Lately I’ve been scratching myself a lot. Like enough to be socially awkward. I should probably figure out what’s causing this itching, but I have a pretty good idea. I’m not worried, just itchy. Back in college I would get hives between my fingers and on my wrists the week before mid-terms and finals. Every single time. Imagine how brilliant my GPA could have been without all that itching and scratching back then. Somehow, the awarding of my bachelor’s degree magically cured my itchy habit and I pretty much forgot about it.
But I appear to be back to my old itchy ways. I’m not totally sure why as there are no graduate classes filling my time, but I hazard it is the same poorly fashioned coping skill at work. If I go see my doctor, the first question will be “Are you under any stress?” And my response will be obscured by laughter. Stress? Of course I’ve got stress going on in my life. I’m a parent, spouse, part-time employee working closer to full-time these days, and writer by night. Sleep is a precious commodity in my life, just like her best friends: relaxation, me-time, and joy.
Pardon me while I scratch a bit more.
Anyhoo, the other night we had folks over and I knew that my incessant scratching, which I tried to disguise with frantic scrubbing of my shirt across my arms and hands, was verging over the top. So I took a dose of Benedryl and sat on my hands. The antihistamine went to work and soon my eyelids began to list. Or perhaps the world listed and my eyelids were just fine?
When people left, I opened my laptop to complete some work I needed to have done for the next morning. Type, type, type went the listing-eyelids-me until I realized that I had actually closed my eyes while I continued to type.
After rubbing my eyeballs and their filmy contacts enough to focus, I read a paragraph or two of my new words. Holy cannoli. My dreaming mind is an interesting (read: terrifying) place.
I gave up and went to bed, setting the alarm a bit earlier so I could write up the documents in a less frightening state of mind.
When I told Mister Soandso about the typing-while-dreaming gig, he wanted to know if I’d saved it. “Of course not! That stuff was crazy!”
“What a missed opportunity,” he said, shaking his head.
I suppose it was. After all, our dreams are meant to be purely fantastical and boundless. They are meant to be dreamed without a safety net because who needs safety when dreaming?
As I thought about my missed opportunity, I found myself thinking about the other dreams we humans have. How many missed opportunities we have because we didn’t go where the safety net was missing, where things didn’t make sense, where things look too terrifyingly interesting.
I’m not sure how brave I am but I do know I like my dreams/goals/aspirations. So I guess I need to find a way to dream without looking down, order a dream decoder-ring, and find myself some new spectacles. Perhaps then I won’t worry so much about falling (failing), understanding what I am meant to do (be), and see the good in even the worst moments.
And I’m going to save any future documents I dream-type. Who knows, I might spawn a whole new love for stream-conciousness literature. It may or may not be hive-inducing.