What if my dreams are bigger than my imagination?

So far the responses to my idea have been in sum “do you have to go so far away?” And I just keep thinking about that song from the Dixie chicks “she needs wide open spaces to make her big mistakes”. I found an apartment in Galway bay - I could travel AND take the dogs to the beach. I could LIVE my vision board. Is that insane? 

If I’ve learned anything the last few years it’s that I can do hard things. I can pick myself up off the kitchen floor after crying so hard it just became one long silent convulsion instead of sobs. I can keep going. But what if there’s more? What if my dreams are bigger than my imagination and maybe the right thing to do is to follow my gut and just leap? 

When I lay down to sleep and I close my eyes I can feel the icy pain in my heart start to come alive and take hold. Earlier today during my nap, it felt like freezer burn. Like when your tongue gets stuck to an ice cube. That’s what it feels like inside my left boobie. Can we all agree that regardless of age, gender, class, culture, sexuality or not, boobies always has been and always will be, a hilarious word. I try to inject humor when I can, it feels like a tiny ray of sunshine in the dark clouds that threaten to swallow me in my dreams. 

I can feel creativity flowing out of me, like a spark that is buried deep down just whispered so softly “I’m here”, as though it’s on the brink of exhaustion. What a funny term to use, exhausted. It means tired but it also means a light source dying. At least I think it does. But that’s what this feels like. The faint crackle of a teeny tiny little flame inside me that hasn’t gotten any oxygen in a VERY long time. 

Something along the edges of my periphery tells me to pay attention to those who are saying yes; use your wings and leave the nest. While others are saying: your dreams are too big, start smaller. But I keep wondering, what if my dreams are bigger than my imagination? How do I dream smaller when my imagination can’t even fathom how big my dreams could be? Do I settle? Do I give up and accept that my wanderlust is based on a fantasy, that I can’t actually do and be anything I want? 

People tell me I’m a good writer, maybe even a great one. But when I say I want to explore my creativity and just write, suddenly there’s a question of whether I should? I don’t quite understand. Am I surrounding myself with yes people? Have I been listening to a false narrative? My gut says no but my trauma says take a nap. 

The last time I tried to write out my trauma and relive my own rape, the words became a blanket I was knitting and the end result was a beautiful quilt of a broken girl who put herself back together again by speaking up. I used that story to write and publish an article calling for legislative changes to the definition of consent in determining the merits of an alleged rape. The last time I put my heart on paper it was cathartic. If nothing else, I need some catharsis. Maybe I just sit my ass on the couch and write with a cup of Irish breakfast tea. That’s more than good enough, I know. But what if I want great? 

Dying isn’t hard, it’s living that is painful. I know this because almost every morning for the past year I have woken up disappointed to find out I have to live another day. I have endured endless molten sorrow in the form of a merry go round and I am just so desperately trying to hold on. But what if I just simply got off? No one is forcing me to ride this stupid fake pony; what if I simply said no, I’d like to try another ride that doesn’t go in circles and make me want to puke? What happens when my dreams are oozing beyond the confines of my imagination? The more I think about going to Ireland and losing myself in greenery and towns with names like Doolin - the more I think, why not? 

We all brag about dying as if it’s honorable: how hungover we are, how exhausted and stressed we are, how many episodes you binged in one sitting. We sit on our asses and brag about our unhealthy behaviors as if it’s something to be proud of. Living? Saying yes to opportunities and walking the line between bravery and foolishness? Especially when everyone says don’t jump so high, don’t speak so loud. That is what is heartbreakingly difficult. 

I asked my best friend if she wanted to read what I’ve written today and she said she was going to make me post it and that’s how she will read it. I could be letting the puppy walk on the keys for all she knows, but she supports me anyways. Maybe someday I can be brave like her, but if the fiercest woman I know is saying fly, then I think I should fly. 

Good thing I’m shaped like a potato, should make flying a breeze and I’ll blend perfectly in Ireland.