Once, I had no family and lived alone in a small, warn apartment. Well, I had a family, but every time I left my apartment to see them, the air became so thick and viscous I had to go back inside if I still wanted to breathe. They never came to see me; I was the prodigal daughter.
One afternoon while I was walking to the grocery store, a woman with a baby stopped me. The baby was beautiful, a little girl with sky blue eyes and hair the red-brown of iron-laden Alabama dirt. The mother picked the baby up out of the stroller and gave her to me. The mother was crying silently.
I took the baby; I was crying too. “But I don’t know how to take care of a baby.”
“Neither do I,” said the mother. Then she turned around and left, pushing the empty stroller.
Wow, could you get much more symbolic than that? Apparently my subconscious mind isn’t big on subtlety. Okay, Drs. Freud and Jung, I get it: dreams have meaning. God, I can just imagine all the meaning my Riggs therapist would’ve found in it. In creative writing, we referred to this as “beating the reader over the head with the symbolism stick.”
In other news, I still have neither home internet nor a therapist. I’m about half an inch away from looking for random therapists online. This shouldn’t be so hard, and I really need a therapist.