I lurk at my friends' blogs, reading their posts.
I hit the comment button, trying to type and re-type a single sentence that does not seem meaningless/trite. It is hard.
I take food pictures, but that's not what I really want to blog about. I want to blog about what is important to me. That is harder.
I think about going into psychoanalysis. With a therapist. Me being the patient. It used to be a mandatory requirement for all shrinks, you know. I go to talk to my supervisor. 'Let me ask you something before we talk.' He says. 'We think you will make a great chief resident. Would you be willing to do that?'
'It would be an honor.' I say. He then asks me what I'd come to talk about. I make some excuse and leave.
Friday afternoon. A new patient shows up. She's a year older than I am, and she's lived the life I wouldn't wish upon my worst enemy. I grill her, often not giving her enough time to finish her rambling stream of thought.
I have only 30 minutes, after all.
She smiles all through the interview. By the end, I want to cry. My supervisor (a different one) tells me, 'When you are moved by a patient's story, tell them. It creates a bond.' I go back and we finish the interview. We discuss meds, labs, follow-up plans, life. But I never tell her how I feel.
Soon, there will be another post about food. With pictures.