Dreams stretch and grow and fade and change as we do. When I was four, I was certain I was going to be a graceful ballerina. Ballet lessons quickly cured me of that dream. When I was nine, I was going to own a horse ranch. I soon realized that I’d rather just love my own horses than deal with other people and their horses. When I was fourteen, I wanted to act on Broadway. Having given up on dancing, however, that dream eventually shifted to acting in film. But when I’m honest with myself, I understand that in a day where physical perfection is paramount, the hundreds of scars that weave across my body will probably prevent that dream from being realized. So what’s left for me?
I realize I’m being melodramatic. There are thousands of other professions in the world. But I’m not particularly capable of doing something I’m not passionate about. And I’m hardly even capable of that. I am limited. My brain chemistry is such that I have severe limitations. Such as… getting out of bed. That can be hard. I often dream of changing the world for those of us who suffer from mental illnesses. But I can’t even change my own world.
So what is my dream now? I really don’t know. I really. Don’t. Know. My emotional… limitations… prevent me from even excelling at my undergraduate studies the way I know someone who possesses my intellect should. So what do I do? Do I reassess my expectations of myself? Do I settle for less? I don’t know. I’ll get back to you. For now, I’m trying to re-learn how to dream.