Daydream Believer (The Morphean Chronicles Book 1)

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Notify me of new posts via email. This is one of the worst things that someone can say to an actor: You held back. Share this: Twitter Facebook. Email required Address never made public. Thank you very much for your response! I have to say now, that I am definitely not a person who enjoys seeing people in pain.

How am I enjoying the latter? I have also been to the therapist because of my social anxiety. I am scared that he will not understand and either totally ignore the matter and say that I have a good imagination or decide that I am crazy and I have a mental ilness. But I know that I have to try.

I stumbled upon this network, after eighteen years and counting of MD. Seeking assistance from a psychologist did not help as the focus during our sessions was over my history of being bullied and abused of.


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My daydreams are built around a wildly successful version of myself. The problem that has been destroying me is how to get the motivation to quit and turn these strong dreams into reality. Can anyone help.

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In terms of finding motivation to move past this, reading stuff about what other people experience when it comes to MD and moving past it and also different articles about the inner-workings of it all was very helpful to me. But also, i try to be just really present in daily life more, which usually means trying to talk to people around me more, not watching media that feeds into my dreams, not listening to music too often otherwise i get lost in my own head, also using technology less as that also distracts from the present.

I wish you the best in leaving behind MD! Hey Eretaia! Just read your article on wild mind networks. I wish I read it long ago when i was sobbing every now and then feeling the need to share all that you already mentioned in your article so perfectly but never could. Thanks a lot. I have really connected to almost every word of it. Your thoughts must have help thousands of people suffering out there.

God bless you really. I would love to talk to you personally about some little this and that about me as i think you would definitely understand. I would be very grateful.. Like Liked by 3 people. Hi there, Thanks for your insightful article, it really helped me understand myself. But as a disabled shut-in, dying of a long, progressive disease, I find so much comfort and peace in my daydreams.

Sometimes fantasies have a good purpose. When I was healthy and able to work and go out into the world, I did not rely on fantasy so much, but now in my final days, they are better than morphine. Please continue writing, because it is so encouraging! Your post inspire me so much to want to grow and change. Have you ever thought about writing a book? I will love to read and support it. Here is what people think when I tell them about my failing attempts to cease MD: When I am lonely, depressed or sad, I feel an urge to escape into daydreams.

What really happens is I start daydreaming without even noticing it. Giving in to urges is different. Totally different. It means you are proceeding with your own consent. You are allowing yourself to daydream. My MD, on the contrary, never seeks my consent. It starts automatically. I only get to choose whether or not to stop, once I become aware that I have already escaped in daydreams. I have the same issue. My MD usually kicks in when i walk or drive without me noticing it.

The bathroom at my work is about 30 meters away from my chair and it can kick in even within that short distance. It becomes an issue when I need to make a stop somewhere before reaching my destination. Once I start walking down a familiar path I can go full auto mode and wake up at the destination. When I realized this, it is kind of strange how I managed to stay out of trouble considering that it constantly happens when I drive a car down a familiar path.

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There have been very close calls though. Dear Eretaia, thank you for your blog which I follow for a couple of years now. I have to say that I have found the most powerful thing which so far helped me to get rid of my MDD for almost like 90 percent. I was waiting for someone and found this book lying on the table — started to read it and something very striking was in it. I asked about it the coffee place if I can pay for the book and keep it. I read it at home few times and put it away … come back to it several months later when I just got the message slowly and slowly.

In the meantime struggling with MDD. I started to practice the teachings from the book and I feel like a new person. That book is from Eckart Tolle and its called Power of Now. The most important message is that we, you, me, we are not what we think and there is a peaceful state above thinking when you are completely in the present moment. I would recommend this to any MDD sufferer. It is a mind-blowing book.

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Eretaia, thanks for these great and insightful posts. Would you give me permission to translate your articles in this blog into Italian and share them with the Italian fb group? Obviously mentioning the source, your blog and you as the author. Your insights are wonderful and your writing truly beautiful. This blog gets quite a lot of traffic from Italy, and I can even put the translations here so that they are accessible to Italian speakers.

I would like to thank you for sharing your insights to the world with this enlightening blog. I was shocked to realize that so many people, professionals and MDers themselves alike, have been treating this habit like a unique mental disorder and a label, and became ashamed and afraid that I was always meant to behave this way for the rest of my life, unless I take some chemical-altering drugs or a brain scan or something lol. But I have you to thank for assuring me that that is far from the case and that many MANY other people possess this habit as well.

Thank you again. Thanks for your comment. If depression is the loss of liveliness and creative impulse, MD is a trapped liveliness that cannot leave the confines of oneself and be communicated and shared with the world outside us. Daydreamers are reserved and self-absorbed because all their creative impulses are trapped inside. But this is not a disorder — at least not to me. I was never a part of those daydreams. I never considered myself to be pretty, I never had a boyfriend. It still haunts me, deep in my subconscious, I think.

And the best thing was that my stories got insanely good feedback. Thousands of readers, of comments asking me for more, so I gave them more a LOT more. The thing is, I became addicted to writing them down, I fleshed out my characters carefully, to the tiniest detail of their personalities, building up their flaws and virtues and a perfect relationship. Or is it just love—self-love? I just got today a couple of books about developing self-love. Have you tried this method? Thank you very much for your blog again, you have no idea how helpful it is for many of us.

Much love to you and I wish you the best in everything in life! And so I decided to tell you what you would like to know, I think. Your blog has helped me. A lot. I breathe in that perpetual Nick scent, the one that always feels like home. Like the faintest hint of bar smoke and cheap fabric softener and Irish Spring soap.

His parents had connections that would put Steven Spielberg to shame. But all he ever wanted was to be a regular guy who got by on merit, and I adored that about him. His hands are threaded in mine as his ocean gaze scans me from head to toe. The last time we hung out was on my birthday, and there were so many people at the bar, I barely had a chance to say more than two sentences to him all night.

The scent of Windex and clean laundry fills my lungs, and a folded blanket rests over the back of a leather chair in the living room. I chuckle at the thought of Nick tidying up before I got here. He was always a slob growing up. Case in point? One year I tripped over a pair of his Chucks as I entered his bedroom and almost knocked my front teeth out on a messy stack of vinyl records.

His empty guitar case caught my fall, but the next day he bought a shoe organizer. Last time I saw him, he was living in some apartment with four roommates in Toluca Lake. The time before that he was shacking up with a fuck buddy-slash-Instagram model named Kadence St. Nick has always had roommates. More in the charismatic, life-of-the-party, always-down-for-a-good-time sort of way. I follow Nick to the living room, and he points to the middle cushion of a cognac leather sofa before slicking his palms together and pacing the small space.

His ocean gaze lands on mine and he stops pacing for a moment. Oh god. My heart flutters, and some long-buried hope makes its way out in the form of a smile on my face, but I bite it away. The idea is absurd, I know. What else could possibly make him nervous around me other than a heartfelt confession? Spit it out. He cups his hands over his nose and mouth, releasing a hard breath, and when he lets them fall, I find the dopiest grin on his face. His eyes water like a teenage girl with a backstage pass to a Harry Styles concert.

Oh my god. He takes my hands in his, and I swear my vision fades out for a second.

And I thought that by admitting it, I was only going to jinx myself. I have to tell you. Nick never rambles. His trembling hands squeeze mine and then he rises, taking the spot on the couch beside me. I nod, heart sinking. No … plummeting. My brows lift. This is news to me. He was always about the indie scene, always so against the big music corporations that controlled every song the American people were played on the radio. I just want people to know my songs. Guess he forgot a few things when he was straightening up ….

He reads my expression, searching my eyes, and his silly grin fades. We leave next week. For how long? Which makes two of us. You were right. Everything is sinking. My voice. My heart. My hope. I throw my arms around him, inhale his musky scent, and squeeze him tight. But I meant what I said.


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  8. I am happy for him. Plus, he deserves this. Nick is insanely talented. It all comes natural to him. Keeping it under wraps on some lowdown indie scene would be doing a disservice to the rest of the world. Lifting one brow, I study him right back. Plus utilities. You know what a cheap bastard I am, right? Owns his own company. As a favor? What do you want? You want a backstage pass to a Maroon 5 concert? You want to meet Adam? Nick smirks. But I will be. Would he be cool living with a stranger? Nick chokes on his spit. Lady killer? Serial killer?

    No way. Our eyes hold and I silently straddle the line between staying put and saying yes to this little favor. It gets quiet sometimes. Lonely too. A change of scenery might be nice …. But aside from all of that, I know Nick would do this for me if I ever needed him to. Shrugging, I look him in the eyes and smile. After reading P. I Miss You was different than I was expecting, but still a lovely book. I Miss You was a slow-burn, adversaries not quite enemies -to-lovers romance. It was a little angsty and but still very adorable and sweet. Melrose and Sutter were both guilty of making rash judgments and assuming the worst about every situation they encountered.

    Their meeting was a perfect storm, and once they figured out how to navigate the waves, theirs was an interesting and significant ride. My favorite part of P. It was heartbreaking and also incredibly heartwarming. It shed light on who both Sutter and Melrose were beneath all the pranking and snark they threw at one another. It also gave the book a seriousness that was needed to balance out the playful tension between them. I Miss You, while technically a standalone it a spinoff of a previous novel, P. I Hate You from Winter Renshaw. The heroines in the books are cousins, but otherwise, there are few ties between the stories, and both can be read completely independently of the other.

    I Miss You is written in dual first-person perspective, narrated by Melrose and Sutter. Winter Renshaw again impressed me with her story building in P. I Miss You. She also showed her variability in storytelling, even within the same world, by writing lighter fare while still keeping similar threads of strength and vulnerability in both. Her pacing was great and kept me engrossed in the book until the final page. A third knock should do it. A fourth if I must. Her tired stare rests on my outstretched hand.

    I manage to get the smallest smile out of her. I think. Finally taking my generous gift, Melrose raises her brows and takes a swig. I nod. I follow, stepping out to the patio and sliding the door closed behind me. Murphy trots off, disappearing somewhere in the dark yard, and Melrose takes a seat on one of the steps.

    The moonlight makes her shine almost, painting a glow onto her bronzed skin and silky hair. But you did notice. I saved every letter you ever sent, your words quickly becoming my religion. To think … I almost loved you and your beautifully complicated soul. The breakfast rush is about to end, and lucky for him, I only have one other table right now.

    Download PDF Daydream Believer (The Morphean Chronicles Book 1)

    I mean, the diner is called Brentwood Pancake and Coffee for crying out loud. Placing his mug right side up on his saucer, he pushes it toward me and I begin to pour. Waving his hand, he stops me when the cup is three-quarters of the way full. A second later, he adds two creams and one half of a sugar packet, but the way he moves is methodical, rigid. With intention. Giving the spoon two final taps against the rim of the mug, he then rests it on the saucer before settling his intense amber gaze in my direction. His eyes are warm like honey but his stare is cold, piercing.

    There is. Sue me for being a little distracted. With that, I leave him alone with his menu and his coffee and his foul mood and his brooding gaze … and his broad shoulders … and his full lips … and I get back to work, stopping at table four to see if Mr. Carnavale need refills on their house blend decafs. By the time I top them off, I draw in a cleansing breath and head back to Mr. Tall, Dark, and Douche-y, forcing a smile on my face. He folds his menu, offering it to me despite the fact that my hands are full, but I manage to slip it under my arm without dropping anything.

    Rye toast. Not margarine. I promise one will be more than enough. The owners of the diner are strict as hell on this policy and their day shift manager is even more so. The line is perpetually out the door and down the block every weekend morning without fail, and sometimes even on weekdays. These pancakes are admittedly as delicious and more than own up to their reputation, but that stupid rule is nothing more than clever marketing designed to inflate demand.

    Like, really drunk.

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    It works. Too many patrons have tried to use that loophole over the years, so they had to close it. Has to be. The hair. The watch. The man serves our country. He fights for our freedom. Heading back to the kitchen, I put his order in and check on the Carnavales one more time. Bending, I retrieve the sticky circle from the floor and place it back on his plate. The child screams and I can barely hear what the mother is trying to say. Glancing around the table, I spot five little minions under the age of eight, all of them dressed in Burberry, Gucci, and Dior.

    The inflated-lipped mother sports a shimmering, oversized rock on her left ring finger and the father has his nose buried in his phone. Chow or The Ivy would welcome their noisy litter with open arms. I wink, partially disgusted with myself. Plus, I work for tips. I kind of have to be accommodating. And lord knows I need this job. He peers down his straight nose, stabbing the tines of his polished fork into a chunk of fluffy scrambled egg.

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    She blows her blonde bangs off her forehead and rolls her eyes. Killer smile, too. Thought maybe he was some model or actor or something, but he said he was an army corporal. Thought he was real friendly. Right there. Dark hair? Golden eyes? Muscles bulging out of his gray t-shirt? She takes another look. Average height. Average weight. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Reaching for a hand towel in front of me, I glance down and try to act busy by wiping up a melted ice cube on the galley counter. I swat her on the arm as she passes, and then I give myself a second to regain my composure.

    As soon as the warmth has left my cheeks, I head out to check on him, relieved to find his pancake demolished, not a single, spongey scrap left behind. In fact, his entire meal is finished … coffee and all. Reaching for his plate, he stops me, his hand covering mine, and then our eyes lock.

    Oh, god. His hand still covers mine, preventing me from exiting this conversation. He releases me and I stand up straight, tugging my apron into place before smoothing my hands down the front. I try to say something, but all the thoughts in my head are temporarily nonsensical and flavored with a hint of rage. He glances at the plate, then to the security monitor, then back to me before taking it out of my hands and exchanging it for a fresh one. Making my way back to my guy, I stop to check on the Carnavales, only their table is already being bussed and Rachael tells me she took care of their check because they were in a hurry.

    He glances up at me, honeyed eyes squinting for a moment. Striding away, I grab a fresh carafe of coffee and return to top him off, stopping at three-quarters of the way full. Sort of. And I gently rub his shoulder, which is still tight as hell. Guess that marks the one and only thing that puts us on the same page. When I return, I hand him a neon purple gel pen from my pocket and gather his empty dishes. Glancing up, I spot our hostess, Maddie, flagging me down and mouthing that I have three new tables.

    Isaiah signs his check, closes the leather binder, and slides out of his booth. When he stands, he towers over me, peering down his nose and holding my gaze captive for what feels like a single, endless second. I step aside, and as he passes, his arm brushes against mine and the scent of fresh soap and spicy aftershave fills my lungs. Shoving the check presenter in my apron, I tend to my new tables before rushing back to start filling drinks. Or worse: nothing at all. I shake my head. I show her the tab and the very clearly one and two zeroes on the tip line.

    The total confirms that the tip was no typo. I roll my eyes. And if he does, you get him. The second I read the cover copy for P. I Hate You I was hooked. The book is written in dual first-person perspective, narrated by Maritza and Isaiah. I thought the way Winter Renshaw brought Maritza and Isaiah together was quite clever. The way she had them explore the intricacies of their relationship with a no strings attached, strangers exploring the city together over a week of Saturdays arrangement was unique and ingenious.

    It helped them both to let down their guards and interact without any preconceived notions. I loved how naturally it seemed to build their relationship and constructed a deep and genuine bond between them. They were magic and effortless. Their letters, while sometimes not as truthful as their in-person interactions, were deeply emotional and cemented my affection for them. When everything started falling apart, I was heartbroken, as I felt so much for these characters,. She drew me in from the beginning and made me care deeply for her characters with just a few well-placed expressions and precisely chosen words.

    I loved the unique storyline and how artfully she brought the characters together. My cheeks warm. Tell me what you were thinking about. Giving myself a moment, I gather my thoughts and nibble on my lower lip. I have his full, undivided attention. Another moment passes, the two of us lingering next to some hairy elephant-looking creature with a long-as-hell scientific name as a group of children runs past us. I was thinking about nothing. I want to burn this awkward moment into a pile of ash and move on. His golden irises glint as his eyes narrow in my direction.

    Or am I always just going to be that waitress girl that you hung out with for a week? I want to scoff at him and tell him to stop being such a hypocrite. Post navigation. He said it would only hurt a little … On her sixteenth birthday, Sleeping Beauty pricked her finger on the spindle of a spinning wheel. He was also everything I was never allowed to be with. He was adamant. In the strangest way, this feels like a dream.