dying dreams may kill the dreamer

today i laid on the floor and stared at the ceiling.  no tv. no radio.  silence.  i was waiting to die.  i closed my eyes many times, but it did not happen.  i pictured the ceiling falling on me.  i imagined a massive heart attack.  at one point, i imagined my dog Moonlight mauling me to death.

im tired.

its not tired like “goto bed earlier or get more sleep” because the reality is, i nap all day.  its tired like “ive had it, im done, i cant simply go on” tired.

im tired of being an island, with occasional tourists… and many who don’t want to visit

im tired of not having any direction, because i have no support, no money, no life… to really make one happen

.

im tired of having questions about me or life, that i really need a mom for; and struggling to decide whether to ask my therapist

im tired of the self-hate, self-harm, self-destruction, self-survival

im tired of not having….. a family, money, things, fun, ….. a childhood

tired.

what are my dreams?

i dont know.  i really dont.  i am beginning to think i dont have any now… that i just walk through life “existing” until… … …

all i ever really dreamed of was a family to call my own.  a family that loved me and wanted me.  a family to have some connection that is mine.  at first it seemed possible.  but at age 9, the dream was slipping away.  by age 11, the dream was gone and reality set in; no-one wants to adopt an old kid.  at age 18, the dream died as my ass was kicked out the foster care door.

the street became a family;  but it was just like the other families i had experienced… , rejecting, abusive, hurtful, and hard.  the streets dont really want or love anyone.  like with all the families that passed through my life, the streets were about surviving them.

when dreams die… where does that leave the dreamer?