We’re at the beach in NC, and it’s been as uncomfortably hot as I hoped it would be. It’s also been as great to see my in-laws and to spend time “relaxing” as anticipated. Quotation marks since my pleasure reading’s a thesis-related tome entitled Fascist Voices and since, as I will address in a moment, chronic illnesses take no vacations.
Indeed, though I’ve been having a fantastic time, my body’s seen fit to remind me that I still have epilepsy. However, after two tonic-clonic seizures following overly taxing days (my own fault), I’ve been sticking it to the man by doing this thing called “listening to my body” (i.e., napping for hours every afternoon), a strategy that seems to be working pretty well. Who’d have thought that acting in accordance with the longstanding advice of medical professionals, family, and friends would have an almost immediate positive effect? My brain, for its part, has decided to remind me that I still have a mood disorder, anxiety disorder, and OCD. So far as the latter is concerned, let’s just say that sand isn’t ideal for someone who’s constantly trying to resist the compulsion to count stuff. Deep breaths, Kathleen.
On a probably completely unrelated note, I’ve been having interestingly mundane dreams over the past few days. During yesterday’s nap #1, I was a math professor preparing an answer key for a midterm. This wasn’t one of those “I’m in way over my head and thus freaking out” nightmares; rather, I was carrying out the task in a calm and methodical manner. Last night, I dreamed that I was eating a sandwich. A passable one: not the best I’ve had but definitely not the worst, either. As I’ve mentioned before, I come from a family of dream-analyzers, so I feel obliged to tell you that I’m certain that these have some larger significance. I’ll have to reflect on what they were attempting to communicate to me. Right now my best guess is that I chose the wrong major and that I should make myself some lunch.