🎭 Episode 13: I Got Rejected by a Dream I Didn’t Know I Had

 

There’s a certain type of emotional chaos that only Carl can initiate with a straight face. He wheeled into my room—monocle gleaming, cactus arms suspiciously gesturing toward the ceiling fan—and announced, “Tonight, we journey inward. Into the realm of... lucid subconscious recalibration.”

“What does that even mean?” I asked, sipping cold coffee like it was protection against spiritual nonsense.

Carl fluffed himself indignantly. “It means we’re going dream diving, darling. I’ve signed you up for my ‘Sleep-Self Immersion and Embodied Growth Experience.’ Or SSIEGE for short. There will be candles, intention-setting, and possibly a musical number from your repressed hopes.”

I should’ve known. Ever since Carl took that online certification course from an institute that may or may not exist, he’s been insufferably enthusiastic about becoming a “quantum therapist.” I agreed mostly because it was either that or help him alphabetize his collection of metaphysical zines.

That night, I lit a soy candle that smelled like pine needles and passive regret. Carl instructed me to lie down and repeat the phrase, “I am open to whatever version of myself isn’t actively ignoring reality.”

I slipped into sleep.

At first, the dream was absurd. I was late to an underwater math test and my pen was a sardine. Then the scene warped. I found myself on a grand stage in Stockholm, surrounded by a cheering crowd. Carl was in a tuxedo, dabbing his imaginary eyes with a fern leaf. I was wearing a gown made of illuminated manuscripts and holding... a Nobel Prize. For what, you ask? Emotional resilience in late-stage capitalism. That’s right. I had apparently invented a new form of psychological alchemy and saved the collective human soul via interpretive dance and emotionally intelligent snack distribution.

But then... something shifted.

A voice rang out from nowhere and everywhere: “This soul is not yet emotionally ready for this manifestation.”

“What?” I squeaked.

Suddenly, the crowd melted. The lights dimmed. The Prize dissolved into glittering dust. And then—get this—I was physically kicked out of the dream.

Like, yeeted through a psychedelic trapdoor.

I landed in what can only be described as a bureaucratic waiting room made of forgotten thoughts and existential hold music. There, a much taller cactus appeared. It looked like Carl, but with an air of smugness and a beret.

“I am Carl Deux,” it said in a French accent so thick it made my chakras itch. “I am ze Dream Cactus now.”

It handed me a scroll. It read: You have been emotionally evicted from your subconscious vision. Please heal your fear of success before attempting reentry.

I woke up with a jolt and a vague craving for croissants.

Back in my room, Carl was drinking imaginary tea and journaling in a leather-bound notebook titled Clients Who Self-Sabotage with Style.

“I got evicted from a dream,” I told him.

Carl nodded like a therapist who’s seen too much. “Mmm. Classic case of subconscious misalignment. You were presented with a symbol of inner fulfillment and rejected it with your usual flair for dramatic existential avoidance. Proud of you.”

I gawked. “So the Nobel Prize... was real? In a dream sense?”

He nodded. “Of course. The dream was your psyche showing you what’s possible if you’d stop gaslighting yourself into believing you’re mediocre.”

“I was kicked out for being unready!”

“Not unworthy,” Carl corrected, tapping his pot knowingly. “Just unready. There’s a difference.”

He then brought out a vision board made entirely of sticky notes from past versions of myself. One read, Maybe I’m actually decent at things? Another: Don’t forget you survived that one year where everything broke, including the blender and your spirit. The final one said simply: Try again. But hydrated.

Later that day, I attempted to draw the dream version of myself. She had glowing skin, excellent posture, and the energy of someone who reads their emails and sets boundaries without apologizing.

I pinned the drawing to my fridge.

That night, I tried to revisit the dream. Instead, I dreamed of standing in line at a cosmic HR department while my dream-self filed a formal complaint about me “trespassing on visions not yet emotionally integrated.”

The dream HR rep handed me a form labeled: Shadow Work Acknowledgment: Stage 2. I had to initial next to a line that said I acknowledge that I might actually be powerful, and it scares me.

I woke up sweating.

Carl was waiting with a smoothie and a smug smile. “Progress. The dream is protecting itself from your self-doubt. Which means you’re finally close enough to scare it.”

I muttered something unkind about dream cacti and went to brush my teeth.

By the third night, the dreams softened. No Nobel Prizes. No evictions. Just me, walking alongside a version of myself who didn’t shrink when praised. She didn’t say anything. She just handed me a note before disappearing into the mist.

The note said: When you’re ready, I’ll still be here. Bring snacks next time.

Carl framed the note.

I’m learning, slowly, that readiness isn’t a prize to win—it’s a space to grow into. And that sometimes, the first step toward worthiness is being rejected by a version of yourself that sees your potential more clearly than you do.

---

📚 Teaser for Episode 14: My Books Organized a Literary Intervention

Next week, the paperback squad mutinies. Self-help books roast me in verse, a romance novel weeps uncontrollably, and Carl eats popcorn while diagnosing me with “narrative fragmentation syndrome.” I’m forced to reckon with my reading habits, my lack of plot development, and whether the character I’ve been playing is really me... or just the protagonist of someone else’s sad novella.

Bring tissues. And maybe a thesaurus.