for ages i had a repeating, anxious dream that plagued me because i could not pinpoint its meaning in a way that clicked for me. i've been in therapy for almost fifteen years, for a variety of reasons, and we returned to it this and that time, and it just never quite coalesced - until the self-diagnosis.

in my dream, repeating every couple of months, i'm moving around the city - going somewhere, being anxiously late for the train, just milling around - and i'm sitting in a wheelchair. it's incredibly comfortable; i'm moving around easily, my body is utterly at ease, i'm almost floating^

^i'm fully aware of how unrealistic this dream is when taken at face value, and how shitty most cities, including my own, at providing mobility for people who need assistive devices for moving; this dream is not, in any way, about having a disability related to moving around, and i mean no disrespect and no harm; and wish, devoutly, that architecture and society *everywhere* were better at this.

i'm almost floating, and i feel relieved and happy - but i'm also full of horrible anxiety, because the secret is, i actually *can* get up, and at some point in the dream i *will* inevitably get up to navigate some obstacle, and so will be revealed as an impostor, a fraud, somebody who uses the assistance she's not entitled for.^

^which, again, in real world is a thing that happens to actual wheelchair users, because in popular consciousness the only 'legit' reason to use a wheelchair or a similar thing is complete paraplegia, which is some incredibly ableist bullshit that should be stomped out as fully as possible.

you probably clocked where this is going, which makes you faster than me. me who was always supposed to be fully functional. good marks, good behavior, voracious reading, gold stars, red diplomas, working early, taking responsibility; and with every step up and away i floundered more and more, and sank deeper and deeper, and it made no sense - just a string of mental failures, exhaustion and disappointment all the way down. my poor, extremely loving, bewildered parents.

this is a story with - mostly - a happy present; i lacked the sheer masochistic wherewithal my mother has to work myself to the bone against the grain for forty odd years, and the times changed, and i had therapy, and i eventually dug out a nice little refuge that suited my needs and abilities without killing me, and if not for the double whammy of pandemics and war, i probably would've been fully content now. but those dreams, flashing me their S.O.S. signs over and over, as dreams do: we need help. this is neither effortless nor easy. we need help, help, help, and we are afraid to reach for it. we can only dream - ha - of this moment when something takes up a part of the load.

and i haven't dreamed it since.