I had a lucid dream sometime early this morning. This is a first for me, although I have occasionally tried various methods of inducing lucid dreaming, such as conjuring up a trigger image just before sleep. The experience itself was...peculiarly disappointing.
The dream starts somewhere I don't remember, and emerges into a car ride down South 2nd in my hometown, past the tidy little downtown club scene and out into the weedy, ramshackle tenements of one of the many poor sides of town. I'm with someone who shifts between SMW and RG from my graduate program. We pass by an overgrown cemetary that's surrounded on all sides by boarding houses; I can hear little kid shrieks as they play among the tombstones and this creeps me out deeply. SMW/RG insists on stopping to explore the boarding houses, although they are clearly occupied and I am certain that the tenants will be hostile toward intruders. We pass through a long series of dusty, sunlit hallways done in shades of blue. Occasionally one of the occupants will appear at the end of the hall, clad in bathrobe and slippers, with a faint aura of menace. Or maybe it's not so much menace as that I am acutely conscious of being out of place. My companion shifts definitely to SMW, and she urges me up a flight of stairs, looking pleased and adventurous as though she has no concept of invading the tenants' privacy. I follow, unwilling, but afraid to let her burst into a stranger's apartment alone. Strangely, the door at the top of the stairs opens into a bright, busy, high-end giftshop (heh). We file out into the store and begin to browse among the glass shelves of expensive trinkets. I am smitten with a set of tiny, blown glass apertif goblets on a little tray, and hold them waiter-style as I wind toward the checkout counter. I also spot a set of miniature stone sake cups, and I think I decide to buy those too.
This is the point where the dream becomes lucid. Within the dream, I "wake up." I think to myself--this is a direct quote--"Hey! I'm dreaming! Cool!" I step outside the shop, glasses and SMW forgotten. It's late afternoon and sunny outside, and there's a crowd gathered around waiting for something or someone. They seem to be looking up at the sky, and it crosses my mind that perhaps they're waiting for Superman. "Dude," I think. "People always talk about flying in their lucid dreams. I should try that." So I take off, but instead of soaring like a bird, it's more like fighting my way up through particularly silty water. I don't go very fast, and I can't really control my legs so I mostly kind of bob around about ten feet up. "This is lame," I think, and manage to successfully picture myself up near the treetops. Flying is a little cooler at this height, although I still lack control and narrowly avoid grazing some power lines. I'm looking out over the countryside in late afternoon and it's pretty and all, but I'm already kind of bored. I can control the dream, but I can't think of anything fun to do. "Maybe I should try to make out with Lex," I think. "That seems like the kind of thing people ought to do when they're dreaming." So I try to concentrate on making Michael Rosenbaum appear, but then I realize that I'm not really all that interested in making out with him. For some reason, it doesn't occur to me to try to get front row seats for some pornalicious Lex-and-Clark action while I'm running the dream. So there's no Lex sex, but the dream does shift to a dorm room lit by that same dusty, late afternoon sun. There's a metal cot with a thin striped mattress on it, and for some reason I'm lying on the floor next to the cot. JT from work is there, and possibly somebody else. Things get a little fuzzy at this point. I think I talk to JT about Lex, or the lack thereof. I make out briefly with JT, who I find only mildly attractive in real life. At this point, I can't remember if I wake up for real or go back to sleep within the dream. In any case, I lose control over the action.
That sucker is so fraught with symbolism I don't even know where to start. I mean, hallways? Staircases? Doors? SMW and RG, who works at the place I interviewed on Wednesday? Good Lord. Not to even mention the whole problem with entertaining myself. I swear, my subconscious could write for the WB.
The life, she is not ended. Or, maybe the apocalypse isn't upon us just yet.
I'm in a remarkably better mood today regarding the whole job morasse. I'm still worried and freaked out and bitter and sad and fucking scared of really looking for another position, but, you know, in a reasonable manner. Our team meeting today was pretty helpful--once everybody got past the immediate punch to the gut that was JD's, "I'm leaving," (JD with tears streaming and hands pressed to her face to keep herself calm), we talked about how a new person wouldn't really need to start until January, which gives our boss plenty of time to look for another therapist. A good one, like the one in our ECI program who might be seriously interested in the position. And the fact that JD's planned her departure to coincide with when her lease ends in December, which in turn leads to that big long gap between now and when a new therapist would start, means that I have a hell of a lot more leverage when I need to say, "Sorry, you've had six weeks to find a replacement. I will not be grabbing my ankles because you didn't start advertising until last week."
Hell, I might have a different job by then. At Blockbuster, even. I have no idea.
This is what I hate, more so than my job frustration, or my boss's complete lack of tact or business acumen, or even Evil Overlord CEO's random and idiotic "management style." I have no idea what's coming, and I hate it.
And I had a reaction to some medicine I was taking and I'm rashy! Rashy and itchy! My arches itch, dammit! Does it never end?
I swear to God, Smallville better not suck tomorrow.
Okay, this is a bad scene. Had week of incredibly high work-related anxiety. Had panic attack at work on Thursday, almost had another on Friday. And this was before I got the call tonight from JD, the other speech therapist, saying that she's moving back to Dallas next month.
This puts me in roughly the same situation I was in a little over a year ago when LH got fired and I got the entire speech caseload. That was...horrible.
Okay, they might find somebody to hire. It doesn't necessarily have to be the worst case scenario--maybe they'll hire somebody great. But I doubt it--our organization has, like, the kiss of death in this town as far as public image goes. Therapists I've never met before say things like, "You work where? Gosh. Does the administration still suck?" And with the pay...experienced therapists are not going to apply.
I can set boundaries. I'm a certified clinician now; I can leave and get a job somewhere else if those boundaries aren't respected. But I try to imagine myself saying, "No, I won't be willing to work those hours. No, I won't be willing to rearrange my caseload to fit in JD's kids. They can go on a waiting list until you goddamn well get us a PRN network like any reputable place of business should already have," and I'm scared.
I hate my job. I hate it. I was seriously looking for another before I talked to JD. But now I'm feeling guilty over wanting to leave a place that's provoking anxiety the likes of which I haven't seen since B, because it's not good for our kids to have both of us leave at once. Fuck.
I have an interview on Wednesday.
I need a vacation. I need to look for more jobs in case this one doesn't pan out. I need...to quit being a therapist and work at Blockbuster for a while, until this shit sounds like fun again. I need for my current job to not be staffed by fuckwits (except for my team. They're not fuckwits), so I can stay there and keep my kids.
I need a lot of things I'm not going to get, and damn am I pissed off about that.
The short list of People Who Do Not Handle Anxiety in a Constructive Manner:
1). Lex Luthor
2). Sara
Oh my God that was amazing. It would never even occur to me to take a nine-iron to somebody's car. I am so in awe. Just...wow. I take back everything I ever said about using slash as a method of disassociating myself from my sexual identity, because mother of God that was so hot I'm practically hyperventilating. You heard it here first: I would fuck Lex Luthor.
So, Sara over-identifies with characters with repressed--and not so repressed--anger. Snort. Film at eleven.
I suppose there could be something to this, though. The counselor last week suggested talking to my doctor about a low dose of something to handle anxiety--it seems most people don't turn to distance running as a way to make themselves sleep through the night. Who knew?
I'm probably game for it, but I'm still kind of mulling over the idea. I mean, we're not talking about anything major here--I'm plenty functional, just a little twitchy. But it feels strange, because I've always looked at my mood problems through the lens of depression, not anxiety. And depression kind of fits, but not...quite right. It's like going to the eye doctor--lens number one is a little blurry, but the second lens, the anxiety lens, makes all the details snap into focus. Like, that would explain the waking up at night fretting about the recycle bin. And the irritability, and the jitters...and the way I used to shake all the time back in college. Huh.
It's kind of nice to have a name for it besides "lack of shit keeping togetherness."
In other news, I simultaneously am intrigued by and violently resent the possibility of a Lex romantic subplot with a girl. At first glance I liked the doctor character, and I'm much more willing to watch Lex get his groove on with someone who doesn't annoy the fuck out of me, ala Carrie Castle. (Is that Kerry Kastle? She pissed me off, I didn't make a note). But then again, hello, fluffy bunny one true pairing whore. So I'm kind of conflicted about that aspect.
And then, over-riding all of that is, "Anger management classes? Jonathan Taylor Thomas? Aaaaiiieeee!!! It's all going to end badly!"
It turns out I'm a lot more pleased with it than I thought I would be. A lot of the content is still relevant only to me, but that's okay.
Play list:
Break Me Shake Me -- Savage Garden
Small Town Bringdown -- The Tragically Hip
#1 Crush -- Garbage
Come On -- The Headstones
American Girl -- Tom Petty
Glass Half Empty -- Jonatha Brooke
The Ghosts That Haunt Me -- Crash Test Dummies
Whatever -- Butthole Surfers
Don't Come Close -- The Ramones
O Holy Night -- N'Sync
Son of a Preacher Man -- Dusty Springfield
Pinball Wizard -- The Who
Sea of No Cares -- Great Big Sea
Born in the Water -- The Tragically Hip
I Will Survive -- Cake
A Little Less Conversation -- Elvis (JXL Radio Remix)
Committed more floricide in the front yard today--is it my fault our "natural" yard's default setting is "primordial rainforest?"--then spent much of the afternoon crouched on the floor in front of the coffee table, labeling pictures in our honeymoon album and listening to the unmistakeable sounds of Zeb blowing cat snot all over the clean bedsheets. He's sick again, although not nearly as badly as when we got him. The vet seems to think he might just be kind of puny--sensitive to changes in the weather and such.
I've been feeling kind of puny myself lately. Fairly convinced I have seasonal allergies--a little stuffy, a little sinusy, coughing, and flirting with laryngitis. Nothing too bad, but enough to be a drag, especially on slow days at work.
Good things:
*Went running today for the first time in over a week. Didn't feel great, exactly, but it wasn't torturous either.
*Working on a "Lex Mix" CD. Of course, by "working on" I mean "plotting, because the Hubster still hasn't done whatever he needs to do to make the necessary CD burning programs functional." And the CD is pretty much guaranteed to amuse only me, what with the extremely tenuous connections between songs and theme, but I can live with that.
*Have not yet found another job, but just the act of looking has made me much more relaxed about my current position.
*Bought books to address spiritual crisis. Haven't so much as cracked them open, but again, any step towards action seems to bring relief.
*Mr. Sinatra is back in lovey-dovey mode, where he wants to lie on his back in my lap and gaze at me with adoration, occasionally reaching up to hold my face in his paws and lick my chin. What is it about cats and chins, anyway? Zeb likes to stand with his paws on my shoulders and purr and bite at my jawbone while I type. And Mr. Sinatra, before we had one too many 2:00 a.m. games of Beware the Foot Demon and stopped letting him in the bedroom, would frequently awaken me by sprawling on my chest and licking my face.
*Did multiple loads of laundry this afternoon. Clean clothes are my antidrug.
Still no luck with the Catholic schoolgirl pic from Sorority Boys. Help me out if you can.
Driving to work yesterday morning, listening to Great Big Sea, of all things, an image appeared suddenly in my head. It was a brilliantly clear, artfully backlit flash of Clark and Lex kissing, Lex's palms on Clark's cheeks to steady him, thumbs stroking the thin skin under Clark's lower lashes. I was taken aback, because, okay, content aside, that's not how I think. I see words, flashes of text, sentences unreeling behind my eyelids. I have visual memories, certainly, but I don't think in pictures unless they're heavily captioned. It made me wonder whose image it was, and how I'd slipped into their head without knowing.
Today was long and draining, and I stumbled through most of it as though I'd been kicked in the chest. I was deeply tired and discouraged, both by my body and my work. Think I have some allergies going on or something--my nose feels like it's draining directly down the back of my raw throat into my gut, making me nauseous and irritable. Mood was not improved by my evaluation, where I struggled once again to respect the emotional timetable of a parent deeply in denial regarding his child's obvious developmental delays. For God's sake, man--I don't care how shy she is, a three and a half year old should have more words than "ball," "socks," and "birthday cake." Quit swinging your goddamned dick with your goddamned superior genetic material around and get her some help. Yes, even if you are of a different culture than the therapist. Yes, even if your culture is highly patriarchal and the therapist is a woman. Stop fucking around.
Argh.
And speaking of respecting people's emotional timetables, which I loathe, if you are my mother, stop calling and asking what my holiday plans are before I take out a hit on you. I don't know what my holiday plans are. As soon as I do, I will tell you. And if you're my buddy whose counselor just recommended antidepressants? Consider taking them. If your stupid brain chemistry wasn't reinforcing the idea that you suck and the whole world thinks you're a loser, you might start to believe it. And then I could for the love of God stop sitting with you in your suffering and maybe we could go to the movies or something, because actually I think you're a fun person. And I'll hang in there with you as long as necessary, but please take the drugs.
I would be a terrible counselor. I cannot fucking detach.
Does anybody know where I can get that picture of Michael Rosenbaum from the Sorority Boys credits where he's in the little plaid skirt with the knee socks and the stack of books and the midriff shirt? Because I need it for, uh, very important personal reasons. I've looked everywhere I can think to look on the net with no luck. Any suggestions or hot tips?
The other morning on my way to work (Work! Aaaiiiieeeee!!! I hate my job! I'm quitting! More on this later), I passed a little white pickup truck with Clarke Kent Plumbing stenciled on the back.
I'm almost certain there was a snappy slogan on the side panel, but I was heading up an overpass as I went by and couldn't get close enough to see.
Do people know what kind of associations that name provokes for me? Seriously. I don't think about plungers, that's for sure.
