Hi it’s me.
I should probably warn you about something before we begin.
I’m one of those people.
You know the ones.
If you tell me about a dream, I’m going to look it up. I don’t care if it was about a purple hamster driving a forklift through a Target. Somewhere, according to the internet, it means you’re avoiding your authentic self or suppressing your inner child or you need more magnesium. I don’t know. My poor children have endured years of unsolicited dream analysis. They don’t even have to ask. They just make the mistake of mentioning a dream, and suddenly I’m telling them that the toaster represents emotional vulnerability or some nonsense I found online. I’m obnoxious like that. Anyway… This essay begins with one of my own recurring dreams. And, naturally, I made the mistake of Googling it.
I Survived. Suck It.
Livin’ the Dream, Baby!
An essay by Lannie narrated by her favorite British lady
I had the dream again.
Not a gentle dream.
Not one of those vague, symbolic, “you’re walking through a field and your third-grade teacher is there for reasons that feel important but aren’t” dreams.
Nope.
This one has a plot.
A personality.
A strong point of view.
And, apparently, a cat with something to prove.
There’s a box.
Of course there’s a box.
Because somewhere along the way, my brain picked up Schrödinger’s cat—probably from a Pinterest meme I scrolled past in 2020 and emotionally absorbed against my will—and said,
“Yes. That. But make it aggressive.”
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The box is wrong.
Not metaphorically wrong.
Physically wrong.
Like it’s been compromised.
There’s a corner eaten out of it—not torn, not broken—eaten.
Like something inside got tired of waiting for permission.
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And then—
it happens.
The face.
This absolutely feral, unwell, slightly offended-looking cat bursts through the hole like it’s been rehearsing this moment.
Eyes wide.
Energy unhinged.
Like it’s just come back from an extremely invasive vet appointment and would like a word.
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And it looks directly at me.
Which I object to immediately.
Because I didn’t invite this.
I wasn’t consulted.
There was no meeting.
No agenda.
No follow-up email.
Just—
eye contact.
Aggressive, knowing eye contact.
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And then it screams—
“I SURVIVED! SUCK IT, I SURVIVED SCHRÖDINGER!”
⸻
Not gently.
Not poetically.
Not in a way that suggests reflection or growth.
It’s not processing anything.
It’s announcing.
It’s… gloating.
⸻
I wake up like I’ve just lost an argument I didn’t know I was in.
Heart racing.
Slightly offended.
Deeply confused about why a cat is taunting a dead physicist in my subconscious.
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So I do what any emotionally stable person does at three in the morning—
I Google it.
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Because obviously the answer to a deeply personal, psychologically loaded dream is on page two of search results between a wellness blog and a woman named Larkspur who has a very strong opinion about my subconscious.
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And the internet—confident, unwavering, completely unqualified—tells me:
“Cats in dreams symbolize creativity, feminine energy, unconscious emotions, sexuality, and independence.”
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Right.
Okay.
Let’s go through that.
Creativity—fine.
Feminine energy—sure, we’ll circle back.
Unconscious emotions—obviously, I’m basically a walking emotional archive at this point.
Independence—yes, thank you, recently divorced.
We’ve covered that.
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But sexuality?
⸻
I’m sorry, I’m gonna need a minute.
Because if this is my subconscious attempting to reconnect me with my sexuality—it has chosen a deeply unfortunate spokesperson.
⸻
Also—and I feel this is relevant—I stopped wearing an earring in an old piercing from college.
The hole closed.
My body said, “We are no longer accepting piercings or, things that resemble a post.”
Now I’m wondering about my vagina.
⸻
And just so ya know —That is not the physical form of a woman standing on the edge of a sensual awakening.
That is a woman who has chosen comfort and hydration and the occasional Stella Artois as her primary personality traits.
⸻
So if this cat is here on behalf of my sexuality—
it needs better branding.
Because right now it’s giving:
“Unstable survival gremlin.”
⸻
But here’s the problem.
Because underneath all the chaos—and there is so much chaos, it’s practically the thesis
there’s something else.
Something annoyingly… accurate.
⸻
Because the cat isn’t confused.
It’s not wandering.
It’s not asking questions.
It knows exactly what it’s doing.
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It got out.
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That’s the whole thing.
That’s the message.
Not subtle.
Not layered.
Not even particularly polite.
Just—
“I got out.” Also, in case I wasn’t clear, “SUCK IT!”
⸻
And that’s not my favorite.
I hate how abrupt that is.
Because I know that feeling.
⸻
I know what it is to be inside something—
a marriage that slowly turns into a conversation you’re not allowed to finish.
A body that breaks like it’s a glow stick.
A life that stacks responsibility on top of responsibility until you can’t see daylight anymore.
Caregiving.
Grief.
The quiet, relentless admin of survival.
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And no one’s watching.
That’s the part people don’t say.
There’s no observer.
No scientist.
No neat little notebook where someone’s recording your emotional state like:
“Subject appears… tired but resilient.”
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No.
You’re just in it.
Alive.
Not alive.
Both at the same time.
Functioning and not functioning.
Crying in a parking lot and then immediately getting on a client call.
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Superposition, apparently.
Which is not as glamorous as it sounds.
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And then—
at some point—
you make it out.
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Not gracefully.
God, no.
No one exits these things like a swan.
You crawl.
You drag pieces of yourself behind you.
You forget who you were halfway through and have to improvise a personality on the spot.
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But you make it out.
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And you don’t whisper it.
You don’t sit quietly with your survival like it’s a delicate china teacup.
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You want to say it.
Loud.
Unapologetic.
Slightly feral.
⸻
“I survived.”
Not gracefully. Not with choreography.
But in a way that suggests Gloria Gaynor would at least consider letting me stand near the stage.
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And maybe—
this is the part I’m still negotiating—
maybe the “suck it” is necessary.
——-
Because survival, real survival, the kind that rearranges your insides—
it’s not gracious.
It’s not elegant.
It doesn’t send thank-you notes.
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It’s defiant.
It’s rude.
It’s a little bit unhinged.
⸻
It’s a cat bursting out of a box it was never supposed to leave, screaming at the universe like it just won something.
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And maybe it did.
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Maybe I did.
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Which is uncomfortable.
Because I would like my growth to look better than this.
I would like it to be calm.
Centered.
Smelling of bergamot and sandalwood.
Possibly wearing a really sexy linen dress and some great silver earrings.
⸻
Instead—
it looks like this.
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A woman standing in the middle of her life, slightly disoriented, holding together grief, healing, reinvention, and a deeply questionable dream involving an aggressive cat with a victory complex.
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And the truth is—
I recognize her.
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I recognize the part of me that made it out.
Not pretty.
Not polished.
But absolutely unwilling to go quietly.
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So now, when I wake up—
I don’t Google it.
I don’t ask what it means.
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I just lie there.
Heart still racing.
Slightly annoyed.
⸻
And I think—
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Fine.
⸻
You survived.
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Good for you.
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Now let’s see what you do with it.
——-
Love, Lannie
