I Only Ever Dream Of London

I’ve had a lot of dreams and hopes in this life.

Some came true. Some didn’t.

Of what remains, I’ve mostly given up on ever attaining them. I say this not because I am a defeatist or “negative Nellie” (or negative Nell, in my case), but because I am too tired.

I feel as though I say this a lot these days—this, “I’m tired.” Of course, I never say it aloud because it isn’t something anyone would properly understand. I mean, if someone was ever around to hear me.

When I refer to being tired, I do sometimes mean physically. I have a mysterious health issue that insists upon draining my energy on a (near) daily basis. A good chunk of my life unfolds in bed these days. The other half is spent waiting for the other shoe to drop, so I’m often caught holding my breath and fearing the inevitable moment that I will once again lose what energy I have left.

Inexplainable fatigue aside, I most commonly attribute my being “tired” to a chronic loss of…passion. I am unsure if I have expressly mentioned this before, but I have dealt with depression for many, many years now. Depression stole my passion. Well, most of it anyway.

I refuse to say I “suffer” from depression because I have experienced it long enough to no longer notice whether I am actively suffering or not. It has just sort of become a fixture in my life that I see, greatly dislike, but get on with. Kinda like a crack in a wall that you know will simply return if you try to fill it in and sand it down.

I also refuse to say that I “am depressed” or “have depression”. I am not an annoying state of being…I am a person. I do not possess an annoying condition because I did not consciously choose to have it. I refuse to lay claim to anything I haven’t chosen. It’s just there…like a stray dog I didn’t mean to have follow me home.

Anyway, if any of you are even remotely familiar with the manner in which depression can crush someone’s spirit and zest for life, you may then be able to imagine what I mean when I say that I am “tired”.

I am tired of the great deal of added difficulty everything I strive to do seems to have.

I am tired of waking up some mornings and feeling like I’d rather not have woken up at all.

I am tired of trying to explain why I seem to have “changed”.

I am tired of being afraid to be happy too long, as though I know it simply won’t last.

I am tired of things not working out and having to wonder if it was somehow my fault.

I am tired of shying away from new people for fear that they may figure out I’m broken.

I am tired of remembering everything I ever messed up due to being messed up.

Any dream that I have had, but haven’t yet achieved may have to remain that way because of this seemingly endless exhaustion I speak of. It isn’t that I no longer want these things. I just suppose…they may not be so realistic for me anymore. Not unless I find a way to fix what has gone wrong.

However, I don’t know to what degree things will be fixed, so I have decided that it may be best to throw in the towel (as far as some aspirations are concerned). If the universe surprises me later on down the road, I’ll never turn my back on a good thing. But for now, I just…can’t maintain enough excitement to get me over the hump and back on track. I don’t want anything quite that badly anymore.

But then there’s still London.

I recently found this IKEA flip photo frame in which I placed my favorite London photos from my collection. It now lives on my dresser where I can see it every morning when I wake up. In my mind, it seemed logical to put something I love right in front of my face so that it is the first thing I see when I open my eyes. That way, I’ll wake up happy. Indeed, it is impossible for me to feel gloomy when I dream of London.

I only ever dream of London now.

Out of every dream I have ever had, the dream of one day being able to live in London is the one that has withstood the demise of all the others. It is the one solitary thing I cling to. I don’t know why, but since I was a very small child I’ve been convinced that England (more specifically London) was where I belonged. This was long before I knew much about it and way before I had ever visited. I was fully convinced that I would love it and would be able to find true happiness there.

I have obviously been there by now, but it amazes me how accurate I was as a child. When I am there I am completely at peace. Life feels perfect. Depression honestly feels like a twisted fantasy, a bad dream, a big fat lie when I’m there. There isn’t one particular thing that I can point to and say, “This is it. This is why I love it.” The feeling of the city is something I cannot articulate even on my best day. It simply feels like home to me. I feel vibrant, alive, loved, inspired. That is more than enough.

Sometimes when I look at these photos I feel a twinge of sadness, a hint of worry. Moving to London isn’t as easy as 1, 2, 3. I wish it were. Instead, there are rules, stipulations…all of which make me feel ions away from being able to meet them.

I’ve spent years looking over everything, trying to come up with a feasible way to make my fondest dream a reality. I’ve had two opportunities to potentially move there, but as life would have it, neither worked out. I often wonder if a successful third opportunity will ever present itself.

I genuinely pray everyday that I will someday see this one wish fulfilled. Until then, I will continue to mentally replay my happy memories of being in the city I love.

I will look upon these treasured photos and somehow continue to dream. ⭐️❤️🇬🇧

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