Stress, the edited version

Night before last I dreamed that I was with a group of people at the Harry Potter world at Universal Studios in Orlando. It was hot and I was clearly, burdensomly pregnant, my shoulders slung low with bags that I realized belonged to the other people. I kept trying to stop and examine the incredibly detailed set pieces of the village, all of which seemed to be handmade and placed meticulously throughout the sets to give them an intensely realistic feel. I’d be turning a piece over and over in my hand, feeling the contours of its artisan paper, when I’d look up and see the people in my group moving on to the next attraction, leaving their stuff behind for me to pick up and add to my already heavy load.

I was trying to stall long enough to set up a photograph of some of the set pieces, when Bill Gates and his entourage came into the area and clearly wanted everyone else to vamoose. He gave me a withering look as I gathered up everyone else’s things and tried to make it out of his way without dropping anything. I could barely walk under the weight of what I was carrying. Maybe he was pissed that I was carrying an iPad along with everything else, I don’t know.

I woke up and instantly knew what that dream was about. Here we are on this magical journey — wonder! whimsy! etc.! — and I am trying to stop and marvel at what is happening around me, to truly appreciate the intricacies of what is going on, and I am struggling under the weight of so much other stuff.

I wrote a long post about this last night, and saved and re-saved the draft, scared to hit publish. I miss the feeling of being able to write freely without fear but that is where I am and that is where I will be, I suppose, as long as I know certain eyes are always on me.

The gist is that I feel like a mess. Work is difficult, money is tight, the clock is ticking — the predictable whine. I’m at that point where all life’s little papercuts and lemon squirts are wearing me down, and I’m getting out of bed in the middle of the night to have heaving sobfests on the couch until I feel calm enough to fall asleep to the quiet flickr of America’s finest infomercials. None of this makes much sense without specifics, I suppose (or it just sounds like hormonal bullshit), but I can’t get in to specifics here because there is too much at stake.

I know all of the anguish will be worth it when baby boy makes his entrance into this world and clings to me and I to him. But it doesn’t make the mountains of bullshit any less difficult to plow through.