Until the age of 6, when we moved out of the city I was born in, I had the most horrifying recurring nightmare. It was always the same one: this man hiding inside our home, who wanted to kill me. The dreams were so vivid and so real that at times I would wake up and be afraid to open my eyes, knowing he was standing right next to my bed. I could feel his breath, sense his body heat and I would pretend to still be asleep. Praying he would go away. There were times I would sit in the back of the car and look back to our living room window and see him standing there, staring right at me.

When we moved, the nightmare stopped and he never found me again.

Three weeks ago, the nightmares started again.

This time, nobody is trying to kill me. This time, there is no man hiding in my home nor am I being chased by the boogey man. This time, I land in a place where nobody knows me. I am still in Los Angeles but there is nobody left who knows me or with whom I have any kind of history with. I am as much a stranger to them as they are to me. And all my memories, all my history is contained just within me; without anyone to validate it or even collaborate with. I walk by an apartment building, remembering how I once visited a friend who lived there. When I go up to the lobby, his name is not on the directory. Nobody has even heard of him and I just stand there. Crying, scared, alone.

I start running down the street, trying to find something, somebody who can validate that I even exist. To prove that I am here, as a person, with a life and a past. Something. Anything. Somebody. Anybody.

With my heart racing, it feels like I am choking as I continue to run……

And then I wake up.

As much as I want to go home and visit my mother, I still haven’t booked my ticket. I talk about it with my mom; about how great it will be to come home and visit. I still haven’t booked my ticket.

Because I am afraid to go home and visit.

Because my mother will be 61 years old this year. My father was 55 when he died.

Because I found out 3 weeks ago that somebody I knew died and I was reminded how precious life truly is.

Because I am afraid that this visit back home might be my last visit back home.

Because I am afraid of what will happen when I become an orphan.

Because I am afraid of who I will be when I lose my roots; my history.

Because I am afraid of nobody knowing who I really am.

When I wake up, there are tears rolling down my face and I stare at the ceiling. Reminding myself, convincing myself, that it was just a bad dream.

My eyes closing again, I let myself get lost in the emptiness of my bed.

Once, I used to be too high to cry…..

My name is Sven.