Chapter. 2 Reflections on Childhood
Present day.
Diana groaned as she opened her dark brown eyes and adjusted to being awake.
“Jeez I hate when I dream.” She groaned and pushed herself up to sit on her bed. She groggily surveyed her one bedroom studio apartment and sighed. It wasn’t much, but it was hers, and a darn sight more than she had when living at any of the foster homes she bounced around up until 3 months ago. Diana graduated high school and the foster system by the time august came and went. She had to support herself right away, so she got a job in a diner and got this place for a good price. Her neighbours seemed like normal but busy people, and none of them were noisy. Diana couldn’t complain. “Better get my butt in gear.” She grumbled as she saw the time and headed for the bathroom. A brisk shower later and she was much more alert. She got dressed into her black slip on shoes, slacks, red uniform shirt and black apron. Her long black hair was braided practically over her left shoulder and she and she put a big black duffle coat on over the top of her clothes. She grabbed her purse and walked out of her apartment with a slice of toast in her mouth.
As she got the bus to downtown Portland, and Jenny’s Diner where she worked, her mind wandered to her dreams. Dr Jones will tell me off for not writing it down in my dream journal, but I slept through my alarm. I can’t be late for work, so I’ll have to do it later. She pulled her cell out of her purse, a basic model and a recent purchase, to check her calendar. I don’t see him again until the 23rd, so maybe I don’t tell him I forgot? He can’t tell when in the day I wrote in the journal. Diana lifted her brown eyes and looked out of the window with a distant look in her brown eyes. She didn’t really take in the urban scene the bus drove through, but thought back to her childhood trauma.
She didn’t used to call it that, of course, but Dr Jones insisted that being raised by an extreme cult with delusions of grandeur was a form of childhood trauma. Diana’s mind had suppressed most of it, it had been so disturbing, but what she did recall wasn’t always so terrible. Her mother clearly loved her dearly. She was mad, obviously, but a loving lunatic. She thought she was some powerful witch, and that I would be too. I seemed really upset about the prospect of not being one.
Diana’s dreams had been coming in hard and fast as of late with these flash backs. One thing the state had been good at, was having their screwed up foster kids seen my a therapist once a fortnight. When she started to share these dreams of hers over a year ago, he was referred to a specialist in Juvenile PTSD and supressed memory retrieval techniques. Even though she was nearly 3 months out of the system, her therapist was keeping her on at a reduced rate whilst she got on her feet. But he won’t give me a discount forever. The state were paying him before. My diner wages don’t cover half the fee, I’m sure. Diana pulled herself up to stand and walk down the central isle of the bus as her stop came into view. She thanked the driver and walked the last 10 minutes to Jenny’s Diner. In that time she smiled as she thought back to her dream. Last night was nice, actually. Normally my dreams are scary, even if they are foggy most of the time. But last night was nice. Diana could almost smell the earthy tones of her mother’s basement apothecary. The warmth of her arms. The softness of her blonde hair and the steadfast devotionin her hazel eyes.
Dr Jones will tell me off for fantasising about my abuser, but she never felt like an abuser to me. She just…felt like my Ma.
Diana pushed her trauma-come-nostalgia aside as she walked across Jenny's threshold and put her service smile on. She waved in greeting to her co-workers as she headed into the back to clock in. Another day another dollar. I hope I get some decent tips this today.