My Reappropriation

The biggest regret of my youth is that I never recognized my own worth.

If I could go back, I would tell myself to embrace those warm, melty and soft parts of myself, my flair for everything creative and poetic, and not repress those innate hallmarks to fit into society’s exoteric mould. That’s exactly what I would do.

Wouldn’t I?

At least I think that is what I was trying to tell myself.

In my dream, I saw myself walk through the wide, sterile and dilapidated hallway of an unknown industrial building, with two young men wearing black leather jackets walking just ahead of me. They were headed for a pair of exit doors directly in front of us, but instead, I turned left when I saw another set of doors in that direction.

I grabbed the chipped, metal handles of the chromatic steel doors and slowly pulled them open. I was faced with a very large, open room with a dauntingly-high ceiling. Daylight shone into the room from above, through long and narrow horizontal windows that looked like slitted eyes resting near the metal trusses.

As I walked inside, I saw two pale, middle-aged women with straight dark hair and dark eyes, hair pulled back into a hair tie, wearing pristine white lab coats and standing on either side of me. It looked like they were a mirror of one another, including their brooding, unhappy expressions. But straight ahead, slightly glowing under a beam of sunlight, I saw an older woman in an invalid chair watching me with a warm and happy grin.

I was immediately drawn to and started walking towards her, taking in her chin-length soft-grey curls, her chubby face and body, her round nose, silver wire-rimmed glasses and her loving smile. When I got close, we both reached for each other, and I noticed that her right hand was deformed somehow, as if someone had twisted it on backwards. Her thumb and pinky were in opposite places, so that when I took her hand to hold, I had to clasp it with both my hands to feel her palm.

I felt such affection and warmth that I almost didn’t notice the dark, mimicked women approach me with eyes equally somber and diabolical, carrying a tray of surgical tools. I was immediately frightened, somehow recognizing that they were coming to twist and damage my right hand like this older woman’s. I hurriedly let her go and, seeing the exit doors blocked by the dark ones, fled to the pile of boxes and equipment piled up against the wall below the aperture.

Desperately, I scaled the disheveled pile of wood and metal, praying that I wouldn’t fall down. It seemed miraculous that I shouldn’t, and I felt like something or someone was helping me. When I got to the window and opened it, I looked back down at the sagacious woman, who had a sad but understanding look upon her face.

I began to feel tears well in my eyes, and a powerful ache in my heart when, next to me, I saw another version of myself, fearful and young in her countenance. She was imploring, yelling at me to hurry, get out now! I could feel the fear rising within my chest as I started out the window, but then I stopped and looked back again at the peaceable contessa watching me from below without judgement.

I knew I just couldn’t leave her. Whatever would happen, I couldn’t leave her there all alone. I had to go back, I had to hold her close again.

So, that’s exactly what I did.