Spring Dream

I think I love spring a little bit more every year. Fall used to be my favorite season, with spring running in a close second. I enjoy autumn because of the respite it brings from the hot, humid Indiana summers. That would be my absolute least favorite of all four seasons. If I could, I would trade in those disgusting, sweaty Junes, Julys, and Augusts for a longer spring and fall. I won’t be popular for saying this, but I would even take a longer, colder winter if it meant I could have a more temperate summer.

But now I think I’m just loving spring. Maybe it’s because it’s finally here (for the most part — although this is Indiana and I wouldn’t be surprised to see a snow shower in the next week or two), maybe it’s because the sun is finally shining and it’s lighter out longer, or because I can finally put on flip flops and skirts. Maybe it’s the vitamin D that’s keeping me from feeling depressed the way most people do in the winter. Whatever the reason, I’m happy it’s here.

Last night I had yet another crazy dream. I think, if I was properly motivated, I could make an entry in here almost every day about the weird dreams I’ve had since getting pregnant. They’re very vivid, very real, and occasionally very sexual. In fact, I’ve had a lot of sex dreams lately, but they’re not anything I care to repeat. Most of my dreams are weird and don’t make much sense to me, or they’re incredibly boring. I think I’m remembering more now because I’ve been waking up 2 and 3 times every night to go to the bathroom, and twice as often to get comfortable.

What I remember from last night is attending a counseling session with Sarah, my manager who just had a baby. I think she was in the dream because yesterday morning was her first day back at work (what a relief!). Her counselor was this older woman who wore entirely too much jewelry and makeup. I think she was also wearing a ton of perfume that was stifling in her tiny office. Sarah wanted me to start seeing her and talked me into coming along. Sarah was laying on a couch and I was crouched next to her on the floor in this small office. Things started to get sort of personal in her session and I felt uncomfortable, so I asked if she wanted me to wait outside. She said no, please stay, so I tentatively placed my hand on her forearm in what was clearly a sad attempt to comfort her.

Although I can’t remember exactly what was said, the counselor tried to get me to talk about some things that I did not agree with and she really upset me. She also kept allowing people to interrupt the session. It seemed like every few minutes, someone was knocking on her office door and she’d say “Come in!” I thought that was incredibly rude, so I left and went across the hall to another therapist’s office, a much older man with a scraggly grey beard who was rearranging his office as I attempted to talk to him.

I got incredibly frustrated with both of them and stood in the hall screaming “In session! In session!” and scribbling these two words over and over again on Post-It notes that I slapped up all over the walls and doors.

I wonder what that means.


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