Dreaming As We Float

Call me egocentric, but you dream of me too–don't you? The actress that I am, demanding to be on every stage, even in your slumber. They say children grow to want everything they lacked in their sandbox days. The poor become workaholics or gambling addicts–counting pennies until their fingertips smell of copper. The tight-leashed become adrenaline seekers–swimming with great whites and inhaling the same color. And then there are people like me. The actors, the singers, the comedians, the performers. The children who grew to be spotlight hungry–craving the applause, the recognition, the attention.

I guess you made me this way.

How do I appear in your dreams? As you float motionless in your tank–breathless, yet, still alive–mind awake in your sleeping body. How old am I? Am I three years old–wearing my denim overalls paired with mom's three-inch pink stilettos? Dragging behind me with a click and a pop, the sound was like magic to me. Still is. Her shoes such a pleasure to try to fill. No matter how many times you would grasp my ankles, unbuckling the thin strap to place the heels on a higher shelf, I knew I would get taller with each year and reach further.

Or am I five–putting down the muddy soccer ball you kicked out of anger in the name of sport? Placing it gently on the grass, so I could sit crosslegged in the spring fragrance to pick flowers. Purple or yellow, my favorites. One petal at a time, repeating out loud, he loves me, he loves me not, he loves me. Somehow each flower I picked had an even number of petals. But I didn't need a flower to tell me that maybe you loved me not. But even so, I would relentlessly pick stem after stem–just one more, just one more, just one more–hoping one would lie to me.

Am I nine–wearing rainbow tights with a plaid skirt and my polka dot tee? Mom would tell you that clothes are one of the only decisions children get to make on their own and parents must allow kids to express themselves. That small freedom was something I exploited. Your grown-up friends assumed I was always playing dress-up, but every outfit was carefully calculated and purposefully chosen. I never knew why we were taught that patterns shouldn't try to match with different patterns. Stripes, plaid, polka dots, red with pink, double denim, socks and sandals. The uniqueness, the chaos–it all made me sparkle even when you told me to change. You only wanted people to stare at us in a 'good way.'

Am I thirteen–my tearful eyes watching a week spent at fine arts camp disappear in the rearview mirror of your pickup truck? The two of us on the long ride home while you asked your obligatory small talk questions, trying desperately to steer away from words mom banned from your mouth. Emotional. Artsy. Dramatic. Flamboyant. What you didn't know was that I performed for the first time on a stage at that camp. I borrowed a purple dress from a friend, combed my hair until the silk shone, and delivered a monologue I wrote myself, titled, I Knew You Wanted A Boy.

Am I fifteen–gashes in veins, dripping red forearms, fading in and out of consciousness as the ambulance doors shut? I said it was an accident, but what I meant to say was that I felt like an accident. It was almost like you gave me the blade. Every cut in the shape of your disappointment. Every stitch proving my skin wasn't as thick as I thought.

Or am I seventeen–holding the pieces left of a shattered heart-shaped locket my boyfriend gave me? The one you smashed in rage because boys don't kiss other boys! I still have a few silver shards in a drawer somewhere. Not whole, but still shining. One could say that is sadistic, but I like to pull it out and think of how far I am away from you now. You had the power to break a silver heart, but no longer the power to break my own heart.

How do I appear on your stage, dad? Eyes closed in this fluid. Dreams. Nightmares. I hope you remember me as you saw me last. Laying in my blue dotted gown, tubes in my nose, anesthesia through my bloodstream. A doctor did what you never could–let me be who I truly am.

Unapoloigcally Woman.

Science has come so far. (I know more than most). Look at these tanks. Our bodies, preserved to not age while our minds continue to develop and grow. Waiting. Waiting for the earth to heal. Can you tell me my body really matters now?

As I float here, all I can think of is what you never saw–waiting by the phone for years, picking up the receiver to check if the dial tone still sounded. Watching the driveway, hoping to hear the gravel cracking under your tires. Consoling a broken wife and mother who was blamed and abandoned because you said some patterns aren't meant to go together. Some shoes should always be out of reach. Some necklaces were never supposed to be given.

We lit candles. We cut pictures and screamed at the sky. We missed you. We hated you. We loved you. We cried so much that we could have filled the tanks we are in with our tears. In our magic, timeless, swimming pool comas.

Scientists say we will only have to float for a year or two. But maybe that is just what they told us. To be honest, I don't think I'd mind if it was longer. Maybe we all need more time to think of all the things we hope to be.

When the tanks were introduced as a way to save humanity while giving the earth time to heal, many were enraged with the thought of temporarily losing their bodies–like it was their only valuable asset. More were upset with the fact that our minds would continue to race without a physical reality surrounding us. They thought we would lose our minds in the tanks–like we hadn't lost them already.

Some didn't trust the science. They said they'd rather die than be an experiment hoping on change. So they let the California fires take them, and the oceans bury them. Some took chemicals administered by a nurse with a syringe. Some pulled triggers or jumped off The Golden–choosing to fade into oblivion instead of being in an ageless state with no end in sight.

But some of us decided to stay, building the mental strength to face a new beginning. To live in hope rather than fear of the unknown or misunderstood. The truth is, I don't pretend to understand all the details about the toxins that need to be eliminated or the temperature the earth needs to reach before the tanks open. I don't know how a fluid can preserve our age and protect us from forces of nature. I don't know why more than half of the world's population chose death over hope. I don't know if we will be here for a year, a decade, or maybe forever. I don't know how long this wounded world will take to heal or how we can trust human intellect to bring us safely to that day. But it all seems so beautiful–to chose to try.

Before mom and I slipped into our adjacent tanks, hand in hand, she told me, "it is like we are returning to the womb until the earth is ready for us to walk again. Like the universe told us it is time to rest, to grow."

Rows of sealed tanks–don't you think we all look the same now, dad? Eyes closed, only mind and soul. None of us are special. The heels, the patterns, the flower petals, and the pieces of jewelry. None of it matters. We are all lifeless bodies floating. Waiting. Bathing in the hope and promise of a brighter future.

What are you doing with your time, dad? Are you still sinking in the hatred you cling so dearly to–drowning in the ignorance? Or are you floating? Getting lighter with every day. Opening the eyes of your mind, waiting for your body to follow. Believing in a world where you can embrace your daughter in love. A girl with a walk followed by a click and a pop. A girl wearing every pattern and color in the rainbow, not caring if people stare. A girl hearing her father's cheer after the curtain drops. A girl gluing silver jewelry pieces back together in the shape of her mending heart. A girl picking flower petals, forever, until she can say

He loves me.