*Utda pooping on Dodo—Sketched by me @R3x_Draws*

This isn’t easy to write, But I hope you’ll read it as heartbreak—not judgment.

These dreams have haunted me for years, and maybe by sharing them, I can let go.

Dreams that Haunt

*A collage in the moment of desperation.*

Last night, I had two dreams that flowed right into each other. The last one is repeated frequently throughout the past 6 years.

I wake up crying each and every time.

So last night, the dream starts and I look in the mirror. I’m strong. I feel strong. But then I notice cracks in my teeth. Chipped, they start falling.

I rush to the dentist but they’re closing.

In seeing my desperation, a janitor says he could fix them.

I agree and after he’s done, I look in the mirror—they’re perfect.

A dentist passes and I say to him, “Look, this janitor can do what you do!”

But the dentist says, “Yes, but he makes his patients malnutritioned.

(The word didn’t sound right, but in the dream, it made sense.)

The janitor’s fix gleamed—but hollow.

A foundation polished on the surface,

Rotting underneath.

That’s when the dream shifted and I was back at the cages…

I was in front of a bird cage in front of a large window. Giving them fresh food and water—preening their beautifully vibrant, soft feathery cheeks.

And then I notice, I hear squawking.

So I follow the noise, into a dark room, and sometimes it’s even outside. But every time, I lift the cover and find a bird cage stuffed with filthy parrots. Parakeets and cockatiels, Grays and Jardines. Their eyes are crusty, feathers mangled, and their food and water hasn’t been changed in what looks like weeks.

I put my finger in and they flap around—terrified.

Horrified, instead of just cleaning their cage, I let the birds go outside and then cleaned out the cage.

Some birds fly away, some birds are too weak, some birds fly back to me.

Just like the ones I once loved and lost.

Every time I wake, wrecked with guilt—

Remembering what I left behind.

The birds in my dreams aren’t just birds—

They’re echoes of my past.

Companions I once had, friends I lost.

Maybe you’ve had dreams like this—

Where past choices return with claws,

Demanding to be faced.

Each dream cage, a memory of past—

I’ve never forgiven myself for.

Birds sang to me, ever since I was 6-years-old.

My first bird, a parakeet Pika, rode on my handlebars and died of old age.

I’m immediately reminded of my ex criticizing me when I left.

“You leave a pattern of pets—abandoned— left behind.”

We had two parrots together, Utda and Dodo, and had built an aviary for them in the center courtyard of our rental house. I had Utda from the start and we got Dodo a couple years into our relationship.

*Utda and Dodo enjoying brunch outside in San Francisco.*

Then the pandemic happened and I was trapped inside with Utda screaming incessantly at me to let him out. I kept telling my ex, ‘don’t let him out until he’s quiet. Trust me, I’ve had birds all my life. You’re rewarding bad behavior.’ But they kept letting him out.

So when the time came and we broke up— they were so attached to the birds, the birds had plenty of space to be free, and I wasn’t sure I could keep my depression at bay if they stayed with me. So I said to keep them. I did what I thought I had to do to survive— but it didn’t erase the grief.

As their words echoed—

“A pattern of pets—abandoned—left behind.”

That was the moment, I lost part of myself.

Gunther

And before them was Gunther, my wonderful pit-mastiff. I’d rescued him as a puppy off a woman in the streets of San Francisco’s Tenderloin. He was a gigantic, black, serious yet goofy companion. He came right after a sudden chronic illness left me deaf in one ear— walking with a cane. My violin sat there, missed— the grief too heavy. I trained Gunther and he went everywhere with me. Carrying my medicine, bags I couldn’t carry, and let me rest on him, sometimes on sidewalks, when I was too dizzy. Gunther carried me.

Meanwhile, my mental health was slipping— rapidly. My parents would call me screaming for hours.

Over things as small as unanswered texts, while working—

“What do you think about my shiny new shoes?”

I’d let them scream at me for hours, while cleaning up my projectile vomit, and sometimes even Gunther’s piss, he couldn’t hold any longer.

I was trained too well—

Never disrespect.

Soon after, I wrote a brief note. Made arrangements for Gunther so I could slip away into a bathtub— forever.

But by chance, by one ditch effort for last hope,

I reached out and was shipped off to a facility—

A safer place to get better.

When I got back, within days, loss piled on loss. My own survival felt fragile. Only to learn, my college best friend was now gone too— by gun shot.

And when I got back from the ward, a neighbor had moved in with a dog across the hall. I told them it’d be safer, to avoid any trouble, if the two dogs met, neutrally, to sniff each other. They waved me off every time and so one day when I opened the door and this dog was right there, Gunther slipped past me, tail wagging— to say hello.

Their dog immediately snapped and snarled. As I ran towards Gunther, the owner shoved me down to the floor. Gunther saw this and leapt, bit him and then released, came over licking me.

But the very next day, a police report without my involvement and a letter to vacate was posted on my door.

Because Gunther was a clearly pit-mixed, with now a police documented bite under his name, I couldn’t get an apartment with him and my health— in shambles. Worried he’d be put down, I chose to re-home him to a young veterinarian with half an acre. I did what I thought I had to do to have him and I, both, survive—

But it didn’t erase my guilt.

That was the moment I lost a large part of myself.

Oogly and Indie

But even before Gunther, there were the birds—the first companions who carried my joy and my grief.

For before Gunther, I had birds—

My lovely, free-flighted, majestic companions.

Oogly the cockatiel and Indie, the Sun.

I had them ten and three years under the sun.

Oogly the cockatiel because she had been picked on and reminded me of myself. For a long stretch of my childhood, Oogly wasn’t just a bird. She was my only friend.

Indie, the wild new leaf, I hoped someday would be me.

They were loved and trained, they knew when to chatter, and when to be still.

They flew with me across Colorado’s soaring, great mountains.

Soon after moving to San Francisco, my parents visited and my mother—

She was so persistent.

“These birds, these filthy, screeching wild animals have no place here.”

And she echoed the words I’ve dreaded to hear, again and again, for each one of my passions.

“No one will marry you, date you, love you if you have them.”

And it wasn’t the first time. I once found another, beloved bird of mine, stuffed into a bug box, suffocated, tape wound tight around the breathing holes. I’m almost certain it was the neighborhood bully my mother, deliberately, let in. She knew that kid was my bully. She knew the extent of it—I had even switched schools. And still, she let them in. And if she saw it, she did not stop it. For this she felt, built “character”— strength from within.

*“Oh, it’s better this way. No one would ever put up with you— and marry you, owning birds” —Mom, 3rd Grade*

And this time, fresh from a breakup—

A three year long relationship—

My crushed hopes of marrying—

Their gapped tooth smile and tender embrace—

I believed her.

The Trade

*The hot Arizona sun and my mother’s wrath— and Oogly, my only friend in my corner and white Jesus always watching.*

I re-homed my wonderfully weird, little companions and on the night they were exchanged, Indie escaped! He flew in circles above the city— then straight back into my shirt, nuzzled against me, as if to say ‘don’t let me go—don’t leave me.’ And still, tears in my eyes, I passed him over.

Re-homing them felt like betraying not just Indie’s wildness but Oogly’s trust—the one who had once been my only childhood friend.

That was the moment.

I took the swing—

Clipped my own wings.

I chipped away at myself.

When I came back from the hospital, I tried desperately to find them. I searched high and low, in my contact lists, emails, and craigslist. As a hopeful replacement, of the joy I so missed, I got a new sun conure, Ut-da—‘to laugh’—to replace them. Though the bond never quite formed on my end. Like the janitor’s teeth, I tried to patch myself.

Quick fixes—

Starving me deeper.

The Withholding

*My timid, courageous Pippin—my anchor of joy, my reminder to step outside, even when fear whispers to hold back.*

And even now, I look at my pup. My timid yet courageous, adventure-pawed Pippin. My Pippin I adopted to help me through my fears of getting out of bed again.

My connections since that day, the day I left my feathered friends, Oogly and Indie, I’ve been utterly broken.

Even now, after all the healing, part of me withholds— a little pulled back— remembering my heart broken.

Even after hiking five hundred miles, I withhold— fearing the grief of loving only to lose it again.

So on this, I look back on my shame. My mother’s words cruel and violent. Telling me that love would be withheld, denied, unless I silenced and reshaped myself. Giving up what made me joyous and light—soul abuse.

But I carry my shame.

Everyone tells me I did the right thing. That I saved them. That I saved me.

But in saving them—

And in surviving—

I could’t actually save me.

That’s the part no one sees.

That’s why, after all this time,

Forgiveness never came.

That was the moment.

Not just losing pets—

I lost myself.

The moment I traded me— my weird—away.

And even now, I know I’ll have moments, asking myself—

What would I gain if I just trade a little bit of me—

My weird—

Away?

The Release

If I let go of my weird,

Will I be loved?

If I quiet my joy,

Will I finally be accepted?

If I clip my wings,

Will someone finally stay?

Trying to earn something by burying away what made me sing.

Like the janitor’s teeth, my choices gleamed on the surface—

Survival, safety, moving forward—

But underneath I was starving.

Starving joy.

Starving trust.

Starving myself.

No joy that must be caged is ever truly mine.

No love that demands silence will ever satisfy my song.

And nothing I gain by sacrificing my weird—

Will ever—

Feel like home.

But love?

True love—

From others and myself—

Don’t require a trade.

If love demands your silence,

It isn’t love—

It’s control.

Maybe the dreams aren’t here to punish me.

Maybe they’re here to remind me,

Of forgotten cages,

I can still open.

That even now,

Something winged waits to return.

Every cage a memory,

Every bird a piece of myself hidden—

Too messy,

Too much,

Unloved.

So I look through my rooms,

My dark closets,

And thorny hedges.

I uncover the cage.

I leave it wide open.

I let the birds free.

To see which ones—

If any—

Come back to me.

Maybe you’ve had your own cage.

Places where you’ve clipped your joy—

Your wings.

Convinced it would make you more lovable.

A gentle reminder,

Clipped feathers grow back…

So open the door for the Wild, Wonderful You.

Additional Artwork:

Utda and Dodo in a vicious tug-a-war over a binky.

Utda dismantling my keyboard with precision, showering seeds and purple pulp like a trickster’s crowning victory.

*Oogly, my childhood companion, perched on our heads even in clay. The only photo I have of her is this memory made by hand.*

If any of this resonated or helped you, please reach out.

I’d love to hear from you.

Invitation

If you need help or are hurting, please call someone you trust for support or the emergency hotline.

If you’re in the U.S. you can call 988 for the Suicide & Crisis hotline.

If you’re in Spain, you can call 024.

Enjoyed Reading?

Go on… there’s more by the hearth…

Hearthfire Journal

That Was the Moment.