I am frequently amazed by my own obliviousness.
When morning sickness showed up within 72 hours of having conceived a child, I grumbled about having a tummy bug, because surely–surely–that was the only explanation for heaving in the morning, sharp spikes of fatigue mid-day, and an overall crummy feeling?
When three-day migraines plagued me without mercy (several a month), I chalked it up to genetics. Why should working a sixty-hour week and going to law school five nights a week have anything to do with headaches? Or why should commuting four hours a day, working full time and single-parenting?
I could go on about all the times I’ve gone smurfing along, ignoring information that might have helped me, because the only data I had to go on was my own experience.
And while I am older and wiser, I still have a way to go in terms of paying attention to my own on-going experiment in personhood.
I recently returned from a week in central Florida, where the temperature and humidity compete for biggest source of misery. I’ve been there before. Hated it. Hated the crowding, the lack of geological formations that orient me on the map (mountains, ya know), the lack of open space. I even disliked the sunlight, which felt glare-y to me. The people are lovely, but I could not get out of there fast enough.
I chalked it up to me being intolerant of change.
Then a writing buddy mentioned reverse seasonal affective disorder, (rSAD) which afflicts about one in ten people sporting the SAD diagnosis. Most of us know SAD as the winter blues, the cold weather blahs, but for me, summer is the dreaded time. The heat, the bugs (lordy I do hate me some house flies), the short nights that feel too lively to settle into, the humidity, the everything (except the flowers, I do love the flowers).
I read the linked article and thought, “That’s ME. That’s ME.” I’m pretty sure it’s also my daughter, and every horse I’ve ever met. I can’t wait for fall to arrive, and this weekend, when the temperature dipped into the low sixties at night, I actually cleaned my room.
I walked an extra quarter mile on the tread desk yesterday, when doing any time there at all has grown to be worse torture than ever.
Why did I wait to read an article referencing fancy academic studies to be OK with not liking summer? I know I perk up in the fall, and attributed it to “sleeping better when it cools off,” but summer blahs are a thing, and they are my thing. I can’t focus as well, I can’t rest as well, I can’t be me as well.
With that sentiment in mind, this will be my last blog post for a few weeks. I’m going to dive into my writing cave, get some research done (this is a euphemism for activity involving a suitcase), and REST.
But first, I’ll send an audiobook version of Too Scot To Handle to one commenter. What do you know about yourself–know, know, know–that eventually, science, medicine, or society might get the memo on?