Turned 30 and I’ve started gaining weight. I know you’re probably thinking, “you skinny ass bitch, shuddup!” But I didnt say I was “fat,” I am just gaining weight. And normally I wouldn’t even care, but my pants certainly keep reminding me of the fact. And I’m starting to not like it. I don’t like having to think hard about what I eat, so as not to upset my pants. It all is taking up too much anxiety and thought space. Because I love food and I like to eat. I’m actually really good at it. And honestly, for me, food is alot more than just eating it. Food is an emotional experience. Food is a way to relate to the world. That’s deep thought though. I love food, I mean, I actually really love food. But reaching my 30s has changed that for me. Now it seems… I might need to start buying “mom jeans” to get my stomach to shape up.
Never perform the Asian Nightly Skin Care Routine infront of the guy until you’ve tied the knot.
Pre knot… He’ll think you’re totally a weirdo…
Post knot… He’ll be high fiving himself for scoring such a fresh and young looking babe!
…Until he doesn’t…
I still believe there is no more beautiful place than the Olympic Peninsula on a bright day. Morning coffee at my beloved coffee shop. Dreamy faces and heavenly scents. Early geri-excersise group on the docks. I lose myself in the exquisite brew and my favorite album, as I cruise. Down the highway. The road is bright, cradled in the arms of the forestry. No more beautiful colour than sunlight streaming through leaves. The trees tease, sashaying their hips to reveal glimpses of the water. Sparkling like crystal blue fields made of sapphires. Until they open completely and the channel is the end of the road. I board the ferry to the big city, find seat in the sun, and as the seats around me fill up… the sounds of meaningless chatter pull me from the dream..
I was chided by my patient for making fun of baldness (which I wasn’t.)
“Someday you’ll lose all your hair, and be drooling, and laughed at. How would you like that?”
Sort of taken aback, I kind of raised an eyebrow and began walking away.
“That is, if you even get to be old…” she mutters behind me.
Over the long weekend I was yelled at by no fewer than 4 different patients.
“Just leave me the fuck alone!”
“You stole my face and tried to kill my son,”
“You tried to shoot me. Don’t even try to walk by me!”
I just keep a straight face, let it roll off, and get on with what I was doing. It’s a difficult job, but I deal with delusions, mood swings, psychosis. And every one of those patients eventually apologized to me.
“I’m sorry if I was rude before,”
“I don’t hate you, you’re really nice, you just shouldn’t have stolen my face, it’s not very nice.”
“Please forgive me. I was just scared and confused, but you’re a sweet girl,” that was followed by an attempt to kiss my hand.
And every time I smile and say, “of course. No worries. Everyone has a hard morning sometimes. I know you didn’t mean it. We’re still good!” Which earns a smile back.
There are a thousand hard times, and viscious words, and violent actions we deal with at work from out patients. But that’s why they are there, because they need someone to take the time and not run away or give up on them. And its after a horrendous Thursday, and a terrible Friday, and a hard Saturday, and a decent Sunday, that you have an awesome Monday. You’re tired and sore and you’re not sure how pained your smile looks, but you keep on going. It’s the victories of getting the mute patient to say a few words to you. It’s getting the angry, isolating patient to creep out and take a shower, and find he actually feels pretty good and notice him chatting with another patient, out of his room for the first time in days. It’s getting the manic teenager to take a nap, and wake hours later and see the difference in her mood and hear her say, “thank you.” It’s suggesting a patient try not napping today and seeing if it helps her sleep through the night, and having her dubiously say, “okay,” but then a couple hours later having her excitedly say, “hey, this staying awake isn’t as hard as I thought it would be!”
I give 100% for those 8 hours a day for those moments. I do it to see my angry, my scared, my confused, my lonely, and my troubled patients Smile. To see that moment, brief as it may be, that the realization comes across their eyes, that for as huge and crowded and cruel this world is, there is someone who cares about what happens to them.
(Or rather, anti-people in general. And a little too applicable today.)