The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters. . .

With apologies to Francisco Goya. . .

I have mentioned subtly, in recent posts, the presently absent dissertation director, his vacation, and the his expectation that I will have something brilliant to produce for him upon his return in the second or so week of July (at which point I will show him the ultrasound picture and inform him that it was all the brilliance I had energy for this month!). The course doesn't count because it is the unpaid work that is regarded as the true work--and no, I'm not talking about motherhood, here! I actually had my M.A. thesis adviser tell my one summer that I should just "tighten my belt" and complete the thesis without working. Luckily, the dissertation director is more practical and understanding to a degree, though I did learn, quite by accident, that around the same week he found out that I was pregnant, he told another grad student, by her account, "just don't get pregnant. Don't get married and don't get pregnant." Great.

I suppose the emphasis on the work of research over "paid" work is to prepare us for the tenure-track position--when and if that ever happens. But I won't dwell on that possibility--or lack thereof. I find it even more paralyzing an anxiety than the "how am I going to handle 3 children at the same time without losing my sanity and get anything else accomplished" anxiety. And let's not even mention the "how am I going to teach as a post-doc or lecturer on that limited salary and afford to pay student loans and pay for childcare for 2 children so that I can actually have the time to teach" anxiety. But evidently the "what happens when the dissertation director returns" anxiety has festered in the subconscious and is making its presence known through dreams:

I dreamt that my dissertation director, whom I really like--don't get me wrong!--and who is an avid and accomplished guitar player (from whom I have had a few lessons--he even played at our Convalidation!!), not only had surgery on one of his hands, but also received a horrible, deep injury--a slash several inches log that "grazed the bone," in the language of the dream--on the opposite forearm. When I encountered him (in the context of the dream), he was rehabilitating the hand and arm by practicing the guitar, at which time I also learned that he was in danger of being stung by deadly bees, and the local hospitals were out of the anti-venom (bee anti-venom???). This is not your typical pregnant-mother-dream, but is disturbing in its agression. Is this what guilt does to us??

The bee motif is interesting, since I dreamt two or so nights ago that my daughter had received a fatal bee sting for which there was no antidote. :( I returned to sleep and had a similarly bad dream involving my husband. Those felt more like pregnancy dreams--anxiety about family.

Perhaps writing about it will get it out of my system--though I suspect that finding time to write the dissertation would be more therapeutic!