Trying my hand at journaling once again. I haven't really done much of it over the past ten years, but I'm not sure why, exactly. I have a number of guesses:
- I don't have a routine of it.
- Or an audience.
- When I moved here, I felt like my life suddenly became boring and like there was nothing to write about (Which isn't actually true at all? It just became more emotion-oriented and maybe I was afraid of being vulnerable because suddenly being vulnerable had consequences)
- I felt like I had no organization to my writing anymore. Countless blogs. Data everywhere. Something about that feels chaotic and overwhelming and hard to commit to.
Also it kind of feels like starting therapy over again? Like do I have to write a little recap of "here's who I am and how I got here"? I don't think so, but I guess maybe my brain 10 years ago thought that.
Anyway. I had to go get a follow-up mammogram done this morning. I had my first mammogram like a month ago. Typical me, I researched the hell out of what to expect of a mammogram and knew going into it that there was a chance I'd get a callback for additional imaging just because that's normal for a first time.
But they assume no one does that research and the overexplanation and reassurance that "everything is probably fine" made me feel almost jealous that there are people out there who just do things without obsessively researching beforehand. I realize I'm probably sensitive to this right now though, writing my book, thinking about my parents, thinking about how I grew up without reassurance for most things, just unrelenting anxiety bombs.
The second mammogram was more uncomfortable than the first. The spot they needed more imaging of was near my armpit and required maneuvering me in a lot of awkward ways. It felt like the radiologist was really concerned for me and worried she wouldn't do a thorough enough job. She moved me into an exam room to wait while she consulted with the doctor, had me come back into the radiology room a second time for more images, and then still took me over to the ultrasound room, where it felt like she went over my breast for 15 minutes.
Only to have the doctor come in and almost without stopping, just hand-wave everything and say, "You're fine. Come back in a year."
Such a wild contrast of bedside manner.
Work has been a lot of up and down. Sophie, one of the EMs in my department, shared she was leaving today. She's one of the people who I think leaving will make a really large cultural impact, in a bad way. She's always been really invested in doing what's right for our customers and what's right for her team. And I just get the feeling that when she goes, a lot of people will leave with her.
It made me think about what my impact would be leaving. Like I think a lot of people are clear domain owners and when they leave, they take a big rock of knowledge with them. But me, no. I think I'm like glue or lubricant in a sense. And when I leave, I feel a lot of things would fall apart but not in an immediately noticeable kind of way, just like a bunch of things will rub together and erode slowly.
Meanwhile, if I died, it would be the big rock... except that rock would be all the care and love Henry feels from me. I don't really think about me dying too much though.
When I think about it, I think about my mom one time admitting how scared she was of dying, of not knowing what comes next, her fear of it being nothing. And me reminding her that if it were nothing, she wouldn't have a consciousness to know there was anything to be afraid of. But I get it. For a long time I feared that there was a hell and that I'd go there as an agnostic person. Because I just couldn't let myself feel like I was a good enough person, like I couldn't trust my own inner monologue.
But there's so many shitty people in the world who don't give a fuck about anyone other than themselves. Or do give a fuck about other people but in a mean or hateful way. And I feel so far removed from those feelings and I guess I know when people talk about evil... spiritual or morally, they're not REALLY talking about me, as much as they want to believe they are.