WitchAnkles

[witchankles]

TMS, EEG, and butterfly plots

Holycrapholycrapholycrap. I just found an EEG study in psychosis, and they're using EEG to record frontal cortical voltage oscillations caused by TMS in the motor cortex and comparing healthy controls to first-episode psychosis.

I spent yesterday covering the basics of performing and interpreting different types of EEG. I spent half of last semester researching TMS. I... I actually understand what this article is demonstrating. And even better... judging by the butterfly plots and global mean field power comparisons, I'm fairly certain this is exactly the procedure my post doc is running.

Holy crap...I think I get it. I think I really get it. Holy... my post doc is going to be so damn surprised. 

.

Background: I am an undergrad student who’s been accepted as a research fellow at a local medical school, and I just started this week. Yesterday, when my postdoc was giving me an overview of our lab and its present research, I was with him every step until we hit EEG. I had zero understanding of how it worked, what it measured, or how to interpret what I saw. And try as he might, he could not find the words to explain what we were seeing. We agreed to stop there and try again later, and I promised to chew through background reading to get up to speed. 

Yesterday, I tracked down videos meant for med students that explain the physics of EEG, the placement of the electrodes, different ways the electrodes can be sequenced (or montaged) to asses voltage variation, and how to interpret artifacts and patterns in each type of montage. Today I raided my university library research access to find articles applying EEG to psychosis. 

Apparently, in the late 90s, folks were trying to see if EEG could be useful in psychiatry. By the early 2000s, the consensus seemed to be "nah." But by 2011, folks were starting to connect observed gray and white matter variations with visible abnormalities in EEG. By 2014 there was a proposed psychotic phenotype supported by replicated studies. The article I'm reading now was published last November, 2018 and it tested whether the proposed phenotype was present at first episode or induced later due to medication. (Spoiler: the phenotype is apparent before the introduction of medication)

This is groundbreaking science. It's happening right now, and I get to be a part of it.

Oh my gosh, what a rush! This work is going to have such a steep learning curve, but I can't wait to chow down on more. I'm literally stepping into a dream I've held for 20 years.

Yer gurl Doctor D may end up in psychiatry and neuroscience after all. We'll see! 

[witchankles]

Note to self:

Kingdom

Umbrella Academy

[witchankles]

Yes, I am. Thank you. I’m honored.

Something happened that's still blowing my mind. 

Yesterday, the 2019 class of Green Fellows met for the first time. As we walked around with paper name tags, I heard a phrase several times that used to freeze my blood with shame. 

"Oh, you're THAT Dianna."

Except, instead of having heard of me through drama or rumor, instead of their lips dripping with derision or disgust, they were speaking with sparkling eyes and huge, sheepish smiles. 

They knew me from helping others in the Biochem course chats. They studied with my pathway maps, or they'd asked me to explain something, or they'd used one of the science videos or interactive diagrams I'd shared.

I was so damn picked on when I was younger, I spent my first thirty years on this planet trying desperately to hide... or else trying to live so naked to the public eye that no one could possibly have any "secret" dirt to torment me with.

I've finally come to a place that feels more balanced. Private life and public boundaries feel stable yet flexible, healthy, and calm. It's lovely, really. 

I just don't have words for how it struck me to hear "THAT Dianna," after all this time. The flicker of ingrained reaction whispered through transient goosebumps, and then a quiet, shy glow took its place. 

Shucks. Yes. Yes, I am. Thank you. I'm honored.

[witchankles]

Building good study habits: getting organized!

A friend asked me for study advice, and I realized I actually had some useful wisdom to share. I’m pursuing my second undergrad degree, and I have eleven years’ experience in undergrad and grad school. I finally feel, after all this time, like I’ve set some truly excellent study habits for myself. My 3.97 GPA seems to agree with me. ;} So, without further ado, permit me to share with you some of what I’ve learned so far. It seems getting organized is the most important place to start. I’ll write more on my actual study practices later. 

Monthly: start your semester informed and prepared

First, I'd say get a planner. I use a monthly/weekly one. 

 At the start of each term I print out all my syllabi and sit down with colored pens and my planner. I pick a color for each class, and write the class names in their assigned color at the top of each month.

Then I write in every exam, quiz, essay, and homework due date on the month pages, underlining my quizzes and minor essays/drafts and circling the exams and major essays. I have a special pen color for incidental things I need to track as well: doc appointments, advising and registration dates, student organization meetings, dinner with friends, concerts I have tickets to, etc. Keeping personal and school stuff on the same calendar means it's easier for me to remember to turn in homework early so I can enjoy the concert without stress, I know not to plan a dinner out the night before an exam, etc.

(I started crossing the days off to help me stay focused on the right day. I kept accidentally looking at the wrong date, or getting distracted by what was happening next week when I needed to stay focused on this week.)

Weekly: Plan ahead and set short term goals

On Friday or Thursday (whichever is my last day of classes for the week), I take a moment fill out next week's pages, in color code, with any due dates, plans, and pertinent details: chapter 12 on Tuesday, Philosophy draft due Thursday, counselling appointment Friday at 11am, Carpenter Brut concert Thursday night at Blah Venue, doors at 8pm (print your ticket!), etc.

Then, knowing what's due when next week, I flip back to this weekend and make a list of what I need to do to be ready for next week. I usually use the same pen colors in my to-do list: database essay before Sunday, read chapter 12 and quiz prep, philosophy research and outline, print concert tickets, etc.

Then, I spend most of my weekend on study and homework in prep for next week. For me, that means I have whole days to myself with little distraction, and I can read and write and organize and prep. If I finish everything I need ahead of time, then I can relax after classes when I'm tired and just want to have dinner with a friend.

I have trouble remembering when things are due, how much time I have to work on things, and what's coming up that might interrupt my study time. This was my main difficulty all the way thru school. I'd forget assignments and take a zero. I'd forget we had a test and have to take it without studying first. I'd forget I had a band concert the night before my essay was due and either take a late grade or else stay up till dawn. Because of this, I've learned I need to write EVERYTHING down.

Bonus: I have reusable plastic folders in some of the same colors as my pens.  I try to coordinate my pen and folder colors for each class, and it makes keeping track of loose papers and digging the right folder out of my bag way easier.

Building a new habit takes time. Take it in steps.

Don't worry if it takes a while to get into the habit of keeping things up. It took me about three semesters to finally fully get into the habit. My first semester, I wrote everything in the book and then never looked at it again! 😜

I used to use just the month pages. This semester I finally started making to-do lists and using the week pages. My next step is to get one of those month/week planners that has the days broken up hour-by-hour. My goal for next semester is to finally graduate to giving myself a real schedule: I will spend noon to three working on this essay, I'll have a half hour food break, and then I'll spend 330 to 530 reading for chem class, ... and I really will go to bed at 1am, I swear! (getting enough sleep is my biggest challenge lately)

I’ll attach some photos from my planner for examples. Mind you, this semester has been pretty intense for me, so my planner is REALLY colorful right now. Don't let that discourage you! Start easy and build up like I did.

Most importantly, find what works best for you.

Mind you, what works for me may not work for you, and that's true for all aspects of studying.

I've shown you my weaknesses (keeping track of which class is doing what, remembering my obligations and what's due when, planning enough time to work on it and still keep my plans) and how I've learned to work around them and strengthen my overall performance (color-coded course materials, monthly and weekly due dates and obligations, to-do lists).

Take a moment to reflect on what your weaknesses may be so far in school, and contemplate how you might strengthen your abilities in those areas. If you know your weaknesses but aren't yet sure how to approach working around them, feel free to shoot me an ask and I'll offer what wisdom, resources, or advice I may have.

Good luck and may the spirits of academe be ever in your favor. :}

[witchankles]

Med school prewrite: the best character sheet EVAR

I'm working on a prewrite for my med school application essays. This whole process is basically intended to get folks comfortable with identifying their strengths and tooting their own horn in essays and applicant interviews. For me, it's almost been a process of befriending and getting to know myself from scratch.

The worksheet I'm using has a section for brainstorming strengths, weaknesses, accomplishments, personal motives and goals, influences, challenges, and an overall chronological narrative to knit these elements together. 

I just sat down to begin the strengths section. The very first thing I wrote is something I didn't actually realize was firmly within my tool chest until this very moment. It's a skill I have always admired and sought to cultivate in myself, one I'm extremely proud of, and I owe its growth within me almost entirely to my time on the faire circuit...

"charismatic leadership"

Holy crap, this is who I am now. I'm growing into the kind of person I so looked up to when I was a kiddo. This is so freaking AWESOME! This prewrite process almost feels like putting together a backstory and character sheet for the BEST RPG EVAAAR! Except the character is me, and those aren't build points and skill trees... that's my real life experience, and the wisdom and skills it's afforded me. Holy crap. This is awesome. 

[witchankles]

Depression, the red towel in my laundry

I think one of the strangest and most beautiful experiences of the last few years is to feel the difference between sorrow and depression. Situational sorrow used to feel like a brand new vivid red towel in the wash. I could try my best to process it and keep moving, but so often I felt powerless to stem the consuming stain accumulating around me. As I tumbled in the caustic froth, trying to remember how to function, I felt I never had any idea how long the latest dizzying crimson agitation would last. In the last five years, there's a bright and distinct difference. I guess I could say I more often experience sadness as colorfast. Sometimes the two coexist, but things don't run together like they did when I was younger. And so far, the darkness isn't as depersonalizing nor as disorienting as it used to be. It feels like the drive and determination guiding me through my studies is a light shining throughout my being, helping keep me grounded and on track. I plan to tend the flame so it might guide me throughout life.

[witchankles]

I’ve worked amazing jobs

I don't realize how many awesome and strange jobs I've had till I spend time talking with curious young folk. I had a car full of college freshmen this afternoon, and we talked about everything under the sun. Renfaire is the obvious one. Six Flags? I worked there as a stage tech for a couple years. Music festivals? I worked the counter at the largest volume food vendor at Bonnarroo, and I saw Paul McCartney, Tom Petty, and Bjork on my breaks! Second language? I worked as a bilingual leasing agent for a few years. (Alas, I've forgotten so much since then.) Stringed instruments? I worked repair for a luthier as my first job! Travel? I spent a month in Bali learning about small-scale importing. Driving? I often drove four days between faire jobs! Haunted houses? I helped build one a couple years in a row. o_O! I've done a heck of a lot of cool stuff, I just don't realize it. I have to imagine someone somewhere thinks I'm full of it and just making stuff up after a while. ;p

[witchankles]

Contemplating duty and purpose

In quiet moments, I wonder sometimes if I've chosen a path that is wise for me. Sure, the idea of practicing medicine probably sounds bright and exciting to anyone with little practical clinical experience. How will I handle long days, endless paperwork, basic assessments, problem patients, conflict and social politics along the way? How will I keep my heart in what I do? How will I recharge myself so I can best serve the folks who are counting on me? I recently worked dinnertime at a shelter. Food service positions were filled, so I volunteered for dish pit. I thanked folks for bringing me their trays, my grin and giggles broadening as the pit got busier. I joked with folks, cheered kiddos who tossed their own silverware into the bin, wished friendly faces a lovely evening, and tried my best to show warmth, gratitude, and appreciation toward the folks who seemed to feel grim. When dinner was finished, I scrubbed tables and chairs and swept the entire dining room, trying my best to leave a clean and welcoming space that felt more inviting for the next meal. I was reminded of how much I genuinely adore working in service. I love the chance to brighten someone's day, and my greatest reward is to see folks feel genuinely appreciated and respected. My favorite jobs have been in the service sector, and I tend to thrive in the busiest and most demanding situations. Winter holiday mall retail felt like licking a battery in the best way. I served hundreds, possibly thousands of customers in a shift. It felt like a dance to me, full of magic and mischief, and every time someone grinned or giggled with me, I felt recharged. When someone walked in sour and left feeling satisfied, I was triumphant. Especially when folks at renfaire remarked that I had become part of their family memories, I felt my spirit sing with gratitude. When I reflect on this, I'm less anxious about the future. I have no doubt that some things may get me down, but I anticipate that recharging my spirit in service of others may be my key to avoiding burnout. I will keep this in mind, and continuously seek out ways to honor others in my work.

[witchankles]

Tutoring

A really sweet and dedicated fellow student asked me to help her study for the next exam. She thought she was handsomely prepared for this last one, and came out with a score in the 40s. She's rattled, anxious, discouraged, and worried about losing her scholarship. I asked her how she learns best. Videos? Lecture? Reading? Photos? Writing or drawing? She's not sure. How does she solve our problem sets? (researching the answers is most of how I actually understand and retain our material) She and a friend basically practice rubber ducky debugging to arrive at answers together. Does she use any outside sources? No. Is she a member of our course group chat? She never logs in. Did she go over any of our professors old exams? No. Hmm... We get our exam papers back Thursday, and we're going to start by going over what she missed for the last exam. I hope to help her lay a solid foundation first, and we can build from there. I showed her the big glycolysis/gluconeogenesis map I made, and explained how making it helped me review our material in minute detail. She's going to try making one of her own, and then one for the pentose phosphate pathway as practice, and we're going to tackle glycogen synthesis and breakdown together. I'll make sure she has access to our course dropbox so she can review old exams, and I recommended eyeballing the short answers on all the old exams, since our prof's short answers are tricky as hell and researching ahead of time is almost essential. I understand feeling discouraged, and it is my hope we can restore some of her confidence, so she feels empowered to deepen and broaden her study resources and try again. I've taken a knock on a couple exams, and I've been fortunate for the folks who helped keep me on track. I'm crossing my fingers I can pay it forward.

[witchankles]

When our bodies feel more like puppets than like home

Yesterday was my first time attending a military funeral. The gravity of the moment continues to affect me, and I'm still processing my own feelings.

cw: discussion on death, grief, loss, hard memories Involved parties are filtered off, so as not to disturb or upset them. Yea, I know some of this is terribly self-absorbed. Spare me the judgement, yeh? Thanks. . . .

When my friend shared the details of her father's services, I thought only of being there for her. I didn't know her father well, but she and I have known each other since we were still gawky little girls. She is family, and I would be nowhere else.

Hearing Taps sliced to some culturally cultivated core of my soul, and the brimming flood came unbidden, tears falling somehow for every service member who has ever breathed their last. I wept for all the families who miss them, for every person whose life they were summoned to end or alter in an act of war, and for all the service members and their families who found ways to carry on when the battle ended. I cried for all the sons and daughters inspired by their honored parents, aunts, uncles, grandparents, who bid quiet and loving farewell to their aged lifelong heros at bedside. I cried for my my own father's dwindling candle, and for gratitude that he's still here with me.

As the service continued, and my friend and her family honored their father's memory, I was struck by the gravity of their sorrow. How remarkable was this man in his many and varied accomplishments and passions, and how much more remarkable that his family weeps so dearly, moreover, that they feel comfortable doing so openly, supporting each other in their grief.

In my friend's family, I saw folks grasping at a sudden emptiness, hard feelings and difficult memories smoothed over by the gentle glow of postmortem reflection. I have felt this smoothing glow spreading through difficult memories from my childhood as well.

In my friend, oh lordy, in my friend I saw parts of myself. Poised, composed, and crystalline, she comported herself with grace and dignity, as I tried my best to do at my grandmother's funeral. My thoughts amplified by the fact I was sitting in the very chapel that held my grandmother's services, I remembered the cloudy haze that fogged my vision that day. I recalled how my grandmother had always wanted me to be a proper young lady, how important to her were etiquette and proper social protocol, and how I foundered wishing she were there to guide me through these especially visible moments. My grandmother was in the box. She couldn't help me anymore.

I remember the rush of defiance and crushing humiliation. My grandmother wasn't there to judge me anymore, but now all the family and my grandmother's friends and colleagues had gathered to pass judgement in her absence... and worse, I knew my grandmother would have raged and wept at how negative judgements passed on me reflected poorly on her. I tugged awkwardly at my hair scarf, picked lint from my clothes, tried like hell to find the place where my voice sounded appropriately somber and yet dutifully welcoming and hospitable. I remember I spoke, but I don't remember what I said. I remember my voice faltered at the podium and my eyes stung, and my brain was screaming at me inside my skull, voicing an opposed war that threatened to crowd out my more coherent thoughts, "How dare you not show proper respect! Pull yourself together! But don't look too stony-faced or everyone will think you don't care! You're such a disgrace!"

I wrenched my memory out of the building storm, and looked up at my beautiful friend as she spoke carefully of her father's life and accomplishments, directly addressing his fallible humanity, the nature of forgiveness, and the importance of the overall arc of one's life. I heard between her words some of the same conflict I felt. Sometimes hard memories and old conflict are not quite smoothed by the merciful glow of someone's passing. I admired her grace and gentility, and appreciated the semi-vacant nature of her gaze. Oh, those moments when our bodies feel more like puppets than like home.

How fitting that moments before the service began, I'd stepped outside to visit my grandmother's resting place. I squinted against the sun glare reflected off her brass name plate, startled by the tears in my eyes and the words on my lips: I think you'd finally be proud of me, Lala.

At the tea reception following services for my friend's father, her eyes cleared. Her smile returned, genuine and warm. She reached for me in a hug, and we whispered and wept how proud we were of each other. Oh, what joy in communion of spirit and sorrow, and how far we've come as women.

I think I'm finally processing my grandmother's death, some nine and a half years after the fact. I pray my friend finds sure footing on her way through the wilds of grief ahead of her.

[witchankles]

Nontraditional pre-med student: the late bloomer

My mental health text is my bathroom reader. My philosophy text is the audiobook in my car. White boards, anatomy and metabolism reference posters are my artwork. I'm a contributing member in six course-specific group chats. I'm an active in two student organizations, one a professional prep org, the other an honor society. My planner is open in front of me at all times. It has seven inks color-coded to subject, importance, and task. I set no appointments, personal or private, without checking my planner first. Much as my mind is razor focused on the work directly in front of me, my long-range plans are highly detailed for the next several years. With every step I take this afternoon, I'm parallel processing: What action does this necessitate next week, next semester, next year? And how early can I start?

When did I become this person? And why the hell did it take me so long to get my shit together?

Sometimes it's exhilarating, sometimes disheartening. Look how far I've come! But oh, all the things I could have accomplished by now if this had been me twenty years ago.

Agh. Such is life. I guess I'm a late bloomer. That's about par for the course. I can deal with that.

Keep moving. Keep learning. Keep feeling. Keep growing.

Onward...

[witchankles]

Put your right hand in the box.

It's a caustic ache A burning, searing, slipping, rending of mental flesh from sane bone.

I'm struggling to contain emotions warring like dogs in a sack of cheesecloth, elastic, and tissue paper.  I want to fuck, fight, cry, run, get a tattoo, pick a daisy, dance, scream, and die all at once. All at once. All at once, and it’s dizzying and chaotic and confusing.

And there’s no one I can talk to about it. No one I feel safe being completely open and vulnerable to. No one I can override the fear of “they’ll think me weak/a burden/broken/unworthy and walk away” to open my fucking yap to.

Fuck this. Fuck my brain. Fuck everything.

[witchankles]

Deliberately waterboarding myself with the underbelly of medical practice

I have taken to watching videos on medicine and surgery before bed. I'm doing this partly to inform my awareness of what the hell I'm getting myself into, but also to begin to understand the kind of emotional and intellectual processes and compartmentalization I will need to affect in order to succeed. Of late, I've been watching a series on neurosurgeons. Tonight's episode was especially intense, and it followed a pediatric neurosurgeon through what he admits was one of the hardest weeks he's ever faced.

During the thick of the week, a young mother came in to differentiate between spina bifida and a fetal tumor, and then had to decide whether to go through with late-term termination after the MRI suggested significant spinal malformation.

A two-year-old came in with a blood clot caused by a tumor.  Scans can't differentiate between a glial blastoma, which would mean kiddo had mere months left regardless of treatment, or a malignant ependymoma, which could be removed but would risk partial paralysis due to location. Either way, kiddo may not live through or after the surgery. The clot was easily removed, and the parents were given the news of the tumor and the option to choose surgical removal, hoping to extend the child's life for a few years but possibly at the expense of his mobility, or to forego surgery and let kiddo keep his exuberant frenetic joyous motion as long as possible. The parents were understandably shaken and took some time to think it over.

The editing on this episode was geared for maximum emotional impact, and included some particularly insightful moments with the surgeon. He was shown instructing the boy's parents to do their best to conceal fear and sorrow from kiddo in order to minimize chances of the child's own emotive response hampering his healing. In the next cut, the surgeon is alone with the documentary camera, explaining how hard it was not to cry himself while delivering the news. He explains it's just as vital for the parents not to see him cry as it is for the child not to see their parents cry. The next scene was the surgeon with his own two little girls at a playground and picnic, explaining how each time he operates, he pauses to consider how he'd feel were he the child, or the parent. Goodness.

Spoiler alert: Mom kept the baby, delivered by Cesarean at full term, and newborn came through surgery to close the spina bifida with a promising prognosis. Toddler's parents chose surgical intervention, the lab indicated a higher probability of an ependymoma, kiddo retained full mobility after the surgery, and is responding well to chemotherapy.

With each show I watch, I am more and more certain I'm on the right path for me. I'm doing everything I can to make certain I have the strength and preparation to make it through my worst weeks, so that I can be there to see the best ones.

[witchankles]

The brightness of the stars in the darkest night

For a long time, I haven't listened to sad music. Heck, for the last entire effing decade, I wouldn't listen to music that tugged my heart strings in any fashion, in any direction. It felt like I had too much packed too tightly too close to the surface. Felt like if I listened to music that caused me to pause and reflect on any of it, the dam would break and I'd be suddenly swept away in an emotional torrent I couldn't possibly control.

Finally, after all this time, I can listen to beautifully heartrending music. I can sit in the aching melancholy and marvel at the brightness of the stars in the darkest night. Sometimes I just listen to it to appreciate the exquisite hum deep within me. I am blessed to have known people I loved dearly enough to miss them like this. This ache is as vital as my own heartbeat, and as beautiful as tears in rain. It's a sign that I'm human, and alive, and healing.

[witchankles]

That privileged point of view: the world of two.

I was married at 24. We separated when I was 27. Divorced shortly thereafter. In those moments, I felt a monolithic core of dreams shattering inside me. I would, in fact, be just like my mother. I was troubled, upset, hurt, anxious, and yet somehow I never questioned whether I would love again. Would I ever marry again? Heh. Not likely. But I was sure I’d find someone to share my days.

In time, I did find someone who so surpassed even my wildest dreams of partnership. I used to day, I hadn’t dared to dream for someone like him because I didn’t know it could even be possible. I put my whole heart into our union, and it simply never occurred to me that it would end. My partner and I would grow and change, but we’d still remain committed to each other because... because not remaining so simply wasn’t possible, I thought. I’d have followed him to the ends of the earth and walked through hell to rescue him from death itself. Unfortunately, he did not have similar ideas. In time, my unwavering commitment felt more like a straitjacket for him than a partnership. When it ended I was blindsided. Peering backward through time in the aftermath, I had missed so many signs he was unhappy. I felt a fool. Even then, I figured I’d be a wreck for a while, likely single for many years, and then eventually, I would feel healthy enough to fall for someone again. My faith in love was shaken, but undiminished.

Last year, I manged to escape a dreadfully abusive situation. On my way in, it was one of those situations where rose colored glasses make all those red flags just look like flags. Once I was in, I was too afraid of him to figure out how to leave. I’m fortunate it only took me a year to find my way to safety, but unfortunate that he chose to transmute his role as abusive partner into one of harassing stalker. I was so genuinely and constantly frightened for my safety, my body was breaking down around me. I got some professional help, leaned on my social support, and clawed my way through hell. Afterward, even aimless flirtation with zero intention made me feel raw, naked, repulsive, and terrified. A friend of mine winked and offered a jokingly lascivious remark and I wanted to jump out of my skin. I ended up begging my friends to refrain from touching me or making any even vaguely flirtatious comments, because I just couldn’t handle them. Maybe someday, I would be in a good place to joke and flirt again, but for right then, I wanted to claw my skin off and hide in a grave where no one would ever find me or see me again.

It was then that my faith in a future partner finally fractured. There are people who are special to me. Even people whom I love. There is someone whom I enjoy spending time with, and we have a loving and romantic connection. But  there’s this strange creeping hollow in my emotions. There’s something missing. I feel fundamentally unsafe in a partnership.

Will I ever again share my bed, my home, my life? Will anyone ever be able to refer to me as girlfriend, sweetheart, life partner? I honestly don’t see it ever happening again.

It feels like that part of my heart is necrotic. Those dreams are, finally, dead inside.

[witchankles]

This just in: Adult Student Kicking Her Own Ass For Not Doing This Right The First Time. News at 10:00.

I went back to school in my mid 30s to change careers to medicine. I’ve not lived a simple or boring life. I finished my first undergrad 12 years ago. Left partway through a masters program when I realized I wasn’t on the right path for me. I worked odd jobs and traveled for several years while I got my head together after a perfect storm of family catastrophes, and then decided I was finally ready to dedicate myself to the next chapter.

I’m acutely aware of the privilege which has afforded me such freedom, and I’m doing my best to be a good steward of what I’ve been given. Most days, I look back and realize I wouldn’t be succeeding the way I am now if I had not been through what I’ve been through. Most days, I think I understand that I’m exactly where I need to be. 

Other days, I look up and see folks my age in suits, with corner offices, quarterly bonuses and regular raises, with their 401ks and their families and their vacations... and I feel crushed under the weight of guilt and failure. I’ve chosen to face the enormous challenge of academic preparation for a career in medicine. I’m an adult, unwed student with no children and few distractions from my studies, and I’ve got an almost perfect 4.0 academic record to show for it. I’m uniquely positioned for success, but somehow I have trouble letting go of beating myself up for not finding my way here 15 years ago.

I’ve been through hell and back to get here, and I know few could have pulled success out of the quagmire as I have. I keep telling myself if I needed to go through hell, I’m glad it’s happening now, when I have a support network to help me through, and now I’ll be better prepared to understand and help my patients through their own storms.

Still... bloody hell. Why are we so good at cutting ourselves off at the knees?

[witchankles]

Reinventing myself? On accident, I think.

All my life I’ve chosen glasses frames to be as unobtrusive as possible. I’m pale with golden blonde hair, and I have preferred small oval frames in either brushed brass that blends into my hair and skin, or brushed steel to not clash with my silver/steel/titanium jewelry. Nothing flashy or shiny. Please, for the love of all things, let people forget that I’m wearing glasses. It seemed to work. When I wore contacts, I got the, “Something is different. Did you change your hair?” responses rather than the “Woah! You look totally different!” Mission largely accomplished for some 15 damn years. Gah. Recently, I decided to go big or go home. Got myself some strong black acetate frames, in a large shape that suggests a gentle cat eye. Immediately, I was stunned at the more direct and prolonged eye contact. Just a few weeks later, I somehow decided it was finally time to get my first undercut, something I’ve wanted since I was 12. I’m headed to the professional world in a few years, so I figure out I may as well experiment while I can. What remains of my hair is still down to my waist, but I now have gleaming, baby blonde shaven sides. I can hide the shave fairly easily, but I’ve been wearing my hair up more and more, as I grow comfortable with my new ‘do. I went dancing last night with it up and felt like a damned tungsten carbide badass. I also feel way less pressure to present as conventionally feminine, which is freeing. Oh my goodness, the sudden visibility and attention. I am not used to this. People interact with me very differently. Much more eye contact. Much more conversation with strangers. More queer visibility, and way more “I see you, fam” nods, which I love. Much kinder, less grotesquely lascivious comments from men, strangely. I suppose since I look a bit more like a badass and a bit less like an effing barbie doll, now suddenly I’ve earned more respect? How does that work? Buck the system, flip the bird at conventions of socially acceptable presentability, and suddenly people treat me better, not worse? Gee, my grandmother was sure wrong. ;p