Advice from the Help Desk
This is the second print installment of Kristin Dombek’s advice column. Questions can be sent to email@example.com.
I used to have a recurring nightmare about a wedding. I walk onto a vast green lawn and see rows of wooden white folding chairs. Suited men clump and scatter across the lawn, and women in taffeta and silk circle up and laugh softly. There are half a dozen bridesmaids in pink dresses puffed by tulle. There are flowers woven cinematically into a fucking white wicker archway. I can feel a hulk of a house off to the right. But I have tunnel vision. I don’t know whose wedding it is, and then I feel a rustle, a soft scratching around my legs, a kind of drag when I walk. I look down and I’m in a white wedding dress. In my mind are sentences so loud they feel physical — how did this happen? How do I get out? — but I cannot say any of them out loud; I cannot speak.