Oh.
Right.
The reason I’m allergic to pretty boys like Mr. Not Real here?
It’s also because I have hang-ups about my own dad, and I guess that’s why Mr. Not Real is in my dream?
I remember reading something about how nightmares are supposed to be a subconscious manifestation of unprocessed trauma, and how said manifestation is composed of random images that our brains have registered and downloaded by default.
TL;DR—dreams are sometimes meant to help us get some semblance of peace or closure about the bad things that happened. And for the cameo bits in our dreams, our mind just uses a random image we saw, whether it’s real or not, whether we remember or not. So Mr. Not Real here?
He’s real in the real world, but since I can’t remember seeing him, he’s probably someone I saw as a child. Which is too bad since I would love to have met him in person in his dream age, but...anyway, moving on.
“I need to figure out who you are.”
Mr. Not Real gazes at me with interest. “Why not just ask me?”
Huh.
That does make sense, so...
“Are you my dad?”
I end up making Mr. Not Real choke, and I’m not sure why that is. It’s a perfectly legitimate question since I only grew up hearing stories about Dad. I never got to see him—not even a photo—since he bailed on us while Mom was still pregnant, and the only things she ever told me about him were that he was rich, she wasn’t, and therefore she wasn’t wife material. That’s it. That’s the whole story. No name, no photo, no “he had your eyes” or “you have his smile.” Just a one-time acknowledgment from my tipsy mom to assure me of not being a product of artificial insemination. My dad simply didn’t want me—
“Why would you think that?”
Huh.
Why would my mind make Mr. Not Real ask that? Is it because it wants me to say things out loud, to make sure that I’m not in denial?
“I never knew what my dad looked like, and all my mom was willing to tell me about him was that he was rich, my mom wasn’t, and therefore she wasn’t wife material.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
He actually sounds like he means it, and I’m honestly starting to feel impressed with how my mind is so good at making all this feel...realistic. Like, this man is only supposed to be a representative figure of my trauma, and yet my brain has gone out of its way to make him feel so vividlyreal.Even the way he’s looking at me now is rather expressive, the way you can’t expect a two-dimensional made-up character would be. His gaze is thoughtful but at the same time rather...calculating?It’s almost like—
“But I still can’t quite grasp why you believe I’m your father.”
He’s also trying to figure me out, and it’s just...amazing.How can something my own brain has conjured be such an enigma to me?
“Do I look old enough to have sired you?”
I almost snort.
Classic.
Like, seriously.
‘Sired’ is just a classic choice of word for someone born with a silver spoon...or someone who likes to fake being rich, just like a certain someone—
Stop being so bitter about your mom, Ti!
It’s the thing I hate the most about myself, to be honest.
I know that my therapist is right. My mom is going through her own stuff, and until she’s sorted said stuff out, she’s going to keep faking her way to get what she wants. That’s her thing, and I just have to live with it. I can’t let Mom doing the wrong thing cause me to do the wrong things, too. Otherwise, it’s going to be an endless cycle.
I know all these things.