Deferred Dreams by Rhonda J. Foster
Recent topics in the QueenMe newsletter have inspired me to tell my own story. I graduated college with a 4.0 GPA, class valedictorian, and a BA in English. All I had ever wanted to do was write, and I was certain I would have no trouble finding the job of my dreams. It seems that when we are younger we tend to believe that anything is possible, and as we get older, life has tainted that optimism to a dull practicality. I encountered questions such as: “What! No computer courses? No business management classes?” My job search was not successful and I had to come up with a survival plan.
I sent out an application to law school, just one – and I was accepted. I had no burning dreams of becoming a terror in the courtroom, of helping to change the world. My dreams were of an easy and substantial income that would enable me to write. Law school kept me focused for the next few years, and then came graduation – time to get serious again. I dutifully worked on my resume and sent it out. No big offers. Then I discovered there was an opening in the public defender’s office in a nearby town. At the job interview, I told the chief public defender that I didn’t think I could handle “criminals.” Not to worry – I could represent the children, the abused, neglected, and eventually, the delinquents.
Representing children meant dealing with the parents, and most of these parents were not happy, well adjusted people. A great number of them had severe mental disorders and were off medication, or had criminal histories themselves. They tended to be aggressive, vicious, and blaming the system and the attorneys for everything that was wrong. I was shy, non-assertive, and sensitive. I was prey. The probation officers would line up in the hallway of the courthouse to watch me deal with these clients, amused at the terror and discomfort evident on my face.
I gave my best and did an excellent job. I took my work home and lost sleep finding solutions for my clients, only to see them back in court again and again. Nothing I did seemed to make a difference. For those who don’t think stereotypes apply, they do. A client could be argumentative and difficult with me, and if one of the male public defenders (there was one in particular who was built like a linebacker) walked over, suddenly they would accept whatever that attorney told them. I realized that as a petite female I would never receive the same respect that less-competent-but-larger-built male attorneys received in this setting.
I began to be sick to my stomach at the thought of going to work and facing people. It would begin the evening before my court dates. I would dread getting up and going in to work. I hated my job, but I had no energy to make the effort to escape. I came home at night and collapsed on the couch, staring at the television. There was no writing, no creativity, only a sense of emptiness and being drained. I never went out on weekends until I left for work again Monday morning. I was totally exhausted, and it was all I could do to keep going – but I had to. I would not quit. I had something to prove.
Eventually my emotions had completely shut down. I had no dreams, no desires. I did not think about what I wanted or needed; only what I had to do to survive. I did not live anymore. I survived. I didn’t do anything for fun. I didn’t know what constituted “fun” anymore. I held out for over ten years. I showed the world I could do it! The tragedy is that the world did not care, and the world did not have to face my life each day – I did. Eventually I left for a non-law job that was completely unsuitable for me. I think it was a desperate subconscious survival move.
It was too late to just keep going in this condition. I lasted at this job for a year, where I was treated with suspicion – why would an attorney take such a huge cut in pay and prestige? Their attitude was that there had to be something wrong with me, some scandal. Needless to say, I began to have problems with balance and coordination, frequent illnesses resembling the flu, pains that would shift from one part of my body to another. I was unable to leave the house or to walk normally. I spent most of my days on the couch, moaning in pain, exhausted. Even sleep granted me no peace. I had nightmares about work and about people in my life who had hurt me, even those from years before.
After numerous medical tests and months of waiting, it turned out I had fibromyalgia. It seems that this is common among women who are driven to “do the right thing,” to “do the responsible thing,” to “do what is expected,” rather than doing what is in their hearts. The body forced me to do what my mind had not – to take time off, to rediscover myself, to grieve for all those things that I had never taken the time to grieve for. I was afraid to mourn my losses and feared that I would never stop crying if I allowed myself to grieve.
Before this diagnosis, I got out my second expired passport and dwelt on the fact that I had never traveled to Europe as I had wanted to do for over twenty years. I thought about my closet filled with boxes of the “nice things” I was saving for “someday.” I got out the silky soft pajamas a friend had bought me in the 80’s that I was saving for a “special occasion.” I threw them out because the elastic had rotted. I cried because I believed I had some serious disease and the thought chanting in my head repeatedly was: “I will die and I have never lived.” In essence I had put my life, my happiness, and my dreams “on hold” waiting for the perfect time to enjoy them. And now I know that the perfect time is right now, not someday. You might not have someday, but you do have right now.
It took a year. I sat outside with my journal almost every day. It took months for the pressured feeling that I had to be somewhere, or that I had some obligation to fulfill, to pass. I even mourned for pets I had lost in my youth, letting a little bit of pain at a time out. I released years of pent-up emotion in tolerable doses. There were times I had to cut it off, to go to a movie and forget. I would sit and try to write down my dreams. The tragedy was that I had none. I had given up dreaming years before. It took months, but eventually I could write sentences that began with “I want” or “I hope.” It was safe to have feelings again. I found that I slowly became warmer, more affectionate, more caring, as the “thaw” continued. People responded to me again. My journal was more genuine. It spoke of emotions -- it represented a real person.
Initially, it was easier to discover what I didn’t want. I made lists of all the things I didn’t want to do. They seemed to flow out of me, out of the bitterness at all the obligations I had imposed on myself. I was angry at others for making me feel so obligated, but the more I processed things, the more I realized I had let it happen. I took responsibility for burying me under the “should-do” landslide. I gradually rediscovered my love for tea – the intricate ritual of preparing, breathing in the scented steam, slowly sipping. I burned incense and it was relaxing. I performed little activities that took time but gave me peaceful sensations, things that I had not taken the time to do in over ten years.
I began to read before bed, something else I had always enjoyed. I would read a little, look up at the clock and think that I had to stop because it was getting late. One evening I realized “Hey! I don’t have to be anywhere tomorrow – I can stay up all night if I want to!” I stayed up that night until 2 in the morning and finished the novel. It was wonderful.
I sat in the sunlight and daydreamed, listening to the birds and the breeze in the trees. I lost track of the passage of time, and allowed my soul to emerge. My writing took on a stream of consciousness mode, and upon later reading it was enlightening and uplifting. After months it subtly changed from remorse and grieving to hoping, from weariness and trepidation to wanting to embrace life.
PART II
So here I am, ready to face life again. I still have my fibromyalgia, but by controlling stress it is bearable. I see clearly the link between physical pain and suppressed emotions. (There are some wonderful books on this subject by John E. Sarno, M.D.) I have allowed myself the time and space to heal. I can now tell anyone who asks what I like and dislike. I am actually more assertive and genuine than I was when I worked as a public defender. I am writing again. I feel enthusiastic and hopeful. But there is a pitfall. I decided to follow my heart, but sticking to the decision is not always an easy one. I am often tempted to get a job which will provide the comforts of life, but which once again might leave me emotionally drained at the end of the day and unable to write. Even Stephen King didn’t start off making millions, and supporting yourself writing is a long process, with a lot of hard work involved.
So once you decide to follow your heart, you must have the courage to stay with that decision even when tempted to return to the old ways of survival – and they often seem to be easier. I face temptation all the time, but then I realize… I really like ME, and I don’t want that funny, warm, affectionate woman to go away again.
You can spend all kinds of time wondering how you got to the place of bitterness and regret, lost chances and deferred dreams, but my suggestion is to bypass this stage entirely. It doesn’t matter why, and you can’t do it over. It comes down to now. A very simple concept: change. Make a change, any change. Don’t you feel a little more alive after you do? It becomes addicting – suddenly making changes is fun, challenging, and a sign of life. I began cleaning out old clothes and was appalled to discover things I hadn’t worn in 12 years. I felt so refreshed donating huge hefty bags of things that I had clung to and not used.
The process is ongoing. I’m not done by any means. But maybe you will see a little of yourself here and learn from my experiences. I will get a job one of these days to provide stimulation and a little extra income. On my resume, where it says “OBJECTIVE” I am tempted to put, “An interesting job with fun or positive people that won’t leave me emotionally drained.” Go figure.
© March, 2005 Rhonda J. Foster
http://www.queenpower.com
disclaimer
I sent out an application to law school, just one – and I was accepted. I had no burning dreams of becoming a terror in the courtroom, of helping to change the world. My dreams were of an easy and substantial income that would enable me to write. Law school kept me focused for the next few years, and then came graduation – time to get serious again. I dutifully worked on my resume and sent it out. No big offers. Then I discovered there was an opening in the public defender’s office in a nearby town. At the job interview, I told the chief public defender that I didn’t think I could handle “criminals.” Not to worry – I could represent the children, the abused, neglected, and eventually, the delinquents.
Representing children meant dealing with the parents, and most of these parents were not happy, well adjusted people. A great number of them had severe mental disorders and were off medication, or had criminal histories themselves. They tended to be aggressive, vicious, and blaming the system and the attorneys for everything that was wrong. I was shy, non-assertive, and sensitive. I was prey. The probation officers would line up in the hallway of the courthouse to watch me deal with these clients, amused at the terror and discomfort evident on my face.
I gave my best and did an excellent job. I took my work home and lost sleep finding solutions for my clients, only to see them back in court again and again. Nothing I did seemed to make a difference. For those who don’t think stereotypes apply, they do. A client could be argumentative and difficult with me, and if one of the male public defenders (there was one in particular who was built like a linebacker) walked over, suddenly they would accept whatever that attorney told them. I realized that as a petite female I would never receive the same respect that less-competent-but-larger-built male attorneys received in this setting.
I began to be sick to my stomach at the thought of going to work and facing people. It would begin the evening before my court dates. I would dread getting up and going in to work. I hated my job, but I had no energy to make the effort to escape. I came home at night and collapsed on the couch, staring at the television. There was no writing, no creativity, only a sense of emptiness and being drained. I never went out on weekends until I left for work again Monday morning. I was totally exhausted, and it was all I could do to keep going – but I had to. I would not quit. I had something to prove.
Eventually my emotions had completely shut down. I had no dreams, no desires. I did not think about what I wanted or needed; only what I had to do to survive. I did not live anymore. I survived. I didn’t do anything for fun. I didn’t know what constituted “fun” anymore. I held out for over ten years. I showed the world I could do it! The tragedy is that the world did not care, and the world did not have to face my life each day – I did. Eventually I left for a non-law job that was completely unsuitable for me. I think it was a desperate subconscious survival move.
It was too late to just keep going in this condition. I lasted at this job for a year, where I was treated with suspicion – why would an attorney take such a huge cut in pay and prestige? Their attitude was that there had to be something wrong with me, some scandal. Needless to say, I began to have problems with balance and coordination, frequent illnesses resembling the flu, pains that would shift from one part of my body to another. I was unable to leave the house or to walk normally. I spent most of my days on the couch, moaning in pain, exhausted. Even sleep granted me no peace. I had nightmares about work and about people in my life who had hurt me, even those from years before.
After numerous medical tests and months of waiting, it turned out I had fibromyalgia. It seems that this is common among women who are driven to “do the right thing,” to “do the responsible thing,” to “do what is expected,” rather than doing what is in their hearts. The body forced me to do what my mind had not – to take time off, to rediscover myself, to grieve for all those things that I had never taken the time to grieve for. I was afraid to mourn my losses and feared that I would never stop crying if I allowed myself to grieve.
Before this diagnosis, I got out my second expired passport and dwelt on the fact that I had never traveled to Europe as I had wanted to do for over twenty years. I thought about my closet filled with boxes of the “nice things” I was saving for “someday.” I got out the silky soft pajamas a friend had bought me in the 80’s that I was saving for a “special occasion.” I threw them out because the elastic had rotted. I cried because I believed I had some serious disease and the thought chanting in my head repeatedly was: “I will die and I have never lived.” In essence I had put my life, my happiness, and my dreams “on hold” waiting for the perfect time to enjoy them. And now I know that the perfect time is right now, not someday. You might not have someday, but you do have right now.
It took a year. I sat outside with my journal almost every day. It took months for the pressured feeling that I had to be somewhere, or that I had some obligation to fulfill, to pass. I even mourned for pets I had lost in my youth, letting a little bit of pain at a time out. I released years of pent-up emotion in tolerable doses. There were times I had to cut it off, to go to a movie and forget. I would sit and try to write down my dreams. The tragedy was that I had none. I had given up dreaming years before. It took months, but eventually I could write sentences that began with “I want” or “I hope.” It was safe to have feelings again. I found that I slowly became warmer, more affectionate, more caring, as the “thaw” continued. People responded to me again. My journal was more genuine. It spoke of emotions -- it represented a real person.
Initially, it was easier to discover what I didn’t want. I made lists of all the things I didn’t want to do. They seemed to flow out of me, out of the bitterness at all the obligations I had imposed on myself. I was angry at others for making me feel so obligated, but the more I processed things, the more I realized I had let it happen. I took responsibility for burying me under the “should-do” landslide. I gradually rediscovered my love for tea – the intricate ritual of preparing, breathing in the scented steam, slowly sipping. I burned incense and it was relaxing. I performed little activities that took time but gave me peaceful sensations, things that I had not taken the time to do in over ten years.
I began to read before bed, something else I had always enjoyed. I would read a little, look up at the clock and think that I had to stop because it was getting late. One evening I realized “Hey! I don’t have to be anywhere tomorrow – I can stay up all night if I want to!” I stayed up that night until 2 in the morning and finished the novel. It was wonderful.
I sat in the sunlight and daydreamed, listening to the birds and the breeze in the trees. I lost track of the passage of time, and allowed my soul to emerge. My writing took on a stream of consciousness mode, and upon later reading it was enlightening and uplifting. After months it subtly changed from remorse and grieving to hoping, from weariness and trepidation to wanting to embrace life.
PART II
So here I am, ready to face life again. I still have my fibromyalgia, but by controlling stress it is bearable. I see clearly the link between physical pain and suppressed emotions. (There are some wonderful books on this subject by John E. Sarno, M.D.) I have allowed myself the time and space to heal. I can now tell anyone who asks what I like and dislike. I am actually more assertive and genuine than I was when I worked as a public defender. I am writing again. I feel enthusiastic and hopeful. But there is a pitfall. I decided to follow my heart, but sticking to the decision is not always an easy one. I am often tempted to get a job which will provide the comforts of life, but which once again might leave me emotionally drained at the end of the day and unable to write. Even Stephen King didn’t start off making millions, and supporting yourself writing is a long process, with a lot of hard work involved.
So once you decide to follow your heart, you must have the courage to stay with that decision even when tempted to return to the old ways of survival – and they often seem to be easier. I face temptation all the time, but then I realize… I really like ME, and I don’t want that funny, warm, affectionate woman to go away again.
You can spend all kinds of time wondering how you got to the place of bitterness and regret, lost chances and deferred dreams, but my suggestion is to bypass this stage entirely. It doesn’t matter why, and you can’t do it over. It comes down to now. A very simple concept: change. Make a change, any change. Don’t you feel a little more alive after you do? It becomes addicting – suddenly making changes is fun, challenging, and a sign of life. I began cleaning out old clothes and was appalled to discover things I hadn’t worn in 12 years. I felt so refreshed donating huge hefty bags of things that I had clung to and not used.
The process is ongoing. I’m not done by any means. But maybe you will see a little of yourself here and learn from my experiences. I will get a job one of these days to provide stimulation and a little extra income. On my resume, where it says “OBJECTIVE” I am tempted to put, “An interesting job with fun or positive people that won’t leave me emotionally drained.” Go figure.
© March, 2005 Rhonda J. Foster
http://www.queenpower.com
disclaimer
posted by Allyn Evans at 6:42 AM
3 Comments:
A very good read Rhonda. Full of inspiration and answers. Pat yourself on the back...you deserve it!
I really loved this essay, Rhonda. It reads like a meditation to remind us to listen to our lives. Thank you so much for sharing it. Camellia
Rhonda. Your essay showed me the birth of a new person, a new writer. Birth is painful and exhilirating all at the same time. However, you made it through with grace and honor. Good job.
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