Defiant Wisdom

Tag: emotional overwhelm

Dreams or experiences marked by pressure, exhaustion, or emotional flooding — where something becomes too much to hold.

  • Part 2: The Break-In

    Part 2: The Break-In

    The Dream

    My house.
    I lived here—
    once upon a time.

    My son.
    Sleeping upstairs—
    small but not cosy.

    The door.
    A huge bolt,
    but so many holes.

    The windows.
    So many,
    with useless curtains.

    I am exposed.

    A knock.
    From the darkness—
    a man, desperate.

    “Open up!
    I need money—
    I see you in there!”

    I’m silent.
    He’s angered—
    smashing his way in.

    “Fire!”
    I shout—
    I’m terrified now.

    The Meaning

    house
    A past place of exposure and vulnerability.

    door
    One access point now, but full of holes. My inner boundary under direct threat.

    windows
    How I’m perceived. Someone sees me as withholding, but my refusal comes from fear, protection, and context—not stinginess.

    curtains
    I can’t hide myself. Transparency makes me a target.

    attack
    A collision of learned behaviour, fear of overextending, misunderstanding, and maternal instinct. I’m literally under siege.

    fire
    Survival strategy at its peak. I don’t cry for help—no one will come. I shout “fire” to draw people in through spectacle and self-interest.

    What Lingers…

    What if desire to help sits hand in hand with the fear of giving too much?

    What if the forgotten safety of intuition is replaced with survival scripts to protect?

    Marginalia

    After The Renovation from the night before, as much as this dream feels like its sequel, it doesn’t feel like it’s mine.

    I’ve spoken before about how dream sequences ramp themselves towards a terrible climax. Each night teasing themselves closer to the ‘root’ of the issue being explored.

    In Not My Dream, I also discussed how I’ve had dreams that haven’t belonged to me. This I believe, is another of those dreams.

    Only yesterday, I’d posted the insights I’d discovered about my maternal great-grandmother in Fragments of Catherine. In it, I state how she overextended her boundaries. This dream feels like her warning to me.

    To trust my instincts when things ‘feel’.

    To make sure I have boundaries in place. Not just in my waking life, but in my dreams also.

  • No Balustrade, No Friend

    No Balustrade, No Friend

    The Dream

    Work.
    I’m reprimanded
    for smoking
    in the office.

    College.
    Preparing
    to move class.

    Tardy.
    My friend
    leaves
    without me.

    Lost.
    The staircase
    has no
    balustrade.

    Vertigo.
    I grip
    the floor,
    in terror.

    The Meaning

    smoking
    Old habits resurfacing. Resistance to letting go.

    college
    A new environment without support. I thought I had backup—turns out it’s just me.

    stairs
    The climb is there, but fear of the unknown environment paralyses me. A crisis of confidence exposed.

    What Lingers…

    What if authenticity invites distance from those no longer aligned?

    What if the real vertigo comes not from the world outside—but from within?

    Marginalia

    This is another dream cycle where my subconscious presents an arc, then throws a curve ball at the end to help me process fear.

    In The Attic, the Shite, and the Kettle, I’m given gifts of terracotta.
    In We’ve Met Before, I’m introduced to the stability that comes from spirits choosing to meet across multiple lives.

    But here, I’m faced with abandonment for being tardy — not self-abandonment like in I Was Late, After All, but rejected by a friend.

    The fear that we’ll be abandoned for being exactly who we are is something I’m sure that many of us face. Every day, we scramble to align ourselves with what’s acceptable, with what’s expected.

  • The Monster Inside

    The Monster Inside

    The Dream

    Family gathering, extended.
    I said goodnight.
    No one answered.

    I shouted it louder.

    Silence.

    I asked one of them,
    “What’s your problem?”
    “You’re a mess in skin.
    I don’t like you.”

    They couldn’t explain why.
    They’d just decided.

    I pleaded with my parents,
    my cousin:
    “Are you gonna let them
    get away with this?”

    Silence.

    I raged.
    I smashed things.
    I hit them.
    I threatened:
    “If you ever
    invite them again,
    I will cut you
    off.”

    They’d proved
    their point.

    I walked away.
    A mess
    behind me.

    I boarded
    a boat
    in a wetsuit.
    I was off
    to meet friends.

    I felt a fraud.
    I had a monster
    inside.

    The Meaning

    The social exile that happens in families— not for what you’ve done, but for what you represent.

    Erasure is harm. Silence is a weapon. And it’s complicit.

    The desperation to be witnessed. The rage that erupts when you’re made invisible— and somehow you’re the problem?

    I didn’t cause the wound. But I raged.
    And that gave them their proof.

    Now I walk away with the shame.
    Am I the monster, because I roared at those who poked me?

    What Lingers?…

    What if monster is just the name given to anyone who finally roars?

    What if invalidation wounds louder than anger ever could?

    Marginalia

    This dream takes me closer to the bone than My Breast and the Boy, where I was only the witness. Now I’m in the front-row seat of my own mess — and there’s no escaping my humanness again. Much like Flawed but Trying: When triggered, I roar.

    The work I’ve done on my astrological ancestry gives me a sense of where this originated, and why it’s been passed to me — to rage on behalf of ancestors who couldn’t. I’m not shirking responsibility for my own actions. I’m just learning that What I Carry Isn’t All Mine.

  • My Breast and the Boy

    My Breast and the Boy

    The Dream

    My right breast—
    full and spraying milk.
    But the left—
    barren.
    I was trying
    desperately
    to get it to flow.

    —

    On the bus—
    a boy,
    about twenty,
    with severe learning
    difficulties.
    He was chewing
    a plastic penis toy.

    I was horrified.

    His parents said
    he had loads.
    He loved them.

    My partner spoke about the boy
    and touched his face.
    I chided him:
    “He’s a human being.
    You wouldn’t treat anyone else like that.
    Talk to him—
    not about him.”

    The Meaning

    breasts
    Apparently, the right side of the body is the side that gives, nurtures, expresses, and releases.
    I’m giving in abundance, maybe too much, without boundaries.
    The left breast, the side of receiving, is dry — not producing.
    There’s an imbalance: too much outflow, not enough return. I’m desperate to balance it out.

    disabled boy
    This is about what families normalise. How love and denial can become entangled. I’m disturbed—not by him, but by how easily his pain is dismissed as “preference.”
    He’s not a curiosity.
    He’s a person.

    partner
    I chastise him.
    Even in the dream, I’m holding a boundary.
    This is a human being — he deserves dignity, not pity or performative empathy.
    Talk to him, not about him.

    What Lingers…

    What if over-giving is just grief in disguise, trying to fill what won’t flow back?

    What if calling something love is just denial, when it refuses to witness what’s too difficult to hold?

    Marginalia

    In waking life, I’m on holiday, enjoying my family and our time together. I’m also in the middle of pursuing an NHS assessment for neurodiversity. This dream spits back everything I’ve been wrestling with—rendered absurd, to shock and confront. It revisits the feelings explored in Pedalling While They Take the Bus, Walking Away with the Door Still Open, and Sunsets and Nervous Men. In those dreams, I moved through an arc that ended with protecting my peace by walking away from holding space. Here, the fear returns—but as with the herb school arc which completed with Flawed but Trying, it doesn’t get easier. The work is entering a harder terrain.

  • The Attic, the Shite, and the Kettle

    The Attic, the Shite, and the Kettle

    The Dream

    Trying to get into the attic—
    but the room was upside down.
    I had to squeeze in under the sagging ceiling,
    but it scraped my back,
    and I was naked.

    When I came downstairs,
    the party had started.
    The house was a mess.
    The floor was covered in shite.

    I shouted at everyone:
    “Get out!”

    —

    I wanted to boil the kettle,
    but something was wrong.
    I traced the cord back
    to the plug in the wall—
    it was behind the cabinet.

    I dragged the cabinet away from the wall,
    furious.

    —

    I noticed people had bought me presents—
    lots of plants,
    and terracotta pots.

    I could feel the rough unglazed clay
    through the wrapping paper.

    The Meaning

    attic
    A higher space containing insight and memory.
    Accessing that part of me is disorienting and painful.
    I’m trying to rise, but the structure won’t let me.

    party
    Everything’s already in motion.
    I didn’t set the tone, but I’m left to clean it.
    No more tolerating the shit other people drag in.

    kettle
    I want to restore comfort, warmth, nourishment.
    The power is blocked—hidden behind heavy furniture.
    It’s labour to get to the source. And I’m furious.

    gifts
    Amidst the wreck there are signs of care.
    Practical, earthy, rooted things.
    The clay is rough—unglazed.
    This is growth that comes with grit.

    What Lingers…

    What if access to insight requires discomfort?

    What if grounded growth comes wrapped in grit, not ease?

    Marginalia

    This dream belongs to a theme of unearthing secrets and facing what’s uncomfortable, echoing The Body in the Greenhouse and The House That Contains Everything. But here, there’s a pivot: before, I stood alone in the work. Now, there are signs—and with them, an acceptance of nurture from others. In waking life, I’m on holiday, enjoying life with my family.

  • Competence vs. Compassion

    Competence vs. Compassion

    The Dream

    Herb School.
    The teacher got the wrong impression of me.
    I confronted them—
    their bias couldn’t sit.

    —

    Shouting at my son,
    I was trying to get him ready.
    We were going to be late.
    That would be another thing
    against me.

    The Meaning

    teacher
    Profiled before.
    It’s happening again.
    But this time, I don’t absorb it.
    I push back.
    That’s new.

    rush
    I’m not just late—
    I’m being watched.
    Every stumble, another mark.
    I snap at my son,
    trying to prove I’m competent.
    At his expense.

    Old stories and shame cycles are replaying, but this time I’m doing something different. I’m calling it out and noticing my behaviour for what it is. Internalised perfectionism and desire to be seen for who I am, not for others’ projections.

    What Lingers…

    What if pushing back is progress— even when the system still keeps score?

    Is competence worth it if the cost is compassion?

    Marginalia

    I’m waiting to begin a new herbal medicine course, and this dream is revisiting old fears from being a lone parent student as a young woman. This is the third in a series of herb school dreams.

    In Incense Blocks & Period Costumes, I weigh old ways against new.
    In Fireweed and Bunny Munro, I’m lost but eager to learn.
    In I Was Late, Afterall, I abandon my own needs for accountability.
    In Flawed but Trying, I’m exposed in my mess while defending my son.

    Journaling helps to show me the bigger picture of what my subconscious is trying to do.

  • Sunsets and Nervous Men

    Sunsets and Nervous Men

    The Dream

    On holiday—
    it wasn’t comfortable.

    The view was nice
    from my bed,
    the bed was too short,
    jammed into a window reveal.

    I desired
    to watch the sunset—
    it was just around the corner,
    out of sight.

    To find a place
    to witness it,
    I had to climb over walls.

    —

    At the bar,
    Trevor Noah looked awkward.

    I told him
    I liked his show—
    I’d forgotten his name.

    I asked him
    if he was waiting
    for a date.

    He seemed nervous.

    —

    At the restaurant,
    the sea view
    was
    in darkness.

    The best feature,
    out of sight.

    I walked through
    to look at it.

    Did the tsunami hit here?
    Of course it did.

    —

    I was bored.

    I decided
    to rewire an electric plug—
    I realised
    I hadn’t isolated the switch.

    I did it again.

    Then I announced:
    being an electrician
    was too dangerous
    for me.

    —

    A woman
    tried to confide in me
    in a crowded room.

    I walked out,
    expecting her to follow.

    She didn’t.

    While I waited,
    I tried
    to find a place
    to see the sunset—
    without having
    to climb.

    —

    Back in the room,
    I asked a couple
    what they’d done
    on their holiday.

    I was going home tomorrow.
    I’d done nothing.
    I felt guilty.

    They said
    they’d done nothing.

    A young man approached—
    proudly told me
    he’d driven 70KM
    around the island
    that day.

    “Good for you,”
    I thought,
    walking away.

    The Meaning

    bed in the window
    Even in beauty, I’m uncomfortable. Cramped into a frame that doesn’t fit—barely able to enjoy what I’ve earned.

    sunset
    The moment of meaning. Just out of reach. I can’t sit and enjoy—I have to climb for it. Joy shows up as effort.

    trevor noah at the bar
    Polished public man, rendered awkward and nervous. This is me outgrowing the need to be impressed. Also: why do I always approach unavailable men like I have something to prove?

    the sea / tsunami
    Dark, vast, past trauma acknowledged.
    “Did it hit here?”
    “Of course it did.”
    Memory disguised as inquiry. Grief without spectacle.

    electric plug
    I fix because I’m bored. I risk injury for the illusion of control. I do it again— it’s still unsafe. Eventually, I admit:
    “This is too dangerous.”
    This is growth disguised as resignation.

    confiding woman
    I make space for intimacy. I walk out to give her privacy. She doesn’t come.
    Another moment where I prepare, and no one steps into the space I made.

    holiday guilt
    I did nothing. I feel bad. Others did nothing—I try to justify. Then someone brags about performance—and I finally don’t care.
    “Good for you,”
    I think, walking away. That’s detachment. That’s real.

    What Lingers…

    What if joy doesn’t have to be earned through effort, just accepted?

    What if rest isn’t idleness—but resistance to performance disguised as purpose?

    Marginalia

    This dream closes a cycle.
    In How to Survive a Storm and Still Talk Shit, I ran from the wave.
    In What If the Sea Takes It All?, I wondered about letting it come.
    Here, I stand in the aftermath.

    In What if Rest Feels Like Dying?, I feared stopping.
    Now I name the guilt, and still claim the right to be still.

    In Pedalling While They Take the Bus, I exhausted myself for others.
    In Walking Away with the Door Still Open, I refused to wait.
    Here, I reach for joy without needing to earn it.

    Trevor Noah—famous, present, yet I can’t recall his name.
    In Clown Boss, Borrowed Passwords, I paid homage to what once filled me.
    Now I don’t.

  • Pedalling While They Take the Bus

    Pedalling While They Take the Bus

    The Dream

    I was meeting
    an old friend
    at the theatre.

    I was running late—
    finishing work.

    My mum—
    I’d asked her
    to join us.

    I tried
    to call my friend—
    my phone
    wouldn’t work.

    I tried
    to buy Mum a ticket—
    the website
    wouldn’t load.

    I finally got through
    to my friend.

    They were upset
    (understandably—
    I’m often late).

    I explained myself.
    They softened.

    Now I was
    so late
    I would miss
    the start.

    I put my mum
    on the bus.

    While I
    pedalled furiously
    on a bike.

    The Meaning

    relationship as performance
    I was invited and expected—but I arrived late, distracted by other things.

    mum
    History, tension, inherited patterns—yet I’m trying to integrate her into a present connection.

    fails
    It’s not that I don’t want to show up—it’s that my tools fail me at the exact moment I try. Even when I care, I mess it up.

    pedalling while mum takes the bus
    Still trying to fix, working harder than anyone—others calmly carried along.
    I’m exhausted. I’m earning my right to attend—and yet somehow, miss the mark.

    What Lingers…

    What if over-efforting is guilt dressed as love?

    What if showing up late doesn’t equal not deserving to show up at all.

    Marginalia

    At the time, guilt was running the show—researching ancestry while letting others down in the process. I was beginning an NHS assessment for ADHD, and my mum pushed back—questioning why I’d take this road so late in life—this dream holds all the tension of her approach.

    My dreams return to this dynamic again and again. In Walking Away with the Door Still Open, I refuse to wait.

    In Sunsets and Nervous Men, I finally reach for joy without needing to earn it.

  • What If Rest Feels Like Dying?

    What If Rest Feels Like Dying?

    The Dream

    Holiday—
    I didn’t want
    to do anything.

    I recognised
    I didn’t have
    long left.

    I felt
    desperate.

    It dawned on me…

    I might be
    depressed.

    The Meaning

    the holiday
    When rest is mistaken for disinterest.

    time running out
    Shouldn’t I be doing… all the things? This is the guilt of not conforming to toxic productivity.

    naming the depression
    Maybe what I’m calling depression… is not being anxious. Maybe what looks like laziness… holds weight.

    What Lingers…

    What if it’s not depression—just resting for the first time ever?

    What if doing nothing is how the deeper whispers finally get heard?

    Marginalia

    I’ve quit a mismatched school and am waiting for the new one to start. I’m supposed to be studying, but instead I’m ferociously digging into my ancestry, chasing a dream of The House That Contains Everything.

    Not having anything clear to do, for an overachiever, is akin to dying.
    An existential crisis wired in from the start: if you’re not achieving, not producing, you’re useless.

    The question rises: am I procrastinating? Does this research mean anything at all? Does it tie into a bigger picture perhaps?

    But the void doesn’t stay empty. It fills itself—
    not with herbal work,
    but with whispers.
    With intuition.
    With dreams.

    I’m listening. Remembering.
    Not doing. Not achieving.

  • What If Overflow Isn’t Failure?

    What If Overflow Isn’t Failure?

    The Dream

    I was outside,
    under a tarp.

    It was raining—
    relentlessly.

    A leak
    in the roof.

    I made something
    to drain the water away.

    The rain
    intensified.

    Eventually,
    the water was overflowing—

    even the drain
    I built
    couldn’t handle it.

    The Meaning

    the tarp
    Attempting to protect myself from being emotionally flooded. I hide under temporary protection but this is thin, makeshift and exposed.

    the leak
    The emotions are being managed. Even though they’re leaking through the tarp, I attempt to problem solve them away with structure and practicality.

    the overflow
    The feelings are too much. Even the systems in place to stop them from becoming overwhelming can’t cope.

    What Lingers…

    What if no structure can hold what needs to be felt?

    What if overflow isn’t failure, but the truth finally arriving?

    Marginalia

    It feels like a big responsibility, digging into ancestry that was meant to remain unknown. This dream carries the weight of that. I think of the rain as my Nan and Mum—both of whom either didn’t want, or don’t care, to dig up this past.

    But for me, even though it’s their story, it’s mine too.

    I’ve learned that simply giving these stories air makes them lighter. What was heavy in silence begins to lose its weight when spoken.

    And whatever their reasons for not looking, I want to say: it’s OK. I understand.

    You can read our story [here].