I turn 27 in a month. The first time I posted on this blog, I was 16 or so, and I never would have imagined that I’d be a doctor one day. I never would have thought I’d lose the patience to tap out a little poem. The most I can stomach to write these days are emails and patient histories, and I read and re-read them again and again because I know they’re too long. I used to feel like I needed to scream every time I deleted a line of information the patient shared with me - I hated leaving out anything that erased their individuality. I love knowing their idiosyncrasies. I want them to be preserved and treasured. I want them to know that I want to remember this if I can ever see them again. But there’s too much to know and too much to include already, so I take out their personality and just talk about their bad habits and pains. It feels like a small collapse now, like a sensation of fullness when a vein is obstructed. I used to love biological metaphors but that’s everything now, it’s lost that sense of artistry and it feels like I’m saying the sky is sky blue. The body isn’t a source of wonder to me anymore because I feel like a failure for not knowing enough. I feel myself turn away, away, away, collapse in until all this blood is stagnant, congealed.
I didn’t think I’d lose so much of what I loved most about myself. I never thought it’d become hard to feel that heart-pounding, bone-deep love again. I never thought that I’d question having a family of my own one day. I never thought I’d be so fucking ashamed of so many parts of my life that I’d rather infarct those bits until I have only a fragment of safe cognition. I never thought I’d be like this, in all the good ways and the bad. I just didn’t think it’d look like this.
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