Dream Safety

What happens when one is stuck in the “who am I?” years? I couldn’t even pursue the question, because my identity was clear: caretaker, student, bag of anxiety. I had to stay strong, lest my mother call me too dramatic. In bed, after desperately studying trig while listening to Fumbling Towards Ecstasy on repeat, I’d picture a figure to comfort me: a woman, with shining dark hair pulled back in a sleek low bun, with long trailing skirts. A Beth March that lived. An aspect of my own personality, some form of softness I needed but could not ask for.