Lately, a lot of realizations have been going on while I sleep. Last night I had a dream that I was searching for a gas station with working pumps and at another point in the dream, I was looking for my dog. I realized that I have a lot of dreams where I am searching for something. They are in fact, the most stressful dreams that I have. I always thought that this was due to my first bottom in recovery when I lost my car. That it had traumatized me. However, last night some other thoughts came up at 3 am. I was remembering the rage my mom would get in when things that she deemed important were lost. One of the things my mom considered important when I was young was scissors. There was nothing that would send my mom into a rage quicker than losing the scissors. There was a specific drawer for scissors, and she would go on about how she just bought all these new scissors and can’t find any.
My coat was another, although usually, I was lying about not knowing where that was because I hated wearing coats, not really sure why. A shirt, other than the only one I would wear. She would say I bought you all these clothes why are you only wearing this one shirt. The reason is, that all the other clothes were too borderline feminine and I did not feel comfortable in them. That is just a short list, but I recall many occasions when my room was so kindly torn apart by her in a rage, searching for something I could not find. As I got older the things that she deemed important that would upset her if missing were papers. Whether that was warranty papers, a bill, or an instruction manual. This makes me think that perhaps the traumatic dreams I have of searching for lost things aren’t so much from my bottom, but from the stressful events of my childhood.
It also makes me wonder if my bottom of losing my car, perhaps that would not have been as traumatic had I not had the upbringing I did. I remember the hardest part of that event was having to tell my mom that I had lost my car. I told her finally in hopes she would help me. Imagine the rage, this was a woman who would tear my room apart over scissors. Although her rage this time about my car was a silent rage since I was an adult no longer living under her roof there wasn’t too much physical wrath to be felt. To a degree, I am sure that being raised with these things has helped make me the organized person I am today. I certainly almost always know where my papers are, although I do still tend to lose scissors.