We roll into our new neighbourhood cautiously guided by an old-timer, who after we finally manage to maneuver into our RV site, introduces himself as Graham.
“Been here since the park first opened,” he beams and then proceeds to point to each of the other trailers and run down who’s who: “The ones behind you like to party,” he warns, “as does the couple just over there. These people have two little granddaughters, that’s a woman by herself, the next one just lost her husband last year, this one over here had a boyfriend but they broke up, Dean across the way helps out around here like me…” and so on.
We have landed right in the middle of a pre-established click, and I feel my insecurities rising. We are outsiders.
The rain follows us, and trapped inside, I watch as others arrive, pull into their units and even before unlocking their own doors, hustle through the downpour to greet old friends. Voices rise in excitement and laughter lingers in the air, and I am feeling 12-years-old again, like the year we moved half way through grade eight and my new classmates examined me as if I was some repugnant specimen that had crawled out of the gutter – an unwanted intruder.
The next morning I watch as people emerge and gather in the road way, cups of coffee in hand, and then later as trays of food are carried to a potluck that doesn’t include us.
How will we ever fit in, I wonder? These people have a history. They have stories and rituals and relationships that have evolved over years of coming together. I have legs that sometimes work, a sensitive palate, and a non-alcoholic habit. Even if we were invited, I probably wouldn’t be able to attend: I’m in bed most of the day. 
I resign myself to the role I’ve always played: the loner. They will tolerate me, and I will remain comfortably on the periphery, I decide. Ric is just like me. We’ll be loners together. It’s what we do.
Then my granddaughter comes to stay, and as we walk her to the playground we pass a group of people.
“V.J. and Ric, right?” a woman waves. “Might as well get acquainted, we’re neighbours now.”
Names get thrown around and before we stop her, Sloane has joined the circle and made friends with another little girl. Then another woman stops and says she lives directly across from us and we find out she’s from Ric’s hometown, and when we meet the next time, I’ve remembered that she’s the one Graham said lost her husband and I offer condolences, and we sit and she tells me her story, and it turns out her husband had the same cancer as mine, and we cry together and suddenly we’re no longer intruders… we belong.
Turns out it’s not the beer we drink, nor whether or not I can eat pasta, nor any of the other reasons I might think someone might dislike us – it’s about making connections: opening our hearts and seeing the people around us and letting them in.
I recovered – raged, despaired, railed against the injustice, and then got on with my life. My children, caught in the crossfire, were not so fortunate, and I wish I had been more aware of that at the time.
I hug her and tell her: “Soon”, and marvel that she wants to spend time with a doddery old woman like me, and think:
It is just past noon and I am still in bed. It is doubtful that I will be able to do much else today.
The exhaustion of ME is systemic. It’s not the kind of tired that comes from having overworked: a well-earned fatigue leading to deep slumber. It’s more than the fatigue at the end of weekend of company, although many try to tell me they know what I’m feeling. It is dead weight burn out: the incapacity to generate enough energy to activate movement. It accompanies any exertion no matter how minimal. And, it can last for days.
Reminiscent of lazy summer days, right down to the flip-flops, 
I might have guffawed at this. “I can barely manage day-to-day living,” I tell her, “working isn’t even within my realm of capabilities right now.”
Three years I have been homebound – two of that bedbound. My case has been documented by my current insurance company every three months during this time. At the two-year mark, my long-term disability provider required that I apply for CPP (Canadian Pension Plan) disability coverage. At this point, I had imagined it would be simply procedural.
“And likely no knowledge of this disease…” I add, cynically. She doesn’t admit it, but it’s true. Myalgic Encephalomyelitis (aka Chronic Fatigue Syndrome) falls outside of the scope of knowledge of many fields affecting well-being – medical, governmental, insurance, etc.
Dreams, however; are not intended to simply reiterate the obvious. The messages that bubble up from our unconscious offer us new insight, if we are willing to open them.
What started out simple enough, has now become very complicated, and even as I type this I recognize my role in all of this – I have an uncanny ability to blow things out of proportion. I just don’t seem to be able to sit back and relax and enjoy the moment. Part of it is this disease, I know, and much can be attributed to life experience.
The main message I came away with from this dream is that no matter what our circumstances, financially, or otherwise, there will always be challenges to potential happiness. Most of those challenges are self-imposed. The problems of the dream could have been avoided by the setting and assertion of clear boundaries.
