Dreams
I Never Chased My Dreams
But I never let them go
My five year old self dreamed of being a veterinarian. Sitting in my bed with rows of stuffed animals in front. I mean, with a few cats, and a love for animals what else could you want?
Then she learned she would have to operate on them and decided her life her future was elsewhere. A teacher like my grandmother. A doctor to help fight other people’s sickness. One small jump to the next. All the possibilities.
Cartoonist, that one stuck for a long time. There still lingers a warm feeling when I watch a childhood cartoon. Those that would lift my spirits and made me believe everything was possible. For the longest time I wanted to create stories that warmed the heart. My dream method was drawing, and I even got to draw well, for a kid. But, never practiced. I enjoyed it, and never did it.
Years later I got to architecture school, because I liked math and was creative, as per a comment. Lasted a year, and changed again. After a few psychologist and counselors appointed I entered communications, advertising in specific. It’s as creative you can get in an “established career”.
I hadn’t drawn in years. I applied for minor in 3D animation, but forgot to fill the papers. My dream to work at Disney diminished. I gave up on drawing.
I mustn’t really liked it if I didn’t do it. Right?
So, why not writing? Writing had been for me a second way of creating stories. And here comes a new dream: become a writer. I even tattoo, because one it’s tattooed it’s forever.
On my free time I would pursue this dream with several writing classes. That not only taught me how to write better, but also made me write in it of itself.
You see as in drawing, writing was a passion I did not practice. I needed the deadline, and not my own. Those I broke time and time again. Hence, I couldn’t establish myself as one, so my career continued on the “normal” path.
As normal as it can be quitting three jobs in very short amount of time. As normal as the unsettling feelings boiled in my body. And, history repeated; first in advertising as in architecture; then again sales. But, in the back of my mind: create stories, create stories.
Along with creeping self talk of blame, all geared in one direction
At 28, I got a little help from family and opened my own clothing store. Liv & Suncas, petite shop. Lovely name isn’t? I bankrupt it little more than a year later.
So, I returned to sales. And the self-blame started to drown me. I had all the means, very privileged, all the opportunities, and still I couldn’t make something, be someone.
I couldn’t even write my book, even when I love to write.
In retrospect, my ADHD was evident. Keys were not the only thing I lost during my life. But, not until this year, 34 years old, I get a diagnosis. I get a treatment.
Am I sad for my past self who always felt inadequate? Deeply.
Have I published my book? Not even started.
Has my life turn out as my young self with a room full of plush toys imagined? Not even close.
Hast my life gotten resolved? Not yet.
Not yet. It may seem I can blame it all now on something else other than myself, which I still don’t. Self blame is the mascara after a night out with no soap.
What did changed, from even a year ago, is a breeze of peace. I don’t need to be what I dreamed of. But I can shape my reality. I can get my hands wet and mold the mud, when before I tried it without water. I’m doing.
As for writing; I let go of the over-complications, started a Medium account. I’m doing. For my future novel, I gave myself time to finish other big projects to enter that one. There’s still time, there’s still time to shape it.
All along my real dream was to tell stories, to make others feel a little better. The dream is to tell stories.
