Millennial Musings

Ever since childhood, my dreams have been vivid and unusual. The contents of them ranging from fantastical and magical to downright horror. I started therapy in 2019, after my failed IVF cycle. For me it was about coming to terms with infertility. I remained in therapy for the following four years. Therapy became more than just learning to cope with infertility. I discovered nuggets of my true character, my goals in life, and at times, a space for me to bring my dreams.

Starting therapy brought an evolution to my dreams. Now they seemed to have a recurring theme. I seemed to be in the two main homes I grew up in. The first where I spent the first 13 years of my life, and the latter where I spent my teenage years. I remember every detail of these two homes, specifically old Victorian Glasgow flats. The first a sandstone 3 storied building, my family and I being wedged into the middle filling 3 bedroom flat. The second, a large proud five bedroom red sandstone building, a corner flat, with its’ own front garden and entrance. A progression to show the Jones’s from out first address that “we had made it pal.” I remember being a confident child. The youngest of four siblings and an only daughter, I was the epitomy of what it meant to be a “daddy’s girl.” My parents, not wealthy, did their best to give me what every young girl wants; the dolls, the Polly pockets, the stationary, the fashionable attire. Though somewhere, between that confident care-free child, and the move to our “big” home, I became a shadow of myself.

It’s safe to say that puberty is a confusing time for most. It is expected that with adolescence come all the moods and strops and difficult parent-child relationships. But thinking back to this period of my life, in my second life home, when I was a teenager, I almost became ghost-like. In my dreams, I tend to be mainly in this second home. I see the living room (which by the way no one did any living in because it was for other people to see how posh we were now), our family room which typically had a TV as the centre piece, my bedroom which was essentially a box room, and our kitchen which my folks decided would be smart to make as small as possible with swing doors( many a casualty with those doors.) I remember the first wallpaper I picked out, it had swirls. My bedroom was to be a calming shade of lilac, because “purple is my favourite colour” thirteen year old me would tell everyone. I appeared to have what others observed as everything I could have wanted. So what was the issue?

I firmly believe that my parents, in particular my mother, was out of her depth raising a girl. My three older brothers, all six foot+, strapping blokes, were similar in age. I came along after eight years from the youngest of the three broskis. I was a pampered little girl until I started to blossom into a young lady. And I think it became all a bit difficult for my mother to observe and manage. She was used to breaking up fights and being a bit rough and tumble with the lads. She was totally out of her comfort zone with an emotional 13- year old sensitive, young lady who wanted to talk feelings and be told “I love you.” As I got older, the distance between me and rest of my family widened. I was a “regulation hottie” growing up and I think my mother really struggled with that. That is sort of when the taunting from her started-the name-calling, the fat-shaming, the control of my social circle, the isolation from my peers. I was made to come home every lunchtime from high school so that I would not fall into the wrong crowd. I was not allowed to hang out with my peers even at school, and the only way I could is if they came to our home and we stayed within eyesight. What I read was monitored, who I spoke to was monitored, and what I did was strictly monitored. I was a creative kid, and excelled at sports and art. However, those could not be pursued. Because it would detract from my real calling which was to get top marks in all my other academic subjects and show everyone what an accomplished, smart, pretty, slim and modest young girl I was.

I was good at following order. I dissociated from who I wanted to become, and was keen to acquiesce to mother’s demands. After all, as she liked to remind me, I had to show her gratitude for her feeding me, clothing me, educating me. I was essentially a good performing monkey. Inside, slowly, my true self died with each passing day, each month, each year. The individual creativity that made me stand out amongst my peers, quashed to a pulp. I became a hollow shell of a girl, with a debilitating fear of speaking in the presence of others, who went on to struggle with eating disorders, anxiety disorders, depression and a complete sense of shitty self-worth. With no siblings my age, no friends I could contact (because I was not allowed to have a phone until I was 18 years old) I was alone. I was depressed. But I did not know that at the time. It was only through therapy and my nightly returns to that teenage home and my teenage years, that I learnt how damaging an effect those years had on me.

Whenever I have my dreams and I am in that dark and dreary flat, the overall dreams’ atmosphere is melancholy and hopeless. I have never had a dream with this particular background setting, and it be a happy dream. I would often lie in bed thinking about each room, linking it to specific bad memories and moments, remembering the god-awful dark coloured carpet, the dark mahogany wood panelling and doors, the dated décor, the sinister ambiance that threatened my young mind. I hated that place. I wanted it to stop coming back to me in my dreams. I was being reminded in my sleep of the stifling four walls that I had to remain in, alone. I felt claustrophobic waking up, with an awful sense of panic at being stuck again, being controlled again.

So at the end of 2019, aged 29 years old, I went back to visit.

I was in Glasgow for the weekend, and I took a stroll to my old neighbourhood. With my little niece, who is more like a baby sister to me given the age gap between my brothers and I, we walked the old familiar streets of Glasgow. She met with a friend and we parted ways so that I could continue onto Dolphin Road, the setting of my nightmares. This was something I needed to do alone. I stood at the front door and rang the doorbell. The same large foreboding front door we had, the same steps leading up to it. The same iron gate that caged me in. At this point my heart is racing. I am worried whoever opens the door will think I am trying to sell something or worse still rob them. But it is worth a go. A middle aged Caucasian lady, with a brunette bob haircut answers the door. She looks a bit confused as she does not recognise me, but she seems nice enough and gives a polite smile. I start the monologue I have prepared in my head. “Hi, I am sorry to bother you, I am Zainib, I used to live here a while back when I was growing up…” It starts off strong but out of nowhere, tears start blurring my vision and my voice starts to break. Well done Zainib, now she really is going to think you are a freak! But her gentle eyes soften some more, and she opens the door wider. She asks me affectionately “Do you want to come in and have a look around dear?” I choke out something that resembles a yes and furiously nod my head. I follow her in. This matriarchy that will show me around the horrors past lived. I almost want her to hold my hand as we walk through but even I acknowledge that is a bit too far. The carpet, that shitty carpet is still there. They haven’t had the chance to change it I am told. The lighting in the hallway is different. Most of the rooms have been painted and redecorated. The wooden doorframes have been glossed over to give the house a much brighter vibe. It feels both familiar and alien. The kitchen has been extended. The “living room” is now actually a room where the living go. Progress. And then I see my first bedroom; the little cupboard room. It is now a kid’s playroom. Evidence of such, scattered all over the floor. Was it really this small?? It seems so much smaller now. How did we fit in a single bed and a wardrobe in here? I immediately spot the wallpaper. The wallpaper is the same. The little swirls dotted across the walls. The kind lady, who’s name I was too emotional to even remember asking, said she would leave me to it and if I had any questions on the subsequent owners she would be in the next room. My hand on the wallpaper still, I smiled and remained glued to the wall. How many nights had I lay in bed, with my fingers tracing these same swirls? Did the swirls recognise me? If I said “Hello room” would that be really strange? Sod it, I think. “Hello room.”

Those four walls, echoed a greeting back. The quietest response. So quiet that only my soul heard it. I stood transfixed, my hand still on the wall. I realised it was not the room that was speaking back to me, but my past self. The ghost of little me, who was trapped, and alone. She had been stuck in this house all along. And I had forgotten all about her. I went on with my life, burying those years and along with them, burying the little Zainib who was still circling the swirls on the walls of her “purple” box room. No wonder I kept being haunted by this place. No wonder I had nightmares about this place. No wonder I was drawn back to this place of control and sadness. I stood there for a few minutes to reassure the little me that I was here, and that I would look after her now. I was much older now, and able to take care of the both of us. It seemed that little me had been waiting for many years so that I would come back and claim her. To make her a part of who I am now, and who I will be moving foreword. I could not help smiling quietly to myself. I could not help feeling both peaceful for finding her, and sorry for forgetting her.

A few moments pass and the kind lady re-emerges. “Everything okay?”

“Yes,” I reply. “Thank you for letting me see inside, it means everything.”

“That’s okay, you’re welcome.” she responds. “You will notice that some of the décor is the same but a lot of it has changed hasn’t it?”

“It has changed yes, but it feels much the same too.” I smile back, little me holding onto my hand, and looking up at me in another realm, as I speak to this lovely stranger. “I’ll be out your road now. Thanks ever so much.”

She walks me and little me to the front door and we bid our farewells.

I walk home, with little me, no longer trapped in those four walls. She was never alone. She always had me.