Grabbing the Gun

She was wanted all over the state. Her name was everywhere- on the news, on social media, on the minds of everyone who lived close by. She roamed the streets and hid during the day. Then, come nightfall, she emerged from hiding and broke into the homes of unsuspecting people. She robbed them of their money, their valuables, all while holding them at gunpoint. Her gun was a .38 revolver with the barrel shoved through a doll's head, its mouth spitting out the bullets. That image was the last thing people would see before their death, the head of a grotesque doll staring back at them. Because even when they surrendered all they had, it wasn't what she really came for. She wanted blood.

I somehow knew she was outside my old house one night. I'm not sure if I heard her rustling about, or if I sensed her presence. All I knew was that I was all alone, and I was going to die. Have you ever been so scared that you feel tigers roaring within you, so intensely that the cries reverberate within your chest? I could barely see straight. She was there, just outside. Even with the blinds drawn I knew she could see me. I didn't have my phone. I owned no weapons, save for a kitchen knife that could barely slice a cucumber, let alone defend me. I panicked. Sure, the door was locked, but would that really stop her? My legs quivered as I ran to the bathroom and shut the door. Why the hell didn't that door have a lock? I crouched down into the bathtub. For some reason, that made the most sense at the time. I didn't even hear her let herself in, but slowly the bathroom door creaked open and a doll's head eased inside.

That would not be the last thing I'd see. It couldn't be.

I leaped out of the tub and whipped the door all the way open, catching her off guard. She was so much smaller than expected, not even five feet tall. Her hair was jet black, matching her eyes. She didn't look like a killer. In fact, her face was warm and inviting, her body soft. She smiled, almost shyly, as she aimed the gun at me, saying, "I'm going to shoot you."

Whether out of survival mode or sheer stupidity, I grabbed the gun by the barrel and redirected its aim, jerking her arm with it. This drew her closer to me, and I stared into her astonished onyx eyes. I was bigger than this woman, and I had in my grip her single source of power. Without her gun, she was powerless. I saw the realization strike her.

I woke up with my heart pounding high up in my chest.

This probably seems like a cheap ploy, the "It was all a dream" tactic. For that, I apologize. It felt real. I even remember staring at my dream-self in the mirror (missing a few teeth, a Leah dream staple) and thinking, "I wish so badly this was just a dream."

I constantly have anxiety dreams, ranging from last minute choreography changes to falling from a cliff. When I jolted awake at 6:00 this morning, I couldn't brush this one off as such. This was no ordinary anxiety dream of mine. In those, the problem always wins- the stage prop has been moved, the classroom is nowhere to be found, the parachute won't deploy. This was the first time that I overpowered the problem.

If this situation were to actually happen (lord please at least spare me the doll's head), I'm not sure how I would respond. It's hard to predict our reactions until we're placed in such predicaments. But oddly enough, this bizarre dream gave me a boost. I am capable of standing up and grabbing the gun. I can stare my problem in the eye and make it question its power over me. I may get shot in the process, but at least I won't go down without a fight.

Moving out (Leah's...yeah yeah you get it)

This Saturday, I'm moving back to Arkansas. I had plans for my last week here. I was going to scope out my favorite Chicago spots. I was going to walk dogs and earn some extra cash (I work for Wag! Chicago). I was going to reach out to some of my friends from work and say goodbye. Instead, I've packed up my apartment, rewatched Stranger Things, and sprawled out on my couch, contemplating my future.

I think I've slowly been changing my definition of "goodbye". For most of my life, I've felt a need to reach closure, to make situations and relationships come full circle. See this friend "one last time," visit that place "one last time." With every move comes a sense of finality. (Side note: That's a word, right? Finality? Spellcheck isn't correcting me. However, it is correcting "rewatched" to "rewashed". Does anyone else feel like Spellcheck thinks you're a dumbass? I don't know, if such a thing as Spellcheck even exists in the first place, maybe...)

Anyway, I don't feel the need this time around. In the past, I thought that closing things out was the only way to prove to myself that they meant something to me in the first place. I had to visit that park once more, I had to hug that friend for the last time. If I didn't, then the move would be incomplete, and I wouldn't be able to go on to the next step. Do you do this, assign yourself with tasks that are mere symbols of what you're actually seeking? And what is it you're seeking? Peace? Affirmation?

The truth is, I'm scared, and I'm worried. Going back to Arkansas excites me, and is the best decision for me to make. But it's what awaits me back home that scares me: recovery. One wouldn't think recovery to be that frightening. After all, it's good, yeah? Of course it's good. But, just like moving, it's change. And change is scary. From the outside, this week would seem uneventful to some. I mean, I've barely left my place. But I think it was necessary, and more eventful than it may look.

Going to Millennium Park tomorrow won't change anything. Neither will seeing every single one of my Chicago friends. Millennium Park will still be there, and my friends will be too. I'll cherish the memories up here, and I'll always love my friends and be grateful for knowing them. We never know what the future holds. As cliché as it sounds, this isn't The End. I'll find myself back in Chicago, whether for one day or for one week or for ten years. And I'll eagerly look forward to the embraces of my amazing friends, and sipping coffee at Millennium Park, watching people play in the fountain, feeling the wind on my skin. Only next time, I'll be well.

Je ne give-a-damn pas.

I care what people think of me. I wish I didn't. I wish I could be like those people that proudly exclaim, "I am who I am!"  "I am me!" "Me is who I am!" "And I don't care what people think!" What freedom! What liberation! What lies!

Let's be honest here. We all care. It's perfectly okay to not want to admit it. After all, it's been engrained in us for so long to emit this faux confidence, to carry with us this heir of rebellion against society's perspective. We feel like we have to display ourselves this way, or else we're seen as weak, as a prisoner to the standards of those around us. Which brings it right back home- we're worried about how others see us. (Side note: This makes perfect sense in my head, I hope it does to you too. See, there you go. Prime example. I'm worried that you'll think I don't make sense and am therefor an inadequate writer and don't know anything. Elizabeth Taylor had a double row of eyelashes. There, see? I know something. But I digress...)

Some people care way more than others. We're all in different spots in the process of self acceptance as we learn to keep that anxiety at bay. It's all in our mindsets. Let me also say, caring what others think doesn't mean you lack confidence. It means you're a human being. Even the most confident among us have their moments. Some express it, some fake it till they make it, some write it off, some get anxious or depressed. I believe that caring what others think shows that we aren't meant to be isolated, but that we're meant to support others, to work together. We all want love. I think admitting that we care is admitting we are imperfect, and that it's alright. (Side note: Up there, I almost wrote "anxiety at bae" by mistake. I don't think I've ever used that word in my life. Even joking. Has that word just been floating around in my head, lurking over the years, waiting to pounce? Nice try, bae. Dammit.)

Now, the key here is to not let this steer us away from ourselves and take over our lives. One thing that helps me is stopping to acknowledge the worry, and then looking inside to see what's actually bothering me. Because odds are, the thing I'm so worried that people are thinking of me is actually a reflection of how I'm feeling about myself in that moment. More than likely, people aren't even thinking about me at all. (Side note: Leah in an 80s workout video. Leah riding a Harley Davidson. Ha! Now you're thinking of me. And now you're rolling your eyes. And now you're wanting me to get on with it and are getting annoyed. And you're not surprised that I'm stalling. Hey, you're the one still reading this. I'm just sitting here drinking Coke Zero and listening to Pink Floyd. And now you're thinking of me doing that. Whoa, this is like mind control. Anyway...) All that to say, people are usually more concerned about the opinions of others to be focusing on their opinion of you.

I don't write this to group us all together and rob us of our individuality. I'm not trying to make a blanket statement, or to oversimplify anything. We're all different people, with unique stories and our own points of view. Every one of us is in a different stage of life, with a different mindset. I wrote this to hopefully share a sense of unity, in that we aren't alone in these anxieties, these cares that we dwell on so often. Be true, friends, and be flawed. You aren't as watched as you feel. No one is viewing you as a failure, as stupid, as ugly, as incompetent. And if they are, it's a reflection of their feelings toward themselves. Which is quite sad. Try encouraging people this week, especially if you're feeling down on yourself. I promise you, you're not alone in those feelings. It's okay to care, but try not to care too much, if you get what I mean.

...Leah as Catwoman... Sorry!
Love, gratitude, and validation to each of you <3