We old dreamers go out for a Christmas catch up once a year. Sometimes there's eight of us, sometimes six of us. We normally go to a pub in the inner east as it's easiest place for everybody to get to.
It's nice to see the old dreamers. For years I sat in a dream group with these women. I don't know of any men who could handle what went down in Dream Group. I left a number of years ago, finding I'd had my run, but still liked the people and I respected the process. I've never been a big dreamer anyway. We know things about each other that nobody else knows. Dream Groups are a sacred space.
Regardless, tonight was the annual Dreamers Dinner.
And again, I found myself a little triggered. Not triggered badly enough not to go, but I felt the pull this evening has on me.
Seven years ago, on Dreamers Dinner night I got the news that my niece had passed away. Her death, from leukaemia, was expected, after nine months of suffering. It had been a horror few months leading up to her passing, indeed an awful year for most concerned, but I remember that night well, It was early evening, I was getting ready to go to the dreamer's dinner, when my mother called with the news.
Needless to say, I didn't go out that evening, preferring to have a reflective dinner at home, talking to friends who really could offer no comfort - only kind words and an ear.
I didn't make it to Dreamer's Dinner the year after either. I was a puddle of anxiety.
The year after that, I did make it, but stuck to my friends in the group (as it was a larger group back then) remembering now that I didn't want to be there.
And it's got better since then.
What is it they say? Feel the pain and do it anyway?
Tonight, as I got ready to go out, I felt the pangs. Of what? Of survivor guilt? The guilt of not feeling worse about this fact. Or the guilt of the fact that seven years on, I'm not having the reactions over my niece's death - it's now a lingering sadness, not an event which triggers depression and anxiety.
Pulling on a dress, slapping on some make up and giving the cat a kiss on his head, I went out the door and made my way down to the pub. It was a quiet, but pleasant evening.
Maybe it's just my brain preparing for the anniversary of her death, which is on Friday. Or the fact that she would be turning 23 on Tuesday if she was still here.
I'm not sure if I'm grieving her, or just the pure waste of her death. She made an impact. She was a great girl. Maybe this small triggering event is just my way of letting me know that I'm still feeling something.
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