No More Let’s Pretend.

Stupid death and all that crappiness.

Make a note of that, world.

Been watching a lot of Grey’s Anatomy lately.  Making up for a circa year long hiatus.  Now before people think any less of me.  I used to dislike the drama component of the series.  To which one might say, but it is a drama!  What else is there?

My favorite part of each episode is the voiceover at the beginning, which sets some dilemma, some idea as the theme for the episode.  Is it no surprise then that topics such as depression, suicide, alzheimers, mourning, trauma, fear, all ring true with me?  Don’t get me wrong.  There is still drama.  Lots and lots of drama.  Just doesn’t bug me as much?

I had never thought about this before, not sure why.  During one of the episodes, Meredith talks about how the hospital was her sanctuary, her home away from home, where she felt safe.  Which led me to think about how much time I have spent in hospitals.  It is now decreasing as I continue to get older, but roughly half of my life.  I was in and out until I was six and there often enough besides for non-medically-personal reasons because my mother worked there.  Then I spent three years volunteering in one.  Total: nine years.  Surprising, no?  I really had no idea I have been around hospitals that long.

Not sure how I feel about them right now though.  Sure, being in one had not bothered me before.  I was one of the privileged, the insiders.  I got to run about the inner hallways, see the behind-the-scenes, enter the keypad-locked-doors.  I got to know things.  I considered working in a hospital for some time.  It was always more of a I-refuse-to-do-what-my-parents-tell-or-want-me-to-do sort of thing rather than an I-actually-don’t-want-to-do-this thing that kept me protesting going into the medical profession and ending up in a hospital.  Actually I think I would be good at it.  I was good.  Being with patients, handling family, keeping track of the other volunteers, my peers, dealing with crisis and people freaking out and shouting at you because everything is spinning out of control for them and the one thing they can do is yell and spit and gesture.  I was really good at keeping everything, at keeping my own emotions under control.

And now I am not.  Perhaps that is not such a bad thing.

I don’t like hospitals right now.  I think I can handle being in Emergency fine, but not the ICU.  Not the patient care levels.  Lessons can be drawn from all sources, I suppose.  Another realization from season six, well realization might be too strong of a word.  It’s something I think I knew, but did not want to be true.  There is no getting over death.  It never stops hurting.  It just eventually starts to hurt less.

Hate this.  I hate that I write depressing things.  I hate that that is what I feel like writing.  I don’t share most of my writing.  I hide it, bury it.  Write it, fling it out, then discard it among the 2 to the N number of bits on my harddrive.  I hate that at my best, there is still a taste of sadness in my art.  A sarcastic parting shot at the end of the day, a last ‘you-really-think-so’.

Hate how there are things I cannot touch.  How I skip over certain songs, ignore certain books because they will make me remember, trigger things I do not want to resurface.  How I am reminded that I am not ok.  How it is not going away.  It does start hurting less.  This time a year ago, I was in shock.  I cannot remember how I made it through finals.  Cannot remember much of that period at all.  But then, how do you remember things that you never quite registered in the first place?

I don’t know if I can do this.  I can feel my mind expanding, regaining it’s former capacities bit by bit.  I can feel the fuzzy edges, where randomness spikes, more than usual, occasionally jolting across my working frames.  I can see the emotions I no longer manage with fisted control.  Can see them wriggling about, drifting, spiking, not under control.  I can see the handles, the nets in place that should I pull, should I tighten, I could methodically restore control.  That if I tightened I could stop the vibrations in my hands, the shaking that arises now and then.  This sounds a lot worse than it probably actually is.  I think I’m actually mostly ok.  I feel mostly ok.  Just, I can and automatically do monitor myself.  So, variabilities, shifts, I can see them.  Not in an external visual sense, but an internal sense.  I am mostly ok, particularly in comparison to how I have been, how bad it has been.  I am.

Perhaps I am just making mountains out of molehills, but I don’t get it.  I don’t get life.  I don’t get death.  It doesn’t make sense.  So I will write, in the hopes that some sense will be made, magically.  You see, I will no longer pretend.  It is hard.  Especially every time I go home.  Old patterns, old habits resurface where there are sufficient triggers.  But that game of Let’s Pretend.  No more.


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