Last night, I had a dream. A Jungian dream.
I was reunited with an old boyfriend. He was tall, rich—Chinese—but crippled. He could prop himself up to appear whole, but he needed support. When I saw him, he was high up on a podium. He had gotten there first. My number was called later, placing me on a lower rung.
Because I knew him, I had the right to bypass the others and ascend.
When we reunited, I had to prop him up, but once we were together, it felt right. We danced, moving as one. Onlookers stared. A woman suggested I could exploit his disability for money, but we side-eyed her. Money is not the issue. We were dancing, and we were hole, that’s the point.
Lately, I’ve been working through the guilt of hiring an assistant to help with my social media when my book launched. Accepting that help was the hardest part. To compensate, I worked harder in other areas—because that’s the only way I could justify it to myself. The guilt is fading, but now a new one has emerged.
I just signed a contract with a WordPress expert to help me build a new blog.
It’s like I’m dragging around this crippled partner in the dance, yet I cannot let him go. And I won’t. Another difficult step, another notch up that ladder. I just can’t, for the life of me, be as tech-savvy as other writers, other content creators. You could call me and my handicap a failure. Fine. Okay. Crippled lover it is.
A new website, a new blog—do I even realize what I’m dreaming, hoping, building? Five years ago, I couldn’t have imagined the progress I’m making. I should be giving myself applause and encouragement instead of hate.
In the final part of my dream, I held an old-fashioned handgun—a Smith & Wesson .40, a ’90s model. It needed buffing and polish, but it was vintage, and it was mine. And when I held it in my hand, I realized—I had skillz. Still do. Just needs some new ka-pow, and it won’t shoot blanks. It’s a fine piece of work.
So am I.
Vintage. Gen X. Indestructible.
“You still have it in you, Melany. You can do this, even with your shortcomings.”
With this Jungian dream, I realized something in me is integrating. I am becoming whole. I must make peace with Blogging 2025—hobbling along the way, making things up as I go, engaging with the spontaneity and inventiveness that have always been mine.
I must, finally, also acknowledge this too: I am managing anorexia nervosa. This is my reality. Every day is a struggle to eat right and to get my sh*t together so I can live a fulfilling life.
This whole thing is a dance, dynamic and ever-evolving. As long as the music is on, I’ll strike the nerve to get up, drag my wounded parts in the dance floor and dance. I will heal myself with the dance.
The featured image on this blog was AI-generated by me using free tools, namely ChatGPT, Canva, and Leonardo AI. I use these images to support my written content creatively and cost-effectively.
