me… her eyes … she’s so sad… why is she so sad? But I feel her sadness…I asked her name… no answer… I see her tears… they run down her little caramel colored, heart shaped face… I wiped away my own… then, as quickly as she appeared… she turned away and vanished… the room went black.
“It was me. She was me.” The words ripped up my throat freeing pent up pain allowing a purging of uncontrollable sobbing.
“Was she?” Laura coaxed.
“Yes… I felt her. It had to be.”
“Why do you think she met you there?” Laura guided.
“I didn’t remember her. I forgot.”
I looked up and reached up to her in the corner of the ceiling. Laura pivoted in her chair and looked on.
“Is she here, Katarina?”
“Yes, I need her to forgive. She needed me to protect her.”
Her image disappears. The guilt was more than I could stand.
“But you are her. You went home. She led you there to reconnect and you did Katarina.”
Reality sucked me in like a vortex. I felt my face and the tears. I felt naked.
“This dream has ripped out both my heart and hers. She is the spirit of my youth.”
Recovering from my momentary weakness, I challenge the mystical message, “But I am confused because the dream was dark and gloomy and my memories of home are filled with color.”
“Maybe those dark memories were hidden and are now resurfacing as your dreams. You have to think about what she is trying to tell you,” Laura reasoned.
“I’m sorry. I can’t… I have to go. I, I’m sorry.” With a snatch of my handbag, I jumped up dropping the pillow to the floor. Walking away as fast as my legs would carry me, I avoided Laura’s attempt to stop me.
“Katarina, wait!”
I hear Laura’s call in the distance before I burst through the glass doors of the building getting hit in the face with the humidity synonymous with New Orleans. Running to my car, the thick air challenges my breathing, bringing me inches away from hyperventilation. I tremble from the voice that lingers in my head.
Once safe inside my car, I lock the door and start the engine. Turning the air up full blast, I angle the vent onto my face.
Reruns of my dreams play over and over in my head as I drive in the evening’s maze of traffic. Idling at a stoplight, I break away from the confusion to assess the damage to my make-up. My mask.
Pulling down the visor, expecting to see red and puffy eyes, the result of mascara filled tears. Instead I see the eyes of my little spirit.
The honking horn of an impatient driver jolts me back.
