A window to the past

One of the hardest lessons that I have had to learn is that I don't have to hold myself hostage to the person I used to be, or to things that I once did. I have spent most of my life regretting my own stupidities and indiscretions, looking back to my childhood and idealising the beautiful simplicity of that phase of my development. I have a strong desire for control, but it only encompasses my person and my life - I do not try to force it on other people. I need to control my emotions, my thoughts, what I wear, what I eat, how I act, how I speak... all that I do. I have gone through periods in my life where I dream almost every night about re-living situations in my past and wishing that I could change the outcome. In those dreams, I feel such a relief when I find myself back in my childhood home, surrounded by those familiar walls and familiar things. It has finally happened, I always find myself thinking in those dreams. I can finally do everything over.


That is not a healthy way to live. It is no way to live at all, really, for who can move forward who stays rooted in the past?

I realised only recently that all of this vain wish for a "do-over" is holding me back. It seems so obvious to others, but to a person who has known a great deal of mental illness since puberty, it was a much more difficult realisation to come to terms with. So much of my turmoil is replayed, made manifest, and even solved in my dreams. In some ways, it feels like an eternity has passed since I was a little girl. In others, it feels as though no time has passed at all, no doubt made worse by the fact that I carry with me such vivid memories of my childhood.

And so, when I found myself in yet another lucid dream, I was overjoyed - I was finally back in my childhood home and I was getting ready for the first day of school. My mother had bought me school supplies and she had made croissants for breakfast. I had on some new clothes - sometimes a rarity in my childhood - and I was happy because they were pink and purple, my two favourite colours. As mum packed my lunch into my backpack, I looked at the time. I had to catch the bus soon. Then I realised that I had no idea which locker to place my things in, or which classroom to go to. My mother said to me, "You are 11 now, Stephanie. You should know these things."

Then it hit me - I wasn't 11 at all. I was well over twice that age.

"But I'm not 11, mum. I'm 26," I replied sadly.

"Well, then," she said, her brow furrowed. "You'll have to figure out what to do."

And when I woke, I felt as though a huge burden had been lifted from my shoulders. I finally felt ready to move on and face my future.

Letting go and learning to forgive myself for things that have happened in my past is not an easy task. When I see all of the wasted time spent wandering through life, uncertain and longing to belong, I wish that I could have seen things then as clearly as I see them now. I suppose I ought to be grateful in some way, because all of these mistakes and memories have formed the woman I am today...

But it is a bitter pill to swallow, is it not?