When Timothée Chalamet Becomes Collateral Damage

In Part I, I wrote about the slow unraveling of performative friendships.  In Part II, I talked about learning to sit with the discomfort of solitude and how, surprisingly, it started to feel like peace.

Now consider this Part III: the moment it all came full circle in a dream.

I meant every word I wrote in my last post, The Stillness That Stayed.

But the night after I wrote it down, my subconscious clapped back with a fever dream.  A mix of trauma, college, and Kris Jenner in a power blazer.

So here we are.

The Dream in Question

I showed up at school one morning.  Unspecified, dream-logic school.  I want to say college, but it felt more like grad school meets trauma rehab with a rotating cast of emotionally unavailable men.

I was trying to talk to people, the ones I considered my closest friends, but everyone was ignoring me.  No one would make eye contact.  Even the dream extras seemed contractually obligated to avoid me. They walked past me like I was contagious, avoiding me at all costs.

So I went to the counselor’s office.  Naturally.  Except the counselor was Kris Jenner, or some dreamlike version of her in a power blazer and a deeply unhelpful mood.  Honestly, it felt on brand.

Without context or explanation, she told me to ignore Pete Davidson.

Only, in the dream, Pete Davidson wasn’t actually Pete Davidson.  He was standing in for someone else.  Someone I was not-so-quietly infatuated with in college.  Someone I now refer to in my head, not so much lovingly as ironically, as Yurt Daddy.  A man who once led a sunrise hike for fun and said things like “let’s ground ourselves” before drinking instant coffee from a titanium mug.

Obviously, that kind of energy could only belong to a Yurt Daddy.

You know those dreams where someone looks nothing like themselves, not even remotely, but you just know it’s them anyway?  That’s what this was.  Pete’s face, Yurt Daddy’s energy, and the full weight of lingering desire haunting me down a metaphorical hallway.

I was slinking behind him like a mountain lion stalking its prey.  The emotional equivalent of refreshing his sister-in-law’s Instagram from five feet away.  We never actually spoke.  Just kept passing each other in a loop, like haunted Roombas with unresolved tension.  It was giving restraining order meets missed connection.  A dangerously thin line.  

I went back to Kris.  Things were getting worse.  More people were avoiding me.  Gracie Abrams had apparently heard something, and now the entire student body wanted nothing to do with me.

It got me thinking.  Why do celebrities show up in my dreams so often?  Sure, I’m a proud pop culture aficionado, but it runs deeper than that.

Celebrities in dreams are archetypes, not actual people.  Your brain casts them like symbolic actors, using their public persona as a shortcut for something more personal.  It’s not about Kris Jenner.  It’s about what she represents to me.

• Kris might embody control, performance, or the need to manage public meltdown with private denial and a perfectly contoured face.

• Pete Davidson could stand in for emotional unavailability, self-deprecating humor, or the seductive allure of detachment in a hoodie and gray sweatpants.  If you know, you know. 

They’re not your therapist.  They’re your subconscious in costume.

So I did what anyone does mid-shame spiral – I called my childhood best friend, Katie O, to see if she knew what was going on.  I haven’t seen her in years, but I still think about her often.

At first, she didn’t know.  But she went back to Gracie to find out the details.  That’s when she learned I had broken my three-year sobriety streak a few weeks ago and blacked out.

And that, in the blackout, I had kicked Timothée Chalamet in the balls.  Quite literally the textbook definition of social suicide.

This was the crescendo of the dream.  Everything had been building up to this.  Sorry if the big reveal was underwhelming, but my subconscious isn’t exactly known for subtlety.

In the dream, I wasn’t even sure if it was true.  But the shame was overwhelming.  The idea that I had relapsed, especially so close to my three-year anniversary, was devastating.  I felt like I had been lying to everyone.  Like I had been lying to myself.  Not just once, but over and over.  Like maybe my entire healing process was a fraud.

Everyone knew.  Everyone was talking about it.  Pete and Timothée were doing a skit about it on SNL.

It sounds ridiculous now that I’m awake, but in the dream, the despair was palpable.

I wanted to transfer.  Or be homeschooled.  Yes, in college.  My subconscious clearly skipped the part where Zoom exists.  Or maybe I could just vanish.

I had a full-on breakdown.  I wanted Katie O to call an ambulance because I felt like my entire world was collapsing.  I called a loved one, and they told me it must just be allergies.  It makes absolutely no sense now that I’m awake, but in the dream, it felt like the ultimate betrayal.  Not just because they got it wrong, but because they made it small.  Like I was being dramatic.  Like none of it was real.

Was this my subconscious trying to gaslight my own feelings? Or was it something uglier, the fear that even when I show up fully, stripped down and honest, people will still dismiss it?  Like the truth isn’t enough unless it’s convenient.

My Bad, Timothée

I woke up sweating. Disoriented. Genuinely unsure for a split second if I had actually relapsed.

I hadn’t.  I knew that.  But the dream didn’t care.  It knew exactly how to find the softest spots and press until they bled.

It wasn’t about the relapse.  It was about what the relapse would mean.  What it would say about me.  Because obviously the universe revolves around my perceived moral failings.

The shame.  The exposure.  The idea that if I ever messed up, no one would look at me the same.  That I’d be a joke.  That I’d be alone.  Back to 7th grade, banished to the teacher’s lounge with a juice box and an inferiority complex.

The same fear I wrote about in Part I was still living in my subconscious.  It wasn’t gone.  It had just changed clothes.  It had evolved from craving connection to fearing exposure.  From “Will they like me?” to “What if they already know?”

You Can Be Healing and Still Terrified

Here’s what I’ve realized since.
Healing doesn’t erase the fear.  It just gives you better tools to face it when it shows up.

Yes, I’ve outgrown the need to fill every moment with people.  But I still have nights where I wonder if I’m actually okay.  I still have dreams that tell me I’m not.  Dreams that dredge up shame I thought I left behind.  That ask, are you sure you’re safe?  Are you sure you’re worthy?  Are you sure you’re not just faking it better now?

But even in the dream, I wanted to tell the truth.  I didn’t want to hide.  I picked up the phone and tried.

And that version of me.
The one sobbing in a hallway, confused and ashamed, begging for someone to believe her.
She’s not a joke.
She’s not a fraud.
She’s just healing.

So am I.

And you’ll be happy to know, Timothée’s groin is fine.