Why is it so hard to say goodbye to our dreams? I’m talking about the dreams that just don’t fit anymore. You know, the ones you’ve carried close to your heart, protected, kept safe, day after day, year after year. (There are dreams I’ve held so close that they have never seen the light of day.)

Sometimes it’s been me who has consciously decided to let go of a dream. Sometimes they have just drifted off after a while, barely acknowledged, until one day I realize they haven’t been around for a while. Every once in a while, I do a kind of internal spring cleaning, holding my laundry list of dreams up to the light and seeing what condition they are in. Is this one too tight, is that one too threadbare, too fragile? Although I often live amidst clutter punctuated by piles of paper scattered about (aka my filing system), I don’t like it that way. So too, I want my dreams organized, cross-referenced, tidy. Of course that isn’t life. Life is messy, unpredictable, unknown.

External circumstances have decided the fate of some of my dreams. My PD diagnosis impacted some dreams.Though I am trying not to let the disease determine my journey, there are some realities that impact what I do now and how much time I have to do it.

And then of course there are the interpersonal dreams. This is what I am going through now. Letting go of that one particular dream, that one particular person. Boy, it’s tough and painful as hell. Yet I’ve gotten to this point through a pretty healthy process of grieving the breakup and letting go. Layer by layer, deeper and deeper, the acceptance has gained hold.

I don’t like it, but it just is.

Thanksgiving was hard, Christmas harder. Knowing (pretty much, anyway) that there would be no phone call.

It just sucks.

What’s also painful is the growing realization that this particular dream has changed…if I am honest with myself. It doesn’t fit anymore. Though it wasn’t my decision, I am slowly, resisting all the way, understanding that not only is this the reality, but it probably is a better reality for me, given all that has taken place. There is power in this new perception, but sadness too.


Writing that feels like yanking a band-aid off a cut. I’ve never been able to do that. I always ooch it off, slowly, very slowly. I guess that is how I recover from a broken heart too.