Page 3 of Synodic

Somehow I had broken through the thin firmament that separated consciousness from unconsciousness, and it was beginning to distort my perception of reality, trapping me in a perpetual dream.

Tired, hungry, and on edge, I didn’t even give the murky goo a second glance before I dumped it down the drain, wishing my qualms were as easily disposable.

2

I walked to a nearby coffee shop in hopes of clearing my head, to make sense of where I had derailed and how I could get back on track as soon as possible. Maybe I’d even get some work done.

For the time being, I kept busy with freelance data entry. It was far from glamorous, but the positions were short-term and ever-changing, and for someone terrified of solidifying in place, the constant variation was definitely a plus.

I preferred to remain self-employed, working from the convenience of my own home or varying cafés with decent wifi. I set my schedule and hours, which was proving useful at the moment, especially considering my new sporadic sleep schedule.

Being my own boss had its perks as well. After being constantly interrogated my entire childhood, I had grown an aversion to answering to anyone. I would rather maintain my distance, turn in my work, and keep to myself; it prevented people from asking too many questions, questions that invariably led me to empty answers.

Closing the gate of my row house, I went to take in a deep breath of February air. I could almost taste the silver winter thawing into a watercolor spring, but something stopped me short, leaving me craving a sensation I swore was just on the tip of my tongue.

I let the lacking breeze fill my lungs anyway, holding it for a few beats before slowly letting it trickle out my nose. It was a trick I’d taught myself to keep my parents from shoving pills down my throat to curb my “overactive imagination,” as they so delicately liked to phrase it. Growing up, I would tell them stories about my day or the dreams I had, only to find them exchanging worried glances.

Concerned teachers and alarmed parents approached my mother and father, reciting to them what I said or did in school. I believed my experiences to be common, and that everyone lived life the way I did, but it didn’t take long to realize how wrong I was. I began to tell people less and less for fear of what they would say…or do. I was punished for being myself, accused of lying and fabricating disturbing stories.

Afraid of backlash or ridicule, my parents began diagnosing my symptoms, trying various medications and therapies to help with my night terrors, maladaptive daydreaming, and misbehaving. My parents were determined and relentless in their plight to “fix me.” Word couldn’t get out that the renowned couple of Copeland Psychiatry had a daughter with unmanageable behavioral issues.

Nothing ever worked—until one day, it did.

The newest little pill my mother brought home helped with the vivid dreams almost instantly, but it did something the others hadn’t: it made me so lethargic I could barely see straight. Even from a young age, I’d loved to run, but it became impossible with the way my limbs lagged.

At first, I was relieved the dreams were gone, that I was rid of the thing that made me so different, but then I began to miss them. Though some were so frightening they made adults quiver, I knew some were beautiful too. But no one ever seemed to remember that part, and eventually, I grew to forget my dreams altogether.

Before high school, I told my parents I would like to try life again without the powder-packed capsules. Promising and swearing left and right I would never act out again, that I would stay in line.

It took weeks of begging and bargaining for them to tentatively agree on a trial basis. I honestly thought they would put up more of a fight, but I wasn’t going to argue a case I’d already won.

Having stopped taking the pills, I began to manage my condition on my own. The dreams never returned, so I was quick to think I’d outgrown my childhood ailments, and I prided myself on my mental capabilities.

I also discovered that when I ran, I was fast, and was quickly recruited to the varsity track team as a sprinter.

Flying down the straightaway of the track was the only time I didn’t feel I was a puddle of water slowly hardening into sludge. Some part of me always felt stifled, suppressed, and running was the only device that gave me some semblance of control.

After all these years, I managed to block out most of what happened to me, the things I saw, or the stories I told. And while I wished I could recall what I had said to shake everyone so entirely, I never mentioned it, and neither did my parents.

But now, after years of silence, the dreams had returned.

I tried to keep the building panic at bay, but it did little to stop my stomach from twisting into heavy knots.

Grounding myself, I clung to the strap of my bag, focusing on something tangible and within my grasp. The satchel was draped comfortably over my shoulder, carrying my laptop, wallet, phone, and the new book I happened to be reading, though it was hardly holding my interest.

Bells tinkled as I entered the cozy local café, and once I settled into an open seat, I dove into work.

The day passed in a quick blur of lined computer documents and caffeine. The coffee lost all flavor within the first few hours, which was just as well; I wasn’t drinking it for the taste. Drowning myself in work and caffeinated drinks was a paltry method for delaying the inevitable; my dreams would find me sooner or later.

I dreaded sleep, fought it as much as I could, but being awake came with its own set of difficulties as well. Figuring myself out lately had been like trying to tell time on a clock with rapidly spinning hands. I could feel shifting currents of space moving and stirring within me, wanting more, needing more, demanding more. The newfound sensation had me realizing I was a glass half full, a cup wanting to brim and spill over like the waters of an infinity pool.

I’d always been content living life and going through the motions, but suddenly, for the first time, it didn’t feel like enough.

3

If darkness were a thief, it was stripping me for all I was worth, creeping in and stealing whatever precious fibers held my sanity intact.

I wished I could remember how I'd gotten here, then maybe I could get the hell out. The last thing I remembered was working at the coffee shop, but now I was encased in shadows, my vision going black and my body wracking with tremors.

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