I dreamt about you again last night. I do that a lot. But I rarely tell you. I’ll only tell you if there’s some absurd predicament that is funny when I wake up. A humorous detail about the plot.
I don’t tell you about all the times I dream of you, and it’s perfectly normal. Well, sorta. Because in my dreams, you realize how great you are. You finally stop arguing with me — and the rest of the world — and you accept that you’re good, that you’re loved, that you matter.
And in those dreams, you’re happy. You’re the version of you that we all want for you. The one that you’d want for yourself, if someone long ago hadn’t convinced you that it was wrong to want that. That it would make you selfish or deluded somehow to want happiness for yourself.
In those dreams, you see how beautiful you are. How talented. How incredibly special. You see yourself and all your good qualities just like we do.
And you glow and glow and glow. You glow so brightly that sometimes that part of the dream wakes me up. But other times, I can stay asleep, stay there with this dream version of you. And I get to talk to you about this change. How you finally know what we’re talking about. What we mean when we point out how wonderful you are and how much we care about you.
And dream you promises that you’ll never forget it. That magic has been worked here — in my dream, in this alternate reality — and it’s such powerful magic that it’ll make its way into the real world. “Just wait,” you say. “You’ll see.”
And every time after I have one of these dreams, I almost believe you. And it’s not until you argue with the first compliment I give you that I understand that nothing has changed.