I am pregnant again, only this time I am a combination of my present day self and my 18-year-old self.Â I am in a maternity home. It is a large house with big rooms. Each room contains no less than four beds.
I am aware that I am here because of Easter House. They are my benefactors.Â The home management dislikes me for reasons I am unaware of. They avoid me. The other expectant mothers also keep their distance as if getting too close to me will shock them or harm their unborn children. I am confused, yet not.Â I know what is going on, yet I don’t. I am there. Not there. Pregnant. Not pregnant.Â There is a boy in the dream. A young man really.Â I ask him how old he is. Somehow that seems like important information. He tells me he is 25. I am surprised. He seems younger.
He tells me he is gay. I ask him why I should care.Â He tells me he is assigned to watch me, to keep tabs on me, and he thought I should know. I struggle to understand how being gay relates to his assigned body-guard duties.
He tells me they are going to move me to a different facility. He does not know why but I have no choice. I must go. A woman appears and tells me that they are moving me to another place, a place with a Hawaiian sounding name, and that I should be prepared for less luxurious accommodations. I laugh at her suggestion that this current home is luxurious. I eye my gay bodyguard and he frowns.Â “Seriously, the next place is quite sketchy. Pack your bags”.Â He says it in such a way that I feel as I am being punished somehow. They are moving me to punish me.
I am floating. I am in a bathroom shower stall packing toiletries items. My large belly is preventing me from bending fully forward and down to grab an item.Â I want it. It is mine. I must have it.Â I extend my arm farther, lean against the wall, wiggle my fingers hoping I can touch it.Â The woman taking me to the other facility appears behind me. She pushes me forward and I fall into the wall. The object I was reaching for goes down the drain.
I wake up crying, shaking, disoriented. I scan the room to get my bearings. I find my husband sleeping soundly next to me. I see the black and white photos from our engagement hanging on the wall.Â I hear the hum of our fan and our air conditioner (I like to be cold when I sleep).
I get out of bed and walk to the bathroom where I proceed to shake and cry with no fear of disturbing anyone.
No doubt in my mind my processing of the film, blogging, talking about it has brought these old terrors to the surface.Â I know myself and my trauma well enough to know that when I poke that bear it pokes me back.