I never had a problem with Doug. In fact, I quite liked his gruff and aloof disposition both in and away from the lab. One of the best veterinarians in his field, he had a “don’t give a fuck” attitude to maintaining his beard as well as maintaining relations with both colleagues and laboratory staff. His tasteless t-shirt gags at corporate Christmas parties never failed to amuse, and I regret that I was no longer working for the company when he decided to wear flesh-coloured bike-pants and successfully offended the Medical Liaison officer with his shimmying.
The last time I saw him was at his beloved wife’s funeral. Lynne was his One, and when you saw them together, it all made sense. They had a unique passion for animal welfare, conservation, and their story is one that I would consider a fairytale. He came from England to America’s deep south, where the accents were as thick as mud, as were the antideluvian ideals of a society that couldn’t keep up with the rest of the world. He was there for only a short while, requested specifically to do equine check-ups on an old man’s stud. That old man’s daughter was Lynne, and she was taken by Doug. Now, Doug being Doug, he had no idea and went back to England to do his thing.
A couple of months later, he answered the door to find Lynne, who had come to England for him. She eventually proposed after many threats to and as soon as he accepted, she threatened to leave him if he ever shaved his beard. He never did, and cried inconsolably throughout his 15-minute eulogy. They had devoted their lives to each other and traveled the world enjoying the fruits of their labour together.
My time with her was brief, but I had dined with them often. My connection was my ex-mother-in-law who I consider my own, and my ex-sister-in-law who has since become a veterinarian in her own right with unwavering support from both Doug and Lynne. I nearly always forgot that Lynne was nearly-completely deaf in one ear and nearly always sat on that side of her so we’d end up laughing and yelling at each other. I loved the incredibly racist all-(white)American memorabilia and old advertisements she had littered around the house; while she herself didn’t believe in it, that was her heritage and she was mighty proud of where she came from. I have a bit of an obsession with golliwogs and love all things inflammatory to current social graces, so it was almost inevitable that we’d get on like a house on fire.
I remember the first time I had visited their home. A massive painting of a regal-looking Rottweiler graced the main wall of their home, and Lynne proudly told me its story. I was looking at Doug’s very first loyal companion, aptly named Winnie Mandela.
“She was a black bitch who didn’t take any shit from anyone!”
I remember Lynne’s raucous laugh and my discomfort at not really knowing how to react, especially as I was greeted shortly afterwards by the painter’s muse, hobbling but still quite energetic for an old dog. Unfortunately, Winnie died of cancer after a long and brutal struggle that had seen her spend the last few years of her life an amputee.
I had never seen Doug so upset, and it broke my heart. My current employer saw absolutely no problem in giving me the day off to attend Lynne’s funeral, and I am so thankful. His beautiful angel, the light of his life, his one and only, she succumbed to Multiple Sclerosis after an 11-year battle and it was no surprise that the church was packed to the rafters. During those 11 years, he wasn’t able to hug her because the pain in her body was excruciating. After falling down the stairs one night, he carried her upstairs to their bedroom to rest and recover. She never woke up, passing peacefully in her sleep from a massive brain haemorrhage.
I found myself feeling not only incredibly sad, but also incredibly angry at some of the people who attended Lynne’s funeral. Despite the Who’s Who of medical and veterinary science attending, there were a few there who have taken great pleasure in making fun of him behind his back. Many had turned down his many personal invitations to have lunch or dinner at his home with Lynne for no reason but to enjoy each other’s company. He was nearly always aloof, abrupt and awkward, sure – but when he was with Lynne, that gave way to a caring husband and host who did everything he could to make sure that everybody was entertained, well-fed, and comfortable.
When my ex-mother-in-law dropped The Kid off on Saturday afternoon, she gave me a bag full of cigarettes. Being the only smoker he knew other than Lynne, he thought that I should have them so they didn’t go to waste, that Lynne looked forward to me coming over because she had someone to smoke with. I felt a bit morbid accepting them, but what do you do?
We should all be so lucky to find a happiness like theirs.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Saturday, September 22, 2007
No joie here.
My boyfriend ceremoniously dumped me at lunchtime today. He says he can't be there for me emotionally, as he's going through his own thing. He says he's far too independent and he believes it's unfair to make us both unhappy.
Great. I dated myself.
The last time I was dumped was in Grade 8, by Manuel Garcia. I remember the knot in my stomach as I walked up to him on the train and pretty much threw a note at him asking him to go out with me. He read it aloud with his mates and said no. I was shattered.
These things happen, and I'll get over it. Maybe it's a bit of karmic justice that has been long overdue, but it still hurts.
Friday, September 14, 2007
Well, sheeit.
Can I just ask what it is about public corporate bathrooms that compels the anonymous few to either:
1) Piss all over the floor;
2) Shit all around and up the inside of the toilet bowl;
3) Clog the toilet with toilet paper using all the toilet paper in that cubicle;
4) Soak the entire sink area with soapy water so that anyone who leans forward gets their clothes wet in a way that makes them look like they've urinated all over themselves, or;
5) Use ALL the handtowels and throw them all over the floor.
Perhaps they're assuming that our autistic children patients are responsible, but a lot of these facilities are inaccessible without adult supervision. Hmm.
1) Piss all over the floor;
2) Shit all around and up the inside of the toilet bowl;
3) Clog the toilet with toilet paper using all the toilet paper in that cubicle;
4) Soak the entire sink area with soapy water so that anyone who leans forward gets their clothes wet in a way that makes them look like they've urinated all over themselves, or;
5) Use ALL the handtowels and throw them all over the floor.
Perhaps they're assuming that our autistic children patients are responsible, but a lot of these facilities are inaccessible without adult supervision. Hmm.
Monday, September 10, 2007
The 'Fern
Looking out the window, I couldn’t help but wonder what it was about me going out that turned the weather to shit. I buried my neck even deeper in my jacket and waited anxiously for the train to stop at Redfern Station. I had already left home quite late after farting around the house with The Kid before she went off in a butterfly-and-glitter flurry to spend the night at Grandma’s.
The one and only time I had stopped at Redfern Station before this was to switch trains after a nauseating ride spent watching a zit on the back of a hairy man’s neck erupt like a fleshy Etna. I remember thinking how ridiculous double-level train carriages were, and pitying a starved pigeon hobbling across the platform on a nub and a stump. Suffice it to say that wasn’t the cheeriest day I’ve had in Sydney but even with a horrible memory, it’s obscure stuff like that I seem to remember. The queer sticks in my mind.
It’s a marvellous culture study on trains, especially these fandangled Sydney ones; the pretty waif-thin white girls and mascara’d emo boys disappear as you get closer to town on the North Shore to City via Strathfield line, and are quickly replaced by packrats with mullets and girls who look like they could chew me up and spit me out. Older couples who’ve been married for fifty years and are still holding hands everywhere they go are replaced by women committed to the Single Parent Pension lifestyle, where the more kids you birth get you more cash. Of course, that's an over-generalised and highly ignorant statement... but I like getting my point across in extremes. Perhaps I'm bitter because of the Jesus-fact that, because I walk around looking sad, I’m rarely bothered?
Who the fuck knows.
Balancing my oversized overnight bag and brolly in a public phone booth was a task in itself, but I ham-handedly mashed Spider’s number so I could let him know that I had arrived. He said he would be two minutes, and that he’d meet me outside the station. I was there to pick up two things: one of the last Smash N’ Grab 7”’s, and Spider’s old pre-paid knock-around mobile phone. I needed one to tie me over while I paid off a mammoth phone bill on my Telstra-plan PDA. By the by, Telstra are the biggest wallet-rapists on the face of this Earth! The face! Of this Earth!
As I walked out onto the path, I was greeted by an old Aboriginal woman who looked a sorry sight. She reeked of alcohol, was missing most of her front teeth, and wore ragged clothes that look like they’ve spent most of their life abandoned on the side of a highway. She asked me if I could spare any change, and I said no – I honestly didn’t, having used all the shrapnel I had to buy my train ticket, and I think handing her a bobby pin and the back of an earring would’ve been more than a tad patronizing.
Even with my problem of not making/maintaining eye-contact, I didn’t want to look away from this lady when I turned her down. It was probably her most popular reaction to her request, and I felt like I owed her better than that. She smiled her toothless smile, looked into my eyes and not only said thank you, but also wished me a good day. I took a few steps before I stopped and turned around.
“I don’t have any cash but I do have a spare smoke if you’d like one.”
“Yes please, ma’am.”
I ignored the “ma’am” part and lit her smoke for her. Asking her how long she’d been out there in front of Redfern Station, she said she had been there for three solid hours and had only managed to make around five dollars. She said that it was okay, even better now that she had a smoke. I watched as a middle-aged man in a well-tailored suit skirted around her as if she were diseased, and shook my head in disdain when a loafy highschool senior ho (fo sho) dressed in this season’s rags told her to fuck off.
“They only see what they want to see, mate.”
“Fuckin' oath. Thanks for the smoke, Sister.”
“No worries.”
I gave her my lighter with the rest of my pack of smokes, then wished her all the very best as I picked up my bag and walked toward the moving mural that was my buddy (and fellow SWD mod), Spider.
The one and only time I had stopped at Redfern Station before this was to switch trains after a nauseating ride spent watching a zit on the back of a hairy man’s neck erupt like a fleshy Etna. I remember thinking how ridiculous double-level train carriages were, and pitying a starved pigeon hobbling across the platform on a nub and a stump. Suffice it to say that wasn’t the cheeriest day I’ve had in Sydney but even with a horrible memory, it’s obscure stuff like that I seem to remember. The queer sticks in my mind.
It’s a marvellous culture study on trains, especially these fandangled Sydney ones; the pretty waif-thin white girls and mascara’d emo boys disappear as you get closer to town on the North Shore to City via Strathfield line, and are quickly replaced by packrats with mullets and girls who look like they could chew me up and spit me out. Older couples who’ve been married for fifty years and are still holding hands everywhere they go are replaced by women committed to the Single Parent Pension lifestyle, where the more kids you birth get you more cash. Of course, that's an over-generalised and highly ignorant statement... but I like getting my point across in extremes. Perhaps I'm bitter because of the Jesus-fact that, because I walk around looking sad, I’m rarely bothered?
Who the fuck knows.
Anyway!
Alighting at Redfern Station, it’s noticeably cleaner than I remember from all those years ago. It still smelled like terminally ill cat and fart, but that seems to be a prerequisite for all Sydney train stations that have existed without maintenance any longer than two years -- you learn to either enjoy it or tolerate it, depending on how much you use public transport.Balancing my oversized overnight bag and brolly in a public phone booth was a task in itself, but I ham-handedly mashed Spider’s number so I could let him know that I had arrived. He said he would be two minutes, and that he’d meet me outside the station. I was there to pick up two things: one of the last Smash N’ Grab 7”’s, and Spider’s old pre-paid knock-around mobile phone. I needed one to tie me over while I paid off a mammoth phone bill on my Telstra-plan PDA. By the by, Telstra are the biggest wallet-rapists on the face of this Earth! The face! Of this Earth!
As I walked out onto the path, I was greeted by an old Aboriginal woman who looked a sorry sight. She reeked of alcohol, was missing most of her front teeth, and wore ragged clothes that look like they’ve spent most of their life abandoned on the side of a highway. She asked me if I could spare any change, and I said no – I honestly didn’t, having used all the shrapnel I had to buy my train ticket, and I think handing her a bobby pin and the back of an earring would’ve been more than a tad patronizing.
Even with my problem of not making/maintaining eye-contact, I didn’t want to look away from this lady when I turned her down. It was probably her most popular reaction to her request, and I felt like I owed her better than that. She smiled her toothless smile, looked into my eyes and not only said thank you, but also wished me a good day. I took a few steps before I stopped and turned around.
“I don’t have any cash but I do have a spare smoke if you’d like one.”
“Yes please, ma’am.”
I ignored the “ma’am” part and lit her smoke for her. Asking her how long she’d been out there in front of Redfern Station, she said she had been there for three solid hours and had only managed to make around five dollars. She said that it was okay, even better now that she had a smoke. I watched as a middle-aged man in a well-tailored suit skirted around her as if she were diseased, and shook my head in disdain when a loafy highschool senior ho (fo sho) dressed in this season’s rags told her to fuck off.
“They only see what they want to see, mate.”
“Fuckin' oath. Thanks for the smoke, Sister.”
“No worries.”
I gave her my lighter with the rest of my pack of smokes, then wished her all the very best as I picked up my bag and walked toward the moving mural that was my buddy (and fellow SWD mod), Spider.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
JesusFreak
I found myself walking half my trip home after dropping The Kid off with an over-zealous but harmless Jesus, who wore an APEC-ish fluro-yellow shirt. Whether it was a uniform for anything in particular is anyone’s guess, but ‘tis the season to be clearly visible at all times, lest the wrong person with a suit whispers into his lapel…
He didn’t have anything in particular to report, just wanted to know what my name was and how things were going. While I normally would’ve been quite abrasive, I’d woken up this morning with a non-denominational chirpiness and figure I’d engage in conversation. Of course, I was just a swift kick away from removing his face in the event he tried any unsavoury shenanigans, but that’s a bit of a well-conditioned fear of everything. Pre-emptive strike?
So. We were walking down the street when he said that he’d seen me walking before and that I always look sad. While that actually surprised me, I told him that that wasn’t the case. I went further to ask him what he’d think if he saw people walking down the street grinning like Cheshire cats for no apparent reason, and he just laughed. It was a bit of an eager laugh – which I wasn’t expecting – so I laughed harder and faker than usual. It was awkward.
We crossed the bridge together and he even stopped with me when I ran into an old friend I used to drink with, and waited patiently and quietly for all of 2 minutes while I did the catch-up chat. I thought that was weird enough, seeing as we hadn’t discussed anything personal and were barely acquaintances, let alone stop-worthy. Suffice it to say that I did not introduce him to my friend; I actually never got Jesus’ name but he got mine even if he got it wrong. Anyway, We weren’t mid-sentence or mid-point, so what the shit? Is it weird that I think that’s weird?
I secretly thanked real-Jesus that it was Market Day in the street mall, as it gave me an excuse to stop and start and chat with the stall owners I regularly buy my fresh and *organic produce from. The conversation went thusly:
“Okay, I have to do some grocery shopping now.”
“Okay.”
“See you later.”
“Great!”
“What?”
“Nah.”
Umm. What the hell just happened?! I can’t help but feel less enlightened for the experience, not to mention that little bit more creeped out about Jesus.
*Organic’s the way of the future, yo; nobody wants a daughter so full of pesticides / hormones that she grows She-Wang. Seriously.
He didn’t have anything in particular to report, just wanted to know what my name was and how things were going. While I normally would’ve been quite abrasive, I’d woken up this morning with a non-denominational chirpiness and figure I’d engage in conversation. Of course, I was just a swift kick away from removing his face in the event he tried any unsavoury shenanigans, but that’s a bit of a well-conditioned fear of everything. Pre-emptive strike?
So. We were walking down the street when he said that he’d seen me walking before and that I always look sad. While that actually surprised me, I told him that that wasn’t the case. I went further to ask him what he’d think if he saw people walking down the street grinning like Cheshire cats for no apparent reason, and he just laughed. It was a bit of an eager laugh – which I wasn’t expecting – so I laughed harder and faker than usual. It was awkward.
We crossed the bridge together and he even stopped with me when I ran into an old friend I used to drink with, and waited patiently and quietly for all of 2 minutes while I did the catch-up chat. I thought that was weird enough, seeing as we hadn’t discussed anything personal and were barely acquaintances, let alone stop-worthy. Suffice it to say that I did not introduce him to my friend; I actually never got Jesus’ name but he got mine even if he got it wrong. Anyway, We weren’t mid-sentence or mid-point, so what the shit? Is it weird that I think that’s weird?
I secretly thanked real-Jesus that it was Market Day in the street mall, as it gave me an excuse to stop and start and chat with the stall owners I regularly buy my fresh and *organic produce from. The conversation went thusly:
“Okay, I have to do some grocery shopping now.”
“Okay.”
“See you later.”
“Great!”
“What?”
“Nah.”
Umm. What the hell just happened?! I can’t help but feel less enlightened for the experience, not to mention that little bit more creeped out about Jesus.
*Organic’s the way of the future, yo; nobody wants a daughter so full of pesticides / hormones that she grows She-Wang. Seriously.
Monday, September 3, 2007
M/Tks!
There’s a lady at work that’s driving me absolutely up the wall. Ahhh! I swear that unless something Earth-shattering happens with this lady in the future, this will be the one and only whinge-fest dedicated to her. I’d also like to point out that I am admittedly an office dork and enjoy my fun. When it’s appropriate. On the defensive, I’m not picking on this lady… if you don’t have anything nice to say – blog it.
It seems to be a common problem these days; younger staff members who outrank older staff members. I didn’t think I had a problem with it – I respect all staff members and would consider myself a consummate professional in my current position. I know I scored this job on a wing and a prayer and take pride in my work, appearance, and behaviour especially whilst on the clock. I make sure that all tasks are completed in an efficient time-frame, and accuracy is something that comes with the territory, what with Medicare and NATA-esque audits at random. I’m a mess personally, but a bit anal-retentive at work. Justifiably so, as my end-shift is particularly prickly.
I was slowly training Practice Management (Worker’s Compensation, Basic Accounts, Practitioner Liaison, Medical and Dental Insurance, et al) until my Practice Manager (aka CrazyLegs) tripped over her husband skiing down a slope in Falls’ Creek, but some of my regular duties take responsibility for the entire day’s and entire practice’s actions. End Of Day banking, sterilisation, notarising grievances, logging births and deaths, immunisation, DVAs and Bulk-Bills (being private practice, the latter are mainly ex-staff, staff, family, associates, and friends) are the non-bane of my existence, and even the more mundane tasks like changing the linen and making sure the practice is in order (like checking that there aren’t any acupuncture needles laying about / cleaning everything the child with Scarlet Fever licked) allows me to collect my thoughts and wind down from work and ease into the evening-shift of motherhood. I wouldn’t have it any other way, as I enjoy a full-plate.
Actually, I lie.
This woman, M/Tks (which stands for Many Thanks, apparently) is a complete shitface.
After 6mo of full-time INTENSIVE training (3mo more than everyone else!), she somehow still manages to turn everything she touches in the practice into balls. She’s now a casual, but I still dread the days she’s on – I hit the ground running on those days, and spend the greater part of my shift undoing her “work”. The worst thing is, everything we handle in the practice runs on a Chain Of Custody process, and guess who has to explain the errors to each practitioner (including the practice partners and my two superiors) at the end of each night? Yep, me. Do you think I can make sense of half the mistakes this woman makes? No. Does it make me look like an idiot? Yes.
I can handle mistakes, but only for so long. When you repeat the same mistake numerous times, or ignore common-sensical procedure like looking in a tray clearly marked “Mail” if you’re looking for outgoing mail, rather than ring Australia Post, then it pops over to the unfunny side of dumb. Giving someone long-winded directions to the premises so obscure that they end up in an industrial alleyway on the other side of town looking for a building that looks like it might have at least FOUR (4) “toileting” facilities on each floor… I cringe every time I see her open her mouth.
Personal gripe: Her catch-phrases are “Spit chips!”, “Wacky-doo”, and “Derrrrrrrrrrrrr!”, “Silly Sausage!” and talks about really personal issues at random… even moreso than myself! She likes to tell people about the one time she went swimming in the ocean and was stung by jellyfish, and likes to whisper to patients as if they were close friends. She also (and I am positive some of you will love this!) blames her mistakes on her being both blonde AND female. Which is quite possibly the stupidest, irritable, and most transgressional excuse for women and blondes alike. Honestly, what a shitface.
And her attitude! Oh, sweet Jesus on a crabstick! She’s saccharine to the practitioners, but a total bitchfacewhorebag to anyone significantly younger than her (myself and most of the naturopaths who work in the Dispensary who practice elsewhere), and anyone close to her age. Which leaves Flock Of Seagulls (late 30s) as the only person to not have to deal with M/Tks’… M/Tks-ness. I can handle mistakes if they’re rectified, or at least explained to me in a way that isn’t sarcastic or condescending, but that seems to be the only way she can talk to me. I’m not the only person this happens to, but it’s been pointed out to me by one of the partners that I’ve been copping it the most. I was oblivious to it up until recently, chalking it up to her being bitter at technology evolving in the time she was raising her five now-adult children. After doing some quick abacus-work in my head, she’s had approximately ten years to work it off and get back in the game. Go figure.
Her messages are also incredibly cryptic, almost like a semi-retarded l337-speak… M/Tks, as I mentioned before, means “Many Thanks”. Apparently. “Late” can be anything from “L8” to “Lte” to “Lat”, and “Patients” is clearly supposed to be abbreviated as “Ptts”, but that’s only IF she hasn’t misspelt it as “Patience”. She also has trouble with her spelling, but that’s forgivable – we have so many practitioners writing scripts for so many different ailments and requests for tests that sound fictional. The Therapeutic Goods Administration like to confuse all with announcements of prescription drugs that are being introduced and removed from pharmaceutical shelves with names that differ greatly in chemical make-up but only differ in product name by a couple of letters.
She says she has problems at home. Everybody does. She was told not to bring her issues into the workplace, but we almost have to exit the building to make room for the gigantic chip on her shoulder. I’ve even gone so far to avoid conflict as to request to have her report directly to Flock Of Seagulls instead of me, as she has a much sunnier disposition compared to me and has a harder time getting the irrits.
This resulted in FOS giggling to me that M/Tks was terrified of me. She has every reason to be. I know that there are a lot of people that operate on a different frequency, and that’s fine. M/Tks is an over-ripe, half-gnawed cumquat, and I’m a short-tempered co-worker with even less ptts than I had to start with.
It seems to be a common problem these days; younger staff members who outrank older staff members. I didn’t think I had a problem with it – I respect all staff members and would consider myself a consummate professional in my current position. I know I scored this job on a wing and a prayer and take pride in my work, appearance, and behaviour especially whilst on the clock. I make sure that all tasks are completed in an efficient time-frame, and accuracy is something that comes with the territory, what with Medicare and NATA-esque audits at random. I’m a mess personally, but a bit anal-retentive at work. Justifiably so, as my end-shift is particularly prickly.
I was slowly training Practice Management (Worker’s Compensation, Basic Accounts, Practitioner Liaison, Medical and Dental Insurance, et al) until my Practice Manager (aka CrazyLegs) tripped over her husband skiing down a slope in Falls’ Creek, but some of my regular duties take responsibility for the entire day’s and entire practice’s actions. End Of Day banking, sterilisation, notarising grievances, logging births and deaths, immunisation, DVAs and Bulk-Bills (being private practice, the latter are mainly ex-staff, staff, family, associates, and friends) are the non-bane of my existence, and even the more mundane tasks like changing the linen and making sure the practice is in order (like checking that there aren’t any acupuncture needles laying about / cleaning everything the child with Scarlet Fever licked) allows me to collect my thoughts and wind down from work and ease into the evening-shift of motherhood. I wouldn’t have it any other way, as I enjoy a full-plate.
Actually, I lie.
This woman, M/Tks (which stands for Many Thanks, apparently) is a complete shitface.
After 6mo of full-time INTENSIVE training (3mo more than everyone else!), she somehow still manages to turn everything she touches in the practice into balls. She’s now a casual, but I still dread the days she’s on – I hit the ground running on those days, and spend the greater part of my shift undoing her “work”. The worst thing is, everything we handle in the practice runs on a Chain Of Custody process, and guess who has to explain the errors to each practitioner (including the practice partners and my two superiors) at the end of each night? Yep, me. Do you think I can make sense of half the mistakes this woman makes? No. Does it make me look like an idiot? Yes.
I can handle mistakes, but only for so long. When you repeat the same mistake numerous times, or ignore common-sensical procedure like looking in a tray clearly marked “Mail” if you’re looking for outgoing mail, rather than ring Australia Post, then it pops over to the unfunny side of dumb. Giving someone long-winded directions to the premises so obscure that they end up in an industrial alleyway on the other side of town looking for a building that looks like it might have at least FOUR (4) “toileting” facilities on each floor… I cringe every time I see her open her mouth.
Personal gripe: Her catch-phrases are “Spit chips!”, “Wacky-doo”, and “Derrrrrrrrrrrrr!”, “Silly Sausage!” and talks about really personal issues at random… even moreso than myself! She likes to tell people about the one time she went swimming in the ocean and was stung by jellyfish, and likes to whisper to patients as if they were close friends. She also (and I am positive some of you will love this!) blames her mistakes on her being both blonde AND female. Which is quite possibly the stupidest, irritable, and most transgressional excuse for women and blondes alike. Honestly, what a shitface.
And her attitude! Oh, sweet Jesus on a crabstick! She’s saccharine to the practitioners, but a total bitchfacewhorebag to anyone significantly younger than her (myself and most of the naturopaths who work in the Dispensary who practice elsewhere), and anyone close to her age. Which leaves Flock Of Seagulls (late 30s) as the only person to not have to deal with M/Tks’… M/Tks-ness. I can handle mistakes if they’re rectified, or at least explained to me in a way that isn’t sarcastic or condescending, but that seems to be the only way she can talk to me. I’m not the only person this happens to, but it’s been pointed out to me by one of the partners that I’ve been copping it the most. I was oblivious to it up until recently, chalking it up to her being bitter at technology evolving in the time she was raising her five now-adult children. After doing some quick abacus-work in my head, she’s had approximately ten years to work it off and get back in the game. Go figure.
Her messages are also incredibly cryptic, almost like a semi-retarded l337-speak… M/Tks, as I mentioned before, means “Many Thanks”. Apparently. “Late” can be anything from “L8” to “Lte” to “Lat”, and “Patients” is clearly supposed to be abbreviated as “Ptts”, but that’s only IF she hasn’t misspelt it as “Patience”. She also has trouble with her spelling, but that’s forgivable – we have so many practitioners writing scripts for so many different ailments and requests for tests that sound fictional. The Therapeutic Goods Administration like to confuse all with announcements of prescription drugs that are being introduced and removed from pharmaceutical shelves with names that differ greatly in chemical make-up but only differ in product name by a couple of letters.
She says she has problems at home. Everybody does. She was told not to bring her issues into the workplace, but we almost have to exit the building to make room for the gigantic chip on her shoulder. I’ve even gone so far to avoid conflict as to request to have her report directly to Flock Of Seagulls instead of me, as she has a much sunnier disposition compared to me and has a harder time getting the irrits.
This resulted in FOS giggling to me that M/Tks was terrified of me. She has every reason to be. I know that there are a lot of people that operate on a different frequency, and that’s fine. M/Tks is an over-ripe, half-gnawed cumquat, and I’m a short-tempered co-worker with even less ptts than I had to start with.
Therapo
Which do you fear most; judgement or punishment?
That was the question my therapist asked me to go home and ask myself, taking into consideration the long list of things I constantly beat myself up over.
My first thought was that the answer had to be a fear of judgement. I can handle pretty much anything thrown at me, even if it feels like I’m drowning. Punishment doesn’t mean much to me in the sense that I can atone or apologise without sincerity, as I’ve done many times before. Hell, anyone can. It’s hard to work through in my mind let alone on a computer, but when I think about the notion of judgement vs. punishment, judgement feels far more final, permanent. Once someone’s made a judgement on something or someone, it’s difficult to change. Unfortunately, I’m constantly changing and in the process, making mistakes.
As I was running over time (thank Jeebus for Bulk-Billing, a definite perk of working medical) going through my stream-of-consciousness, my therapist stopped me and asked a couple of very valid questions that I had not even factored in: Who is anyone to judge me? Who am I to judge myself? Only God can judge me, etc.
Okay. So I consider myself an Agnostic so didn’t care too much for that last statement she so casually threw in there, but I have a lot to think about with the two questions she asked. I don’t know what anyone else is going through, and in the way she put it, my convoluted perception of everyone watching and caring about how I live my life… well, I felt a bit awful because it was/is nauseatingly self-indulgent. As much as I don’t like having the mirror pointed back at me, she had a point. Damn her and her qualifications from working and studying for so very many years, she had a point. Wench.
All of this is part of a process that we are going through together. We’ve determined that as much as I don’t like to say it aloud, I actually do hate my mother. My end-goal is to forgive her. My first goal is to forgive myself. Part of both is to delve into the things she’s done, the things I’ve done, the motivation behind action and reaction, etc. I’m prone to sabotaging relationships for fear of people getting too close, and am in many ways extremely comfortable with being alone, despite hating the feeling of loneliness. I carry a lot of guilt and shame that hasn’t made sense for a very long time, and I am dedicated to finding a little bit of that inner-peace before I turn my mother’s hate and my hate for her onto my own daughter.
So. While I think about that between sessions, tell me which you fear most if you *had* to choose; judgement or punishment?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
