Last night I dreamt that I was sitting on my mother’s chocolate brown couch that is way too big for the tiny efficiency where she lives. My younger brother gave her the set when he moved. My family is beyond explanation. But on with this dream: I was sitting on her chocolate brown sofa and she was sitting in her glider rocker (I have no clue as to where she got this piece of furniture with an ottoman that also glides, but it to occupies too much space). Suddenly I reached down between the cushions and I found my key.

Let me back up. On March 17, 2015 I had my locks changed after a Temporary Protective Order (TPO) was issued against my psychotic roommate. (I was partnered with her through this organization that leases and then subleases the apartments to people in their mental health program—that (the program) is another story on its own and I have to get permission from the attorneys before I can write about what assholes they are).

After the court ordered my severely mentally ill and drug addicted roommate removed and the cops helped her out of the place, the next day one of my older brother’s friends came and changed the locks. He is a professional locksmith and he agreed to bill me instead making me pay up front; which was good because all I had in abundance was fear and anxiety and lots of vomit to go with it.

On March 25, 2015, still carrying around an excess of fear, anxiety and vomit, I lost my damn keys. I was on my way to work and was going to give my co-worker the extra key and then get another one made for the shady organization that arranged for me to live in this building (luckily they showed what poverty pimps they are before I had handed over the new key).

Not only did I lose the keys to my apartment, but also the keys to: the building I live in, the laundry room, my storage unit lock, and to the my small little safe that contains my jewelry (I had this little safe because I had lived in a house with other people that were as shady as the organization I cannot write about just yet). I also lost my SmartTrip card, mini Sharpi marker and hand sanitizer. All of these items were on my key ring and I didn’t even hear them fall because my ears were full of fear (fear is very loud in case you don’t know). Many hours and one therapy session later my niece paid a locksmith $388.00 to come out and pick the lock and rekey it.

On Thursday, April 2, 2015 I lost my wallet that contained my: SmartTrip card, pre-paid American Express card, library card, medical insurance card, and storage unit card with all the codes to access the place, AND the new key to my apartment that is attached to another mini Sharpi marker. I sent my co-worker an email telling her that I had lost my wallet and key. When she did not respond I walked down to her office. She looked at me, put her hand up and said, “I cannot even respond to that. Just stop.” In the end the key and wallet had been lost at the visit we had made to the lawyer about the shady organization and apartment complex where I live. Without too much stress and zero drama the wallet (with all of its contents) and my key, with the mini Sharpi marker, was safely recovered.

Then last night there I was sitting on my mother’s couch in my dream and when I reached down between the cushions of her couch there was the lost key to my new building. I looked at her and said, “Why do you have my building key?” She just moved back and forth in her glider rocker and rolled her eyes at me. I dug around between the other cushions and I found the two keys to the first new lock that was replaced and then I found the key to my mailbox (which I don’t actually have because the shady organization and crooked property people changed the lock on my mailbox and then removed the entire mail lock and this is real life not a dream).

There were so many keys and I just kept pulling them from between the cushions and putting them in the pockets of my pants. My mother said to me, “I don’t know why you wan ‘em now. They ain’t no use ta ya.” I glared at her and said through steel clenched teeth, “Well the building key is of use to me now, thank you very much. Why the hell do you have all these keys to my new place and all these other keys to my past homes?” She shook her head like I was the crazy one.

I turned my back on her and left the tiny, suffocating apartment. My black pants were bulging at the pockets. Then I turned over, opened my eyes, wiped the sweat from my neck and tears off my cheeks and fell back into a soundless black sleep.

My mother is not, and never has been, kind to me. And it does not take a rocket scientist to figure out the symbolism of this dream. At around 9:30 a.m. I finally pushed myself out of bed, ran to the toilet for my morning gagging and dry heaving routine and began putting my house in order.

I have been doing laundry and cleaning and thinking about keys. What they open and lock up. I have been remembering all the keys to me that I so willingly gave away. I keep coming back to the fact that of all the keys to who I am, the ones my mother continues to hold hurt me the most. At times the hurt almost kills me. The lovers and others that I either gave away my heart and soul keys to, or they stole, mean nothing and I do not want them back—they are of no use to me.

Mother you are so wrong. All those keys of mine that I found last night between your chocolate brown cushions are of use to me and I want them back. You received them by virtue of who you are and the unspoken promise to love me as daughter. Instead, you have misused the keys to me against me for far too long.

I am on my way to reclaiming each and every key that you immorally possess—the ones to my heart, soul and mind. Starting today.

Amme Voz



Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s