Henry

I swore silently to myself when I realized I needed to talk to Henry on Monday. There was data I didn’t have and someone kept asking me about it. I needed the information. Henry had it. My dealings with Henry have historically been less than pleasant.

I walked slowly down the hall, dreading the exchange and wondering if this would be one of the times I responded to criticism cheerfully, glared silently or started to snap at him. He keeps his door closed – the only one in the department with that habit – so I knocked and waited politely for him to respond. When he did not, I peeked inside after opening the door mere inches. He looked up and waved me in. I sighed and entered his office, asking for the required data.

When he looked at me blankly, I explained what I needed. He told me it wouldn’t work. I listened to a drawn out explanation as to why he believed that and nodded along.

“I understand your point,” I said, “but there has to be a way to make this work. It must be a common problem.”

He went into another spiel about how he would correct the problem – a solution requiring much time and inconvenience to others – and I nodded. It would work, I acknowledged, but I wasn’t going to do it that way. I had my own ideas.

I explained that politely and he finally moved the coveted files to my USB drive. I thanked him politely and prepared to leave before this exchange degenerated into one of my typical fantasies of kicking him in the shin. Really hard. We were slowly developing a workable relationship. He didn’t seem to express nearly as much irritation or disdain when he was with me and I was more capable of tolerating it without becoming all pathetic when he was mean.

“I have an idea.” He said, and I paused, halfway out the door. “For the experiment this week.”

“OK.” I said, leery of spending more time in that office, especially to discuss this particular collaboration. He never lets me run the machine. I’m forced to sit silently while he makes mistakes I recognize but would be berated for pointing out. I don’t get to look at the data without a lengthy explanation as to my purposes in doing so. Plus, he’s not my favorite individual.

When I interviewed here, I had already given my seminar many times - my current institution was the last stop on my interviewing tour of the country. My talk was both rehearsed and natural – those 60 minutes were when I was able to shine. I was then able to bask in the questions. I based my decision on post-docs based on those moments. People were eager to offer suggestions and opportunities as much as clarifying my methods. It was completely lovely. Well, except for my interaction with one person.

Henry slouched in the back of the room, interrupting someone else’s question to ask his own. I paused, looking at Tim in confusion over the slip in decorum that seemed so out of place in this department.

“Please.” Tim said. “Let Henry go ahead.” So I did, making a mental note to return to Tim when I was finished. But I turned my bright smile toward the back of the room and cocked my head inquisitively. I started to frown as the question turned into a monologue about highly technical details as he did calculations in his head.

“So it should be ¾…no, 4/3. [Talk, talk, talk, blah, blah, blah] If you did what you said you did, then the experiment would take 27 minutes!”

Then he laughed at me.

Shook his head. And laughed at me.

I’m sure my surprise was vividly clear to everyone in the room. Boss started to ask another question, but I kept my narrowed gaze on Henry.

“It did not take 27 minutes.” I said tightly. “It was a 6 minute experiment.” Then I turned to Tim and started to speak.

“You’re wrong.” Henry said loudly from the back. “27 minutes.”

“I’ve done the experiment.” I said. “It takes 6 minutes. I’m sure.”

“27.” He insisted.

“6.” I stated, clinging to some semblance of polite behavior.

“27.” He repeated, shaking his head and laughing again as the rest of the room looked on in tense silence.

“6.” I hissed. Then I took a breath. I actually wanted this job and I was hardly impressive at the moment. “Perhaps we could talk later.” I suggested with forced interest in my voice. “I don’t think we’re understanding each other very well, so maybe you could help me see your point after I’m done here.”

Then I avoided him for the rest of the day. I barely bit back a sarcastic “If you say so.” when Boss told me how brilliant Henry was and how helpful he could be with some of my work.

Since working here, I’ve been unable to avoid Henry completely. We’re forced to do experiments together – at Boss’ insistence – and I get pushed aside and ignored if not subjected to some other display of rudeness. It’s infuriating, frankly, and I’ve complained to friends more than once about Henry. Especially after the time I got to use the equipment, finally getting the experiment to work after many failed attempts. Thrilled with my accomplishment, I was mapping out future directions of the project for Boss later that day.

Henry arrived, shook his head and said to Boss, “This project is moving really slowly. Katie just doesn’t catch on very quickly.”

I gasped with indignation because I had just made things work! For the first time! By myself! He was the one who screwed everything up! I had friends – mostly online – who validated my feelings and tried to soothe. So I’ve continue to work with him, dreading every moment and learning very little. I skip experiments when I can think of reasonable excuses.

I was speaking to Jill one day when Henry came to drop something off.

“He thinks I’m an idiot.” I said, shaking my head after he left without a word of greeting to me.

“He does not.” Jill scolded. “He’s just a bit different.”

“Jill,” I said, “I don’t know what I did exactly, but that man does not like me. So I’m uncomfortable around him and not learning from him – though I understand he knows a tremendous amount – but it’s not a productive relationship. Which is sad since we really should work together. I understand why Boss keeps pushing for that to happen, but I hate it.”

Jill frowned and nodded. “You should tell him.” She finally advised. “Nobody is allowed to treat you that way, and I know him well. I don’t think it’s intentional. If you had a conversation, I think your relationship would improve.”

“Given that every conversation I’ve had with him has been painful, I’m going to say no. It’s a good suggestion – thank you – but I can’t do it.”

Jill must have taken care of it for me. For after I returned from my Christmas vacation, Henry has been expending tremendous effort to be nice to me. He considers my questions carefully and offers respectful and thorough responses. He invited me to run the equipment yesterday and corrected my mistakes gently, offering that he’d often made many of them himself. He shared the data and asked for my opinion on an experiment he designed.

“We’ll write a paper.” He said, and I looked at him in surprise. Though there has been a steady improvement in our working relationship, I was still shocked to realize we’re now collaborators. I voluntarily asked for his input on my major project. I don’t dread seeing him in the hallway, though I automatically brace myself before knocking on his door. I’m wondering if that will continue to be necessary though. I can actually see the effort it takes him sometimes, but I appreciate it. I reciprocate by being focused and polite and eager to learn. It’s delightful.

I think the overall point is that I’m hitting my stride at work. People I avoided are becoming approachable. Therapy is helping me considerably with monitoring my own motives and responses. I’m finally able to be productive – I have multiple projects that are all moving slowly but surely forward. I’m going to do some work with grad students. I know who to target when looking for IRB approval. The weight of unpublished graduate research is finally gone and the relief remains amazingly huge. It’s good.

And when someone who admittedly tends to dwell on the negative, the fact that I can call work good seems a major triumph.

In search of the right word

I nodded absently as he spoke, reminding myself not to squint as I focused on finding the right adjective to describe him. Weird certainly worked, I decided, but sounded a bit too cruel. He was harmless – a completely benign and largely unnoticed presence. So…different, even among PhDs. He was smart – definitely possessing knowledge I struggled to obtain. But I was looking for the right descriptor. I just couldn't make anything work in my mind.

“Useless.” Was an adjective Steve picked. We happened to be discussing Martin during one of our meetings. As Steve has progressed through his career, finding himself neatly in a faculty position, he’s noticed how quirks in grad school students or postdocs - charming when you're a peer - eventually become pains for faculty members.

“He was supposed to figure something out for me – a quick and easy solution.” He shook his head. Steve has the patience of saint. Or nearly so. Apparently you can push him too far. “But he didn’t. I asked – he had excuses. I offered to help – he was always too busy. I finally figured it out myself.”

“Was it hard?” I asked, for sometimes ‘quick and easy’ solutions turn out to be neither.

“No!” He laughed. “It was intuitive and the manual is actually decent. So I got it all set up.

“Then,” Steve continued with a dark frown, “he used it without asking me. And broke it! Took it apart and left it in pieces when he could have just left it alone! Or asked for help! Or done his job!”

“What’d you do?” I was greatly amused. Steve is normally very mellow – mild curses result from hours of work I’d consider destructive to my very sanity. He can answer endless questions. Offer reading, then work with students until they understand it. I’d never seen him so baffled by someone before.

“I went to see him. Told him he really screwed up my work. Then I explained exactly how it should have gone.”

“He screwed it up again, didn’t he?” I asked, refilling our wine glasses. Exasperated Steve was fun, and if alcohol kept him there, I was pleased to provide it.

“Yes.” He shook his head. “Hours. I spent hours fixing that damn thing.”

“You should have had him write it down.” I said lightly, then continued my advice undaunted by his look. “I use post-its. Then I can consult my post-it space for the little note I need. I take it with me, then put it back.

“Or!” I remembered another technique I use. “I type out a how-to sheet – with bullets and sub-points – then I file it with the other project materials. It takes some time in the beginning, but then I can always practice the technique correctly. And!” I like my how-to sheets, so I was praising them enthusiastically, “when I train a new person, I have documentation to offer.”

He just stared at me, then drank some more wine.

“You made him take notes, didn’t you?” I finally asked.

“Of course I made him take notes! Hell, I took notes for him! On post-its, in notebooks, I even left notes on the equipment! One of them said ‘Call Steve before you touch anything.' Nothing worked! Screwed up.” He lamented. “All the time – screwed up.”

Now I know myself well enough to understand that if a person can drive Steve to resigned despair, I’d probably beat that person with a stick. I’m not overly patient or tolerant, so I decided it was best to avoid Martin. And it works fairly well – we don’t share research interests, nor do we cross paths much.

Until he stopped in my office one day – early for a meeting we were both attending.

“Ready for your close up?” He asked, and I smiled vaguely.

“Sure.” I answered. I had been nervous for my very first journal club presentation. After that, I’ve been eager to talk. It's a small group – all faculty members and the post-doctoral fellows – where the questions were discussion based. It was friendly and casual and I hadn’t worried much at all about my little paper. “It’s a short article, so I don’t have much to say about it. But it’s good to be quick when other people are also presenting.”

“Yeah.” He said, his voice slightly nasal. He took a seat across the room, and I turned my chair to face him. He’s a short man. I tended to notice his too-short pants and socks with sandals more than his height though. I tried to think of the last time I’d seen a beard quite that long. I failed.

“So…” I said, guessing he wanted to waste some time before the meeting started. But I still wanted to check over my slides, transfer them to my USB drive. Deal with email since I’d arrived far later than I should have. In my defense, I emailed a draft of one section of my grant to Boss last night around 2 AM. Against my defense, I should be working on another section right now.

“How are things going?” I finally asked.

“OK.” He answered, and I tried to guess his age. 50? I should ask someone, I decided. He’s definitely closer to my parents’ age than mine, but I wonder how much so. And to be doing a post-doc at that stage of your life? Wow. I’m not sure if I’m horrified or impressed. “I was supposed to be interviewing in Scotland next week.” He shared.

“Scotland? Very cool.” I said. “For a faculty position? That’s great!”

As he explained the intricacies of the position that wasn’t faculty – more a staff scientist – he also listed all the reasons working abroad would be good. Health care for his wife. A new start with research and service responsibilities.

Odd. I tried out the word, cocking my head to consider him. He’s an odd little man.

I have a theory about people with advanced degrees. Crazy – every single one of them. In some way, shape or form, something glitched in our brains and we decided that going to school for-freaking-ever seemed like an excellent idea. Avoid the lucrative careers that would seem relatively easy for someone of reasonable intellect! Instead, enter a highly competitive field dependent on grant monies that are increasingly difficult to come by! Or you could teach all those classes you took for so long! Do research that can only be truly appreciated by those in your very specific niche. Tolerate years of people saying, “Are you still in school?” There’s something wrong with me and those like me. I’m convinced of it.

But even among us – and I realized that I rarely interact with people I can’t call Dr. – he stood out. Unique? Was that the word? He has two doctorates in unrelated fields – one in the humanities (from his youth, I assume) then another in the technical realm where I make my professional home. Perhaps that makes you super-crazy, I decided. Going through grad school and writing a dissertation once, then deciding – of your own free will – to do it again.

Perhaps the adjective was nutso. Cuckoo. Not so right in the head.

But, no. I admire those who change career paths – I’m thinking of doing it myself, though I guarantee mine will involve no more formal education. Down that path – for me – lies pain. Studying, wrong answers on homework and exams, rejection of papers, rewriting material for a grade rather than a publication. No, thank you. I’ll figure out another way.

But he didn’t. Martin decided to get this other degree. He was certainly talented enough to do the work, but he appears to have failed miserably at fitting in. But there are others who stand out as exceptional. Have some interest or personality that causes them to linger at the fringes rather than joining the departmental softball league. Hell, I deleted that invitation email before I’d completely read it. So perhaps I should think about glass houses and throwing stones.

Martin was now talking about his cats. Telling me how long they’d had each of the seven animals. They, like his wife, had numerous health problems. Though I hadn’t heard stories about them from anyone other than him.

“She’s a bit…out of the ordinary.” Jill offered once when I asked if she’d met Martin’s wife. “She came to a party for the department, but was quite demanding. Everyone who tried to speak to her was ordered to fetch and carry things. She was rather demeaning when she spoke of Martin. Maybe that’s why he’s like that.”

As I started to wonder about him, I realized I know very little of the people with whom I work. Even Martin belongs in some sort of novel – quirky and worthy of some decent character development. But the surface details are easily dismissed. He doesn’t do what I do. I can’t think of a way he could offer me publications or abstracts. So screw it. Pay no attention to the strange little man.

I heard him speaking on the phone several days later. He was offering sympathy to his wife – her injuries too severe to work.

“She has a bad back, I think.” Someone offered. “I’ve met her – she seems fine. I’m not sure what the problem is, actually.”

I listened to him stop mid-sentence as he described one interview possibility. “Oh.” He said. “I’m sorry. Well, I’ll let you rest then.”

I felt badly for him then. Nobody wanted to hear his stories. I get the feeling that my current institution would be relieved to see him go. His wife is apparently disinterested, though I’m not sure I can blame her after supporting him through two doctoral programs that have yet to yield a stable career. Perhaps she set aside dreams to allow him freedom to achieve his own goals. Maybe she’s just mean. Hard to tell, and I’m not interested enough to find any true adjective for either of them.

I was listening to an audiobook on the drive home, as is my new habit. It keeps me from moping or growing hugely irritated on my commutes.

“Peculiar!” I repeated, having just heard the word. “Thank you! That’s the word I wanted.”

Then I thought some more. There are far worse things, I decided, than going after a fulfilling career. Locating your passion at any age, then dismissing those who think you won’t fit in and burrowing out a niche that fits you. Being excited about the possibilities and forgetting about those people who demanded you stop taking apart the freaking equipment and consult the notes they left you. Maybe he wanted to see how it worked. Perhaps he doesn’t appreciate us any more than we do him and takes some pleasure in mucking up research plans. Maybe he’s so busy trying to figure out himself and his life that he has no extra time or energy to use to conform.

Peculiar. I think of it as a gentle word. Not as harsh as weird. Just different. Worthy of notice because he just doesn’t fit very neatly. In word and deed, he’s just peculiar.

I saw him walking down the hall the other day. He nodded a brief hello before overtaking me in order to reach some unknown destination. He has to be at least 3 inches shorter than I am – putting him barely over 5 feet. He was wearing dark green pants and a bright blue turtleneck – they didn’t match. But as he scurried toward his next appointment, his arms were bent at the elbow and pumping rapidly at his sides. Wherever he was going, he was getting there fast.

I shook my head, allowed myself to think once again that peculiar was a fitting word for him, then smiled. I sincerely hope that when he arrives at his chosen destination, he finds something that makes him happy.

Internal dialogue

My back hurts.

Well, at least we came to seminar! We saw our new favorite person, got free lunch and can enjoy our soda while we listen to this talk.

I do like her – what a sweetheart.

Did you notice we don’t have to reschedule our talk? Do you think she’ll just forget all about it?!

Now my ear hurts. Freaking cold.

OK, but it’s good we came! We donated to the departmental charity. Important people noted our presence.

I shifted positions, but my back still hurts. I think my ear is starting to throb.

It’s been almost an hour – the talk will be over soon.

Do you think I could hit him with my shoe if I threw it from here?

***************************

I have a question.

Ask it.

If you were going to have a line drawing of a breast in your seminar…

Uh huh.

Would you add a nipple?

No.

So let’s say you decided to add a nipple – against your better judgment, obviously. Would you make it a gigantic pink nipple in an otherwise black and white figure?

No.

I can’t stop looking at it.

Tacky.

But…why? Why so huge? And pink? It’s just unnecessary.

Let’s forget about it.

I’ll probably have dreams about it. The giant, pink nipple will haunt me endlessly. Look at it!

It’s gone – new slide. Let’s speak of other things.

I still see it in my head.

***************************

Let’s think about how pretty I am!

OK!

I like the corduroy jumper. It’s so festive with its green color and shiny buttons! It’s probably 10 years old – I think I wore it in high school. Definitely in undergrad. It’s so cute though!

It works particularly well with the white shirt. Who knew that sheer button downs are ideal for jumper outfits?

Brilliant.

Indeed.

Did you notice how the buttons of the shirt line up with the buttons on the jumper? It’s adorable!

Cute as a button. A shiny, jumper button!

The necklace is lovely too.

And the loafers! Absolute perfection!

Hair is curled.

Make up is beautiful.

Good call on the eyebrow maintenance this morning.

You know the best part of this outfit?

I do.

It’s the pockets. I can carry all sorts of stuff around! Keys, pens, my USB drive. Post-its of things to do. The money we brought to donate. I even put Wite Out in there when I went to the other office!

Adorable and functional!

I think we’re a geek.

Oh, without question.

***************************

My back really does hurt.

When we get back to our desk, we should finish up with Project A.

I should schedule a massage. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a massage.

We need to write the methods for Project B.

I wonder if I crossed my legs the other way…

Oh, that might help with the back!

Nope. Still hurts.

More distractions then. Project M is really coming along! That extra paperwork is almost done. And now we know Dr. Icing has a new assistant. I hope she sends that consent documentation today.

I wish he’d stop showing slides. Hush, speaker man. You stop talking now so I can stand up and stretch.

Did I print those grant pages? We can easily fix the candidate section. And Boss is right about Aim 1 of the research proposal.

Shut up, shut up, shut up. Do you think he can see me glaring at him? He’s 20 minutes over his allotted time!

Oh, we’ll talk to the penguin next week. I need to remember to put that on my calendar. I was worried that he just stole my results for his paper, but he really hasn’t written it yet. It’d be nice to get a publication from that.

No more slides for you, Dr. SpeaksTooMuch! How freaking many did you bring?!

I hate it when people skip slides so quickly like that. It makes me dizzy.

At least he’s moving through them. I think we might die in here.

So when we get done here, we’ll fix our calendar, finish that part of Project A, look up something for Project B, make sure we printed the grant sections…

I don’t know why you’re planning. We’re never going to leave this room.

I think we’ll go home after we finish those tasks though. I’m tired and my back does hurt.

That guy’s leaving! Look at him going! I’m so jealous.

That should give the speaker a cue that he should wrap it up. It won’t be much longer now.

Oh, no! The worst has happened! I’m out of Diet Coke!

It's probably a bad sign that I only recognize half the words on that summary slide, right?

Beans and Checkmarks

I have – for days now – been reading through paper descriptions, making decisions on whether or not to include them in a comprehensive group analysis. Software exists for such a task and I’m doing the work at Carrie’s request. It’s really not that difficult.

It has, however, felt endless. Nearly 400 conditions in about 100 papers. And reading about how the experiments were done and on which populations and under which specific circumstances – all the while remembering the detailed selection criteria… It makes me very tired. I don’t want to make mistakes so I tend not to work on the little program for very long.

That one stays so I leave that checkmark alone, I think sleepily. This one is werid, so no checkmark for you. Keep, lose, go, stay. All these decisions that were complicated because the application of exclusion criteria isn't always as simple as it seems. I continued to return to the task, scrolling down, making decisions, clicking checkmarks on and off. Finally, I was able to email Carrie the results with some feeling of accomplishment.

I yawned and searched for distractions, noting crossly that few people update blogs on weekends. I would update my blog, I thought, but have nothing to say. I'm starting with a cold, so I'm stuffy and exhausted. All I want to do is sleep and blow my nose. Then I was reminded – via my little software checkmarks – of my tutoring experience. I could tell a story about that!

I see 4 boys in 5th grade on Tuesday afternoons. This caused me a bit of concern until I realized how much I had enjoyed the single male in my group last year. Plus, I’m an adult. I can handle 10 year old boys!

“How many classes are there?” I asked Juan on my first day. I trailed one of the teachers down a hallway in the 5th grade wing of the second floor while we found my 4 new friends.

“Six.” He answered softly, still looking at me with some suspicion. I wasn’t too worried though – I’d come armed with Starbursts.

I happen to adore all of them, proving that prior worry is no indication of future outcome. Having a standard of reference – working with students last year, two of whom arrived to say hello, offer hugs and take candy (I miss them) – makes this tutoring experience infinitely easier. Less stressful. More manageable.

There was one piece of advice the director of the program offered several weeks ago when we met over coffee.

“You can use the activities in any order.” She said, encouraging and kind. “But I wouldn’t do Find That Number until at least the 5th meeting. It’s hard! We don’t want to intimidate our students, do we?”

I shook my head obediently in the coffee shop.

Then I played Find That Number on the first day with my new friends.

In my defense, the folder was on top. Director wanted to show me the game since it was so difficult. I personally liked it, but I could wait until I knew my group better. But after I went through my introductory speech, offered candy and watched them instantly like me (I buy affection – it works.), I pulled out the top folder and asked if anyone had scissors to cut apart the clues.

They were looking for scissors, I was using the giant paper cutter and lamenting the fact that I decided to wing it for this first meeting. I’m better when I plan. But we soldiered on – clustering shoulder to shoulder around the cardboard sheet that listed numbers 0-100 in a grid pattern.

I took out 2 baggies of beans – some white, some brown – and handed the pink clues to Jarrod. He began to read.

After painstakingly making our way through all 6 statements that would lead us to Jarrod's number, I gently nudged them to select the most general clue first – only then remembering that this was one of the most difficult activities we’d have to tackle and wincing. But I’ve long believed that once you’re in the middle of something, you just fake it. Singing a solo, giving a talk, interviewing, talking to a date – just continue on as if everything’s fine and most of the time it will be.

The first piece of information we selected was that Jarrod’s number wasn’t odd. After an intense discussion about which color beans to use, they decided to do a pattern while blocking out the odd numbers so they didn’t distract us from our search. Then we took the small pink paper that indicated multiples of 5 weren’t candidates.

Upon a unanimous decision that the pattern was too complicated (I abstained), we used all brown beans to mark off the squares and listed multiples of 5 to make sure they were all removed from the search. After going through 2 more clues, we were left with a list of 6 possible numbers. Jerome wrote them on the board. After adding the digits of each and seeing if the sum was odd or even, we subtracted the digits to get an integer less than 7.

Much fun was had by all when the five of us stared at a single number circled on the board.

“47!” Jarrod said. “My number was 47!”

After celebrating with Starburst, we did one more. I left feeling pleased with them and eager to return the following week. We’d done the most difficult of activities successfully. I had a bright group, and though they’d tested my limits a bit, it wasn’t bad at all.

But last week was tougher. I had trouble keeping them in the room (everyone needed a drink of water, then the bathroom, then to get a book from his locker) let alone at the table (needed to write on the board, look at those computers, borrow a marker from the library.)

They asked to complete the final 2 Find that Number clue sets so we sat down to work on them.

“This time,” Demarke asked, “can we use the beans to mark numbers that might be right instead of wrong?”

“Sure. Let’s see how that works.” Then I smiled at him and helped define vocab words located on the clues, checked to make sure the beans were in the proper squares and made the right encouraging noises. Then I noticed Juan was scurrying around the room.

“Why don’t you sit down.” I threw over my shoulder, taking a break from my “7 times 1 is… 7 times 2 is … 7 times 3 is…” spiel since Demarke’s number was a multiple of 7.

“Now.” I said a moment later, more firmly and with a questioning look in Juan's direction. “You can work with us or go back to class, Juan. Seriously.”

He moved toward the table, hands full. He had scissors, pencils, markers – all sorts of school supplies. Seeing my frown directed at his loot, he smiled.

“Want a pencil?” He offered one of the 7 he held.

“No, thank you. I think you should put them back. They’re not ours to use. I have a pencil if you need one.”

“We can use them! That’s why they’re there!”

“I don’t know why they’re there. But that box wasn’t open when I got here. I shouldn’t have let you open it. We don’t need those pencils and they’re not mine to give you. Please put them back.”

“There’s this group who uses this room and they give us pencils.”

“A group?”

“Yeah, they come in and play games with this stuff and give us pencils!”

“Put them back. Please.”

“But the group!” He said, shaking his head at me. Then he smirked a little and started to go through the items he’d taken.

I raised my eyebrows at the other boys and they shook their heads at me. I nodded at them and offered more of the minty candy I brought this time.

“Juan.” I demanded his attention. “You will not lie to me. Am I clear? I will not tolerate you lying to me. Ever. About anything. Now you will put the pencils back where you found them. Now.” Realizing I was starting to raise my voice, leaning toward him in a manner that was far too angry for the circumstances, I took a breath. His smirk fell away and he blinked at me. The nice candy lady had a problem with lying. But he moved to put the items away where he found them. I watched, then thanked him. And we went from there, finding 2 more numbers (18 and 45) spent the remainder of the hour quite pleasantly.

I’ve understood last year that I might learn more than the students through this tutoring experience. So far I’ve decided I’m more confident the second time around – less rigid about lesson plans and more comfortable with their questions and ideas. I’ve enjoyed this group a great deal already when I faced last year with a mixture of nerves and intense focus. It’s not bad to relax. The decisions are easier to make somehow. Practice helps.

With maturity, however, comes the ability to use beans to isolate qualities I require from those people with whom I interact. And while I used to enjoy men (or boys) who were charming to get what they wanted, any sort of false statement now draws only wrath.

Whether you’re crossing off the negative or covering the positive so they can be more clearly considered for the next clue, I think it’s important to narrow the field. To make some go/no-go decision on qualities and skills and personalities that are allowed into my life.

Then it’s important to keep those preferences in perspective and not lose it when someone pisses me off. It’s still a work in progress, apparently.

(This didn't end so well, but I'm so intensely tired. I just can't fix it right now. So sleepy...)

Subject: Decision on your Manuscript XXX-D-05-021NNR1

To: Katie
From: [Journal folks]
Date: Thursday, December 7, 2006 11:07 PM
Subject: Decision on your Manuscript XXX-D-05-021NNR1

XXX-D-05-021NNR1
[Title of paper I thought would be accepted]
[My name]
[Carrie, η, Grad Advisor]

Dear Dr. [Me]:

We are pleased to inform you that your manuscript has been accepted for publication in [their journal]. Your paper has now been sent to Production and any further correspondence--including proofs and copyright information--will be with the Log-In and Production departments.

If you have any questions regarding your accepted manuscript in production, please do not hesitate to contact Author Support at authorsupport@elsevier.com.

Congratulations!

Best wishes,
Editorial Office for [name removed] Journals

To: Carrie, η, Grad Advisor
From: Katie
Date: Friday, December 8, 2006, 1:14AM
Subject: FW: Decision on your Manuscript XXX-D-05-021NNR1

Yay! Little [project nickname] is finally going to see publication!

I'll send proofs and citation information when it's available. [Journal] isn't exactly setting the world on fire with the speed it displays in the review process, so I'm sort of expecting the paper to sit with Production for some time as well. :)

Thanks, Katie

I shouldn't have to fake excitement over an acceptance email, I mused, sitting on the loveseat after waking in the middle of the night. I'd been asleep for hours already when I wanted to check on the Chienne. She'd been limping badly before bed – refusing to put any weight on her left front leg. She typically improves quickly, but I was concerned nonetheless.

She wagged her tail at me and I talked to her for a moment before messing with her leg. She allowed me to move it around, sighing just a bit at my peculiarity. I covered her with a blanket and opened Nick to see what was up with the outside world.

My stomach – used to receiving rejection - clenched tightly when I saw the subject line. I'd fully expected them to accept the paper – the comments had been completely addressed and we'd even made some extra improvements. It's a good paper. But hearing they didn't want to print the work at this late stage would deliver a large blow and it wasn't something I expected to hear right now.

But the news was good. After glancing at the first congratulatory line, I wrote to the coauthors to share our good fortune. Then I wondered why I didn't care at all. Frowning, I rubbed my stomach soothingly. "We're OK." I told it. "Try to be happy." But it – along with my heart and brain – stubbornly refused to do anything much at all. I read the email again and waited for some emotional response.

"Nicely written email." Brain finally offered. "Maybe we could go back to bed now."

Brain was busy arguing with itself a few hours later.

"Good morning, sunshine!" One side chirped, insisting I roll to look at the clock. Almost 5. I should probably get up.

"Sleep." Mumbled the majority of my brain. "It's nice and warm here, but cold and dark out there. We can get ready in 15 minutes. Sleep until 5:30 or 5:45 and we can still leave by 6."

But that way lay certain defeat, and I didn't want to miss this particular experiment. So I wiggled out of bed – dog cuddled to my right side, cat on the left – and brushed my teeth. As I gulped cold coffee, I allowed my caffeine-inspired attention to drift to the computer again. No new email, few new bloglines feeds. So I picked up some clutter, put a few plates in the dishwasher and dealt with the dog and cat – feeding, cleaning, watering. Then I left the house early – about 10 minutes to 6.

Arriving on campus after I speedy commute (people who leave home before 6AM do not screw around. I adore them and wish we could always be best friends. Alas, they get up too early.), I secured an excellent parking spot and decided to walk to the office.

It's impressively cold here the past couple of days. I wore a jacket and actually used the gloves I'd tucked in its pockets. I could see not only my breath as I moved briskly across the still dark sidewalks, but steam also poured from the drainage grates near the curb. As my face and ears went numb and my legs – pretty, but largely unprotected in my dark brown slacks – grew uncomfortably cold, I smiled.

It's like my southern state heard a rumor about what winter was really like – gray skies, cold temperatures, biting wind, snow falling from the sky. Then it looked to its northern counterparts and said sweetly, "Look! I can do that too!" I am, of course, suitably proud.

Of the weather. Not my paper.

To be honest, I'd forgotten all about it until I woke my pretty computer at the office and dealt with email while I ate some yogurt. Arriving early had allowed me time to settle in before leaving for our scheduled experiment.

To: Mom @ work
From: Katie
Date: Friday, December 8, 2006, 6:32AM
Subject: FW: Decision on your Manuscript XXX-D-05-021NNR1


Hi Mom,

My paper got accepted - the one I thought would do fine after revision. It'll probably be awhile until it comes out, but it's officially in.

I'm not happy so much as relieved, but I'm also pretty moody. So I'll feel more like celebrating in another couple of days.

Love you lots and lots, Katie

More careful consideration revealed that I wasn't really relieved at all. Just…numb. And though my nose and ears were defrosting quite nicely, my heart stayed stubbornly silent.

To: Friend
From: Katie
Date: Friday, December 8, 2006, 6:39AM
Subject: FW: Decision on your Manuscript XXX-D-05-021NNR1

I got up at 1, saw the subject line and cursed though I'd expected they'd take the revisions. It's not a bad paper at all. But I read it - a very nice acceptance letter - and felt absolutely nothing. Vague relief, I guess, but not happy at all. Am I dead inside? Do I really need to get out of research? Because apart from getting grants, aren't papers supposed to make me the happiest?

Very moody, but on campus after a numbing walk in (I'm much happier about how cold it is than the paper!) and eating my yogurt before the scan.

I think there's something wrong with me.

Katie

Concerned, I did what I do to cope. I started a blog post with the emails I'd written so far. It was shortly time to leave my warm office, carefully decorated with photos of people I love, pretty pens and pencils in a ceramic pot, my little bear holding a flower and a thriving violet plant. So I went, I scienced, I learned. I returned to speak to Boss about general grant strategies, remaining blessedly numb. I'll write it, but I don't care. It fails to generate any emotion at all – not dread, not excitement - just a curious set of ideas of what to write, but as if I'd be doing it for someone else. It's as if it doesn't affect me at all, though in terms of professional life, it could provide an impact unlike anything else.

Bemused, I started to revise a protocol for CIL (Committee I Loathe) for no other reason than it's been on my list the longest because I don't want to do it. If I don't want to do anything, might as well get that out of the way. But I didn't work long before writing another email.

I'm sad, Charlie. I just feel impossibly heavy and bleak today. I'm not sure if it's just a mood blip that will pass quickly - because I've really been doing pretty well lately with Christmas coming - or if the cold that I love so much is getting to me or if I'm just tired. But one of my papers got officially accepted to [Journal title], which should be really fantastic and I feel absolutely nothing. Not happy, not really relieved. Just numb. So I'm wondering if I've conditioned myself not to care about this stuff anymore. I'm rewriting the grant and that's fine - Boss wants me to do it, so I'll do it. But I'd rather not get the money.

I really think the time is coming that I'm just going to opt out. I'm not sure how long to wait before admitting this just isn't working for me.

Or maybe it's just not such a great day. :) In which case, next week will be better.

It's actually not a bad day – that's my thought as I'm reading it again. It's quite good – eveything's going as well as could possibly be expected. I'm baking cookies with Cousin tomorrow and I love spending time with her. I'm being productive and everyone has been unfailing kind to me this morning, not that they normally aren't. But the feeling of being disconnected is as persistent as it is confusing. It's not how I normally am, but I'm somehow stuck.

It was on my walk back to the car, retracing the steps I'd taken that morning, that I realized I view my job a lot like that commute. Drive to work - walk to the office - work. Walk to the car - drive home - sleep. Repeat. It's all so futile, I decided. Think of something - do the experiment - write. Redo experiment/reanalyze data - rewrite. Receive yet another soul-crushing rejection - throw tantrum out of anger and/or sadness. Have ability to graduate withheld until paper gets accepted - have minor breakdown and leave anyway. Different paper accepted - weep with gratitude, graduate. Years pass - continue to rewrite - wait for 13 months for a review process. Revise again - get acceptance email.

Maybe it's no wonder there's nothing left to feel...

The Polar Bear Maze

Remember how I was a polar bear? Let’s do that again.

Now I have a nice pool for swimming, so I splash in it occasionally. I have a little snowy hill, so I remember sliding down it. There are polar bear friends and they used to be fun. But now it just seems lame. I’m a bored polar bear. And a bored bear is a sad bear. People who visit my little area are disappointed - I don't do anything all that interesting and they were hoping for more from their trip to the zoo.

So when I was asleep (because I sleep a lot), the keeper built a maze. So I woke up and cocked my head at this new structure. Then I wondered what the keeper expected me to do with these new walls and doorways and tiny spaces between them. Eventually my polar bear friends started to enter the maze, so I shrugged and waddled in myself.

The problem with the maze is that it’s rather fluid. Once I choose a particular path, I can’t backtrack and find what existed in the beginning. Everything is different as it changes over time. And I find that I keep moving forward – turning left, then taking that path. Finding a door and passing through it. Walking along with a friend and then turning right to head off on my own again.

Now at first the maze seems fun. I find neat little toys – a tiny, yellow ball that I can carry in my mouth. A soft green blanket I use when I find a nice corner in which to nap. A floppy gray bow I can wear around my paw. Just to be pretty.

So it’s worth it – the maze. Eventually there’s more space between the walls. I feel safe moving through it, though I’m not sure where I’m going or what I’m working toward. But I decide that a blue ball would be good. A big blue ball. One that bounces and rolls and I could lie on top of while I floated in my pool. I could chase it down my hill or play catch with my friends. I could look at my ball and marvel at how pretty it is. The ball starts to represent true happiness.

But at some point the maze feels a bit restrictive. I miss what was. I start to wonder what would have happened had I turned left instead of right. Sometimes I think about the last decision I made. Other times I go back to the beginning and wonder why I took the first door rather than waiting to find the second one. But when I turn to look back the way I came, it’s different than I remember. Because the maze is dynamic and I can’t go back. Rather, I can go back, but it’ll be different now than it would have been then. Or I could continue to go forward.

I’m confused about where the big blue ball is. I know I want the big blue ball, but I’m not sure how to find it.

For some reason, I think it’s down the second path from the left. So I start down that way, shuffling along on my big, black paw pads and lifting my snout proudly because I’m strangely certain that I’ve selected the right path. But then someone yells at me.

I’m startled because I’m not used to being scolded. But I try again – head down that same path – because certainly it was an aberration. The last time was just a little mistake. Maybe I was walking too close to the wall. I’ll try to walk down exactly the center of the path, nose to the ground as I focus on placing my big paws.

But someone yells again. And I look around and it’s directed at me. I’m wrong. Inadequate. “No, no, no!” I’m still confused, so I turn around and scurry away. I’ve covered the fact that turning around is strange – things are different than they were before, though I’m still looking at the same path once I return to where I think I started. But this time, the other paths are gone. There’s only this one road to take. And I think the big blue ball is at the other end.

But now I wonder if I want the big blue ball all that badly.

So I go to a friend – an older bear. And I say that I want to quit. I’m tired of the rejection. There are beings down that path I need – faceless, nameless beings – that don’t like me at all. So he listens while I tell him about my previous strategies, offers encouragement and advice. So we plan and plan and plan.

And I eventually close my eyes, put my big nose down, and run forward as fast as my bulky body will allow.

When I open my eyes, I’m past the bad point. Nobody yelled. In fact, those faceless beings offered some advice of their own on how to get better. Maybe I could open my eyes on the next path – watch where I’m going. Moving quickly was good. But eyes open – that would be better.

For the next section of the path, I dutifully kept my eyes open. They liked that I did that - good progress for me! - but would also like to see my nose up. They thinking sniffing as I move quickly along will help make me a better bear. More capable of moving through this one last section. And they offer me a squeaky toy as a reward for making it this far.

So I take the squeaky toy and squeeze it to hear the happy sound. And I smile because that was nice of the beings. They weren’t so bad after all. I just needed to find the right group of beings! I’m glad I found a good mentor bear - he guided me in the right direction and offered a good starting point for navigating that section of maze.

I’m going to hone this plan tonight, then discuss it with mentor bear later this week. If I make it past this point – through the faceless beings’ tentative acceptance into full in-press-ness, I get a special squeaky toy. One that’s a medium-sized blue ball. It looks like the big blue ball I want so badly! It’s just smaller and squeaky. But that’s good! It will certainly make me happy!

And after I get that prize, I can start on the path to the next one. Mentor bear has ideas on how to re-plan our next route. Fix the mistakes of the first time. Eyes open, nose up, moving quickly, but with a bit of a prance. He’s good at what he does – mentor bear. And I’m learning. It’s easier to run with eyes open. I can work on the 'nose up' part. And I’ve seen prancing done – I could probably pull it off. But there will likely be rejections and hurt feelings along the way.

“My paper was tentatively accepted.” I told Boss today. “But I don’t want to write the grant again. I know I should. And I will. But I don’t want to. I’m so tired of feeling badly about myself.”

So he offered a pep talk and said he’d nudge me toward the grant. It’s important, he noted. We were going to do it. He would help me. It’d be fine.

I was thinking about it – the maze, my prizes so far, the promise of the medium-sized, squeaky, blue ball. And I was – and have been – oddly numb about all of it. The changes are easy – I can probably finish learning to run with my nose up tonight. But the medium-sized, squeaky, blue ball seems a bit lame. All that work, all those rejections (16 months of them - really), all that time. For this? Really?

What am I doing? I asked the keeper on my way home. What’s the point of this particular maze? Can I just quit? Why won’t you just give me the big blue ball?! If I accept I may not get a partner, why can’t I have professional satisfaction and success? Why won’t you give me happiness? Just give me the big blue ball!

And I suddenly realized – with a gentle, yet disturbing thought – that the keeper never said anything about the big blue ball. That idea came from me. The ball may not exist – at least not in the form I expect. The point may not be the end at all, but how I choose to spend my time in the maze. If I help the other bears. If I share the blanket I earned when I see a bear that looks too cold. If I offer my squeaky toy to a cub because I don’t play with it very often. If I ease my focus on the big blue ball to stop and talk to another bear who might be lost. If I offer my shoulder and pat with my paw when another bear is sad. I want to be gentle and hopeful, happy and gracious, attentive and loving.

I really do want that and should spend some time figuring out how to be that bear.

Instead, I’m going to go create a figure that displays how well I can run with my nose in the air so I can get that medium-sized, squeaky blue ball.

Because that’s what I do.

But at least I think I might see it for what it is.

Maybe.

Ick and Hmmm

I can't watch The Wizard of Oz. It's on TBS and I've always liked the part set in Oz. Much like how I feel about Charlie once he gets to the chocolate factory. But due to a little reference I included in the post I shall not mention and reading Wicked at his urging, my stomach turns at the movie. Why did I taint that movie?! Though after Wicked, I'm not sure I would enjoy it as much... Hard to differentiate the reason I'm upset by it though, but it's upset that I am.

In other news - though equally self-indulgent, I'm pondering an email I sent tonight to a counselor at work.

Dear Dr. Counselor,

I wondered if you might have some time to meet. I've been struggling a bit (or maybe more than a bit) for months and started antidepressants in September when I was doing particularly badly. I went to therapy in grad school and really didn't like it, so I'm hesitant to try it again. So perhaps if I start with a quick meeting with you, you can advise me on what my next step should be.

I like my job - I've worked for Boss in Department since Date. But I had a bad experience with scheduling my defense in grad school and lost a lot of confidence in the transition and subsequent months. So I feel a bit lost here, though I've made moderate progress and have received incredible support from my mentors. Yet I struggle to make myself go to work some days (many days for some weeks) and feel...down a lot. We lost Winnie in July and I still miss her, though we weren't overly close.

Things just aren't good, and I'm not sure how to make them better. I think that sums it up. But I think I'm ready to get more help - I'm just not sure how to go about doing that. If you could offer any guidance, please let me know.

Thank you,
Katie

So I'll watch hockey and clean. Finish some laundry and transfer more data to my new external storage device. Because I'm certainly not watching Dorothy, et al. and I suspect there's time enough to worry about my mental issues later on.

Honest evaluation

“I’m going to start working from the office more.” I said, sitting on a patio on the gulf and watching the water with Mom. We were vacationing in Destin and had rented a condo on the first floor – it had a couple bedrooms and this lovely little outdoor area where we could sit and drink coffee (Or soda. Or wine.) and just experience the waves.

“I know part of the problem is that I stay home too much. And while I do work, it’s not at the level it could be. And I’m sure people are getting frustrated. So I’ll put in more time.

“This vacation is a turning point!

“I feel quite good about this decision.”

I think that was my second year in grad school. I still spent very little time at work.

I’ve been doing some thinking of late regarding the differentiation of ability versus desire. The truth is that I have a problem with getting myself to the office with any degree of consistency. Which is a problem, but I see it as a moderate one.

I think it’s possible to find places you can hide in academia. To find PIs who are busy or oblivious or exceptionally kind. They’ve basically let me do what I do. Which is mix long droughts with small periods of stunning productivity. Yet with all my screwing around, I’ve never heard that I should work harder or do more. Because I don’t work for people who would say that.

In environments like mine, the vital skill is to prioritize meetings and seminars and not skip the big ones. Though I certainly haven’t been overly prolific, I have done some work. And Boss has seen nearly all of it. I go to meetings where I’m required to present, and even volunteer to talk at journal club. I do a lot of writing, and that can be done just as easily from my house. I have software in my office at home that I don’t have at work (Mac/PC issues). And it’s not like I had peers available for discussions from my former workspace, so what was the point?

I think that’s the core issue – and has remained so – of all my professional problems. I don’t know why I’m doing this. I’m making much less money than a few members of my cohort. Watching someone escape grad school with a Masters and make 3-4 times more than I do annually is frustrating. I was jealous and the feeling of superiority (I had a PhD. And did work that was much more challenging!) was rather false. I look at them – working clinically, performing some critical task to facilitate patient care, needing to show up every day because they – and their work – is important – and I frown over what I do. Because I don’t have that sense of purpose, nor do I have a plan for obtaining it.

My goals are pretty selfish – I want to get enough papers to get another job. I’d like to make enough money to have a house. I don’t want to work with animals – it makes me sad. I like working with human clinical populations, but that offers its own set of miserable headaches. And there are several key problems that I don’t know how to solve that limit the impact of any work I’ll do.

So rather than working to solve them, I watch TV. Read blogs and write my own. Do the minimum necessary not to get fired on some weeks, then actually produce something worthwhile when I can.

And I feel badly about myself. A lot. To a severe degree. Because I’m blowing an excellent opportunity. Because there are some days when I’m depressed – when I absolutely can’t go to the office because I’m quite ill. Then there are days when I think I just don’t get ready and drive in. It just sounds like so much trouble and Charmed is on at 7 and 8, then I can take a walk and shower. Watch Gilmore at 10, then Judging Amy at 11 and 12. Sometimes I nap at 1 rather than watching Law & Order, then I can do some reading after I wake up. By 4, nobody expects me to show up, so I can relax. Let the sick tightness of my stomach ease and tell myself tomorrow will be better. I’ll go in. And I do get something done while I'm watching all that TV, I soothe.

So I understand when I read blog posts that speak of inadequacies. Not in talent, but in…focus, drive, desire. I get tired – I’ve been tired for a long time. And while sometimes – when revising papers or analyzing interesting data – I feel happy, I don’t know what I’m trying to do here. I don’t want a faculty position. I don’t need to impress the people here enough to offer me a job – I don’t want to stay. I’m not sure where I want to go next, so I’m not working toward that. The thought of leaving research completely sounds really nice sometimes.

So the thought that I’m just putting in time – and not all that much time – is demoralizing. The idea that I wasted years preparing for a job I don’t really want is heartbreaking, largely because parts of grad school were miserable for me.

But I’ve been dragging myself to work more lately. I stayed home on Wednesday, but have otherwise at least appeared in my new office this week. I do think it’s better there – much more visible so that more people notice if I’m around. And if I put on clothes, do my hair and makeup, commute, park and sit at my desk, I’d like some recognition for it. (And yes, I know how ridiculous that sounds.)

I found myself viciously angry on the walk from the parking lot yesterday though. Forcing myself to smile and greet the friendly Southerners as I moved through the air that was too warm for November. I didn’t want to be there, and I keep getting emails from a well-meaning friend about whether or not I’m going in. Do I not ask myself that same question every day?! Why make me feel badly about something I have under control, even if said control is visible only to me? Why is it that I have to train every single person I meet to leave me alone with this particular problem? Why am I even here now? I could be watching the beginning of Judging Amy. Because my back hurts. I have a headache. This one meeting is going to be short and pointless anyway.

So I sent my customary “back off” email with the requisite “I’m very moody. Or just evil.” disclaimer. Then I messed around – answered some email, organized more files, finished moving the last of my possessions from my old desk. Told my new officemate that he was not to unplug my Ethernet cord because I like the internet very much. The printer cord will have to go elsewhere, which is why he should have asked someone where an extra port was. But no, I’ll take care of it. Jackass.

My meeting was short and lame, though I handled it with polite grace. I’m quite good at faking it sometimes, and it really wasn’t anyone’s fault. But then I had an experiment to attend – one we’d messed up on our first try. I was seething about that too. I knew there was a problem but I didn’t want to create conflict with that particular man. We’ve argued with narrowed-eyes since I interviewed and I’m just too tired to do it anymore. He never sees my point and I’m not always right, so I just play my polite role and stay silent unless I'm positive there's a problem (though I did contribute to the first experiment - I did correct several errors and offer good advice. But on one particular issue, I wondered about something and stay silent because I wasn't absolutely sure). And he screwed up. So I had to come in again and sit for hours. So I was frustrated with him and disappointed in myself.

But then the experiment ended – after several glitches and with much conversation among up to 10 doctors (PhD and MD) – and the patient sat down to discuss his results. I watched him get good news and thought about how impossibly lovely it was that I played a role in allowing said news to be delivered.

I believe in the research I do. I think it has clinical relevance and can improve patient care. I have the skills and temperament to do the work. I just need to show up and do it.

Which now seems a good deal more important than it did before.

Then again, it's not the first time I've had similar epiphanies.

Change is...um...

“Parking was a mess today.” I said after greeting my new officemate. I’d borrowed his scissors last night to put up some cork board (it holds my baby animals calendar! All the way across the shelf from my teddy bear holding a felt flower – I have to spread out the cuteness.) and forgot to place them back on his desk under the clutter. Not a good way to start sharing a room with people.

So I sent email this morning apologizing and he didn’t mention it when I arrived. Instead, his eyes kept straying downward.

“I park in lot F.” I offered, glancing down myself. The first button was slightly low, but it was hardly indecent. “Where do you park?” I attempted to throw the conversation to him in order to keep his eyes a bit north.

“How much does that cost each month?” I asked, all the while thinking ‘That’s enough. Theres's nothing all that impressive down there.’

“Yes, that does seem worth it.” Seriously, dude. Stop. No more looking for you.

“No, I don’t often work late – I don’t mind the walk to my car.” See how I put my hand on my chest? And how I have tugged my shirt completely together up to my neck? That means you’re making me uncomfortable.

“OK.” I finally said with a stern frown and a glance down at my own chest. “I should get some work done.”

I don’t wear revealing clothing. Honestly. When I wore a white shirt that was borderline sheer, I asked my old officemate if it was too much. She insisted it wasn’t. I would compliment her on her pretty sweaters and notice when she changed her hair. She would comment on my weight loss and any new shoes.

It might be an adjustment to working with men who take note of what I’m wearing on a slightly different level. But I suspect I’ll correct it quickly.

I seem to be getting messages that changes can be good, though not all of them are. But this office shift is a time to evaluate my current status – make new hanging folders and label the information they contain, throw away old documentation, tuck completed projects away and make sure the new ones are easily accessible. And an opportunity to prepare for what I want the future to hold – a vague idea of how to allocate time and prioritize work. I have a little corner that I created – shelves and drawers and a lot of paper. I like it. It actually feels really right.

“It’s organized like my grad school desk.” I told Boss as we conducted an afternoon experiment that involved a good deal of waiting. When we got started, I was pleased to offer a great deal of insight and expertise. I was good at my job today. It was about an hour of goodness, which is less than possible, but more than normal. Regardless, I’ll take it.

“I have the right items in the right drawers and I feel really comfortable.” I continued. Then I drifted into my own thoughts as we waited.

I’ve done some thinking lately about grad school – all the bad times with classes, tests, anxiety and depression. All told, I probably worked – really, truly worked – for a year. Pulled data together, did a tremendous amount of reading, really hit my stride. If I can work for the next year, then do writing and interviewing afterward, I’ll be in good shape. I feel pressure to get started and I’m sure I’ll slip and spend more time screwing around, but there are things that can be done. Papers to be written. Clinical progress to be made. I’m rather hopeful about the whole thing.

In terms of my personal life? That’s more complicated. And while I have thoughts – a few good thoughts, actually – I’m too tired to make sense of it right now. I just can’t get enough sleep lately – I’m all drowsy and achy and ready for bed. Perhaps tomorrow will provide more peppy clarity.

Move.

I think I’m too tired to blog.

Really.

After the day of hiking, I was a bit sore and wanted badly to sleep this morning. But I pulled myself out of dreams and out to the living room with coffee and the laptop. I walked Chienne – freshly bathed from the night before and still struggling with a tummy issue – then got ready for work.

It was moving day for me at work.

Boss asked on Friday if I would relocate my copious belongings to an office with other fellows. I said I’d take care of it this weekend. That didn’t happen.

So I got there this morning, ready to cart stuff around.

I found the new key in my mailbox, then looked around my new home.

It was hot as hell. But was otherwise acceptable. I think the move is good for a couple of reasons. I’ll have more contact with other academic people and there’s a grad student there so I can think “at least I don’t have to take tests!”

The difficult part – for me as well as Jill – is that Winnie used to use that office. One of the file drawers contained some of her personal belongings. Shoes. Some catalogs. A box full of stuff. And a textbook. I watched as Jill started to cry, and wondered if the pills were kicking in again. I felt stable, if a bit removed.

“Are you OK? I can take care of this, Jill. Really.” I said before she handed me the text – a nice reference for our field in general. One I’ve considered buying, but decided was too expensive. I opened the cover to see 3 lines of writing. The first was Winnie’s name. I didn’t keep it open long enough to read the rest.

“I don’t know if I can keep this.” I said softly, heart aching abruptly and intensely, cradling the book to my chest and rubbing my fingers over the spine. “You should give it to someone.”

“I just did.” She said, looking up to meet my eyes. “Is there anyone else you’d like to give it to?”

“No.” I said softly, still holding it, “I’d like to have it.”

Then I excused myself and wept in the bathroom for a minute. Jill cried several times in the office during the day, once in front of Friend.

“Is she upset you’re in there?” She asked at one point in the afternoon. I took a much needed break and we went to Target then got lunch. We returned to go to a seminar (after which I asked for the definition to the word that the distinguished speaker used most often in his talk – I didn’t know what the hell he was trying to tell me) then she helped me put together the filing cabinet I’d purchased.

“I need more drawers!” I insisted – to more than one person, actually. And while Boss thought he could find something around the office, I impatiently decided to purchase my own.

After we returned to campus, I asked Friend to hold the doors for me as I carried the heavy box to my new office. Right after she said, “don’t drop that on me” as she was located 4 steps below, I lost my grip and the box tumbled toward her. She stopped it with her foot while I stood there, initially horrified, then wondering seriously if she could just shove it down the rest of the way. But I carefully clung to the box after picking it up and made it the rest of the way.

She did about 60%-70% of the work, though I felt I put forth a respectable effort in putting it together. We struggled hardest with getting the drawers in. She laughed at me when I couldn’t get them to rest properly, then I was vindicated when she ended up getting one stuck.

“They should just slide in.” She said, retrieving the directions to see if there was a picture of sliding the drawers in.

There wasn’t.

“You know, the piece labeled L is on the right side of the cabinet. I think the sides are on backward. Or it’s upside down.” I noted as I peered inside.

Then I fit the drawer in – upside down – and looked up at her.

“Well,” Friend said, “we can undo some of those screws and fix it.”

“I’m just flipping it over.” I said, completely serious. It was hot in that room. I was exhausted and sore. I was done.

“Then the little feet will be on top.” She said, and I believe she was laughing by this time.

“Yep.” I said, turning it over, easily sliding in the drawers, then placing my printer between the small white feet on each corner.

I giggle even now as I think about it. Two of us – both highly educated in the sciences, both having built cheap furniture before – created something that was actually quite stable (kudos to Friend – one of my desk organizers is pretty useless since it’s too unstable to let the drawers slide in and out), but the top was on the bottom of this new creation.

So I’ll take the sad – even the African violet the Jill brought in. It used to belong to Winnie and she wanted it to be returned to the office. I think it upsets her to have it on her desk. So I’ll take care of it. (And if anyone has advice on how to make a violet thrive, please let me know) – with the silly. I needed a change at work, so I think this is good.

Boss found a perfect filing cabinet for under my desk, so the purchased (thrown down stairs and feet on top) one can sit proudly next to my chair. My stuff looks at home there. I’m more organized now than I was before – I actually thought about where to put things and found some books and files I’d been wondering about.

It seems like this should be a better story, but honestly? I’m just so tired. There aren't all that many days where I can say I laughed and cried at work, but today happens to be one of them.

Contrast and balance? Or more of the same?

Life is funny. Or rather people are. Or maybe it's just me.

I tend - if it's somehow escaped your notice - toward extremes. I used to believe that I was very unique. That nobody else shared my love of books or would rather spend time alone than be surrounded by many people. I was the only one who didn't love movies. There couldn't be another academic who sometimes worked from home while watching reruns on TNT. Everybody loved ice cream except me. I was special, after all. Nearly incomprehensible in my complexity and intelligence and very uniqueness.

I now believe - still naïvely but in a different direction - that we're all pretty similar. People read what I write because it's somehow relevant at some point. They either relate or know someone who might. We're all worried about the future. Obsess over our purpose and the time devoted to achieving a goal that might not end up being pleasant. Love has hurt everyone at some point. Moments of fear and confusion aren't uncommon. If we share so many qualities, perhaps in understanding someone else better - reading blogs, having conversations, thinking so hard about entries that end up on this page, there's the hope that peering into the psyche of another will reflect something helpful about myself.

I mentioned that when my parents were here, we went to a park. Drove and drove while I stared out the window and marveled at the beauty I don't seek or notice within my normal routine. I traveled east to take pictures and hike and sigh over how gorgeous everything was. But it turns out there's beauty much closer to home. Pictures to be taken, trails to be hiked, breath to release in awe because I'm really looking.

I'm very comfortable with my parents. Yes, I grit my teeth when Dad's an ass. And sometimes I make snippy comments when Mom's a bit critical. But I'm content when they're around. Safe and loved and warm. Which is how family has always felt to me.

So we can stay around the house. Watch television and talk. Cook or decide what needs to be fixed or changed so that we can plan a trip to Lowes. But we can also go explore. I'm happy to settle in the backseat and ride along, looking around and trusting that Dad will find his way back to my house eventually. We'll probably argue, and we'll definitely laugh. It's likely that we'll find something to eat, and we generally find something worth seeing. But I'm relaxed - speaking without censoring my thoughts, telling stories as they come to mind, asking questions when listening to new information, nodding along when redundant tales are offered.

I think my point here - other than 'look at the pretty pictures!' - is that it's easier for me to look around when I'm most comfortable with what's already in my head. My discontent with my current environment isn't due to the actual place. The photos are conclusive proof that it is - or can be - rather exquisite here.

I'm well aware the problem is me, though that's not always the case or should be considered in other people's situations. For me - for right now - I can't get things straight in my head. And while the urge to move - to quit - is strong (and I'm yielding to it by running away this weekend to head north), I'm still me. There's still some messiness in my head that makes me unhappy. I don't know what I want, which makes much of anything difficult to obtain. So I get stuck thinking about the ugly parts too often, which closes me off to the pretty pieces. I'm working on fixing that - focusing on what I like, my strengths, what makes me happy.

There's a line in The Screwtape Letters that Screwtape relates to his fellow fiend. He tells of one of his patients who said, upon arriving in Hell, something like "I spent most of my life doing neither what I ought, nor what I liked." There's power in that statement - I've been thinking of it for quite some time now. Trying to consider how I spend my minutes and hours and relating that to what I should be doing (and why I feel I should be doing it) or how much I like spending my time in that particular way.
Part of it, I think, is balance. In an attempt to be mature, I'll say that I'm neither completely unique or completely average. Part of noticing beautiful scenery could be that it's out of the ordinary. I want to take pictures because I can't walk outside to see those same hills and streams. Instead I see a nice lake (if I'm walking in the right direction) and lots of houses. Part of attempting goodness is acknowledging some bad impulses. The ability for me to work hard and be semi-productive is related to how much time I allow for rest and fun. Those leaves of red, yellow and orange seem more special somehow when they're mixed with a background of green. The contrast is important.

So maybe this is the down time. The part where I see what wrong feels like - determine how to make something work in spite of those feelings. Then when things get better - and I do believe that there are very, very good moments in my future - they'll feel even more right. Or maybe I worked from home again and didn't accomplish very much for yet another day and there is no reason. In that case, maybe you should just look at the pretty pictures again.

I don't want to play.

I don’t remember the last time I held a bat. I avoid playing sports whenever possible – and it’s surprisingly possible in my life – so it very well might have been high school that saw me standing in the dirt in sweats and a school-assigned t-shirt, dreading my turn.

It’s easier in the outfield. I just picked a spot unlikely to see any balls and tried to be invisible. It worked out pretty often, though I was consistently nervous. I hated PE. But until I figured out a loophole senior year that allowed me to opt out of the gym requirement, I had to go change clothes every day and try to figure out the least painful way to spend 40 minutes.

So after waiting in a random spot in the grass, I would head in and take my spot on the bench, scooting ever closer to the end when I’d have to take the bat, attempt some sort of readied position, and wait for the ball to come.

I was good at the written tests in gym. I understand the rules of most sports – it’s rather elegant, actually. The conditions and obligations. The rules and their possible exceptions. I like knowing what’s supposed to happen, and the order of events when batting appeals to me. It’s very finite – the time at the plate. All I had to do is swing three times. I’d either miss and get to sit down fairly quickly, shrugging sheepishly and hoping there wouldn’t be time for me to go again, or I’d somehow manage to hit the ball. This was rare and, honestly, a bit more work. Then there was running from base to base, paying attention to what was going on with the other batters, trying not to run into any of the fielders as they scampered around, actually caring about where the ball was going.

I thought of baseball recently – standing in the bathroom at work, staring at myself in the mirror – and shook my head. I did the same thing today as I worked from home. Spent some time crying and showering and installing software on my computer so I could analyze some data. I also spent a few moments looking in the mirror, wondering what I wanted. My recurring thought?

May I be out now? Just return to my seat and avoid the whole game? Hope that given enough time, I’ll find some professional loophole and discover there is a career that will feel right. Because this one? I feel like I’m swinging halfheartedly, with no real hope of even hitting the ball. What exactly has me mopey?

Strike One
I sat at a table draped in green cloth, and glanced across Boss to smile my congratulations at Rick. Rick had given a talk that was very well received the previous day – quite a coup for a postdoctoral fellow. He happens to be incredibly bright, motivated and humble though.

“It’s all in the timing.” He told me when I congratulated him on his program placement. “I submitted the exact same abstract last year and it got rejected. I changed the title this year and people loved it.” With a shrug and grin, he noted, “You can never tell what’s going to work.”

The next day, Rick won the poster award. He had a really good meeting – the timing was right for his work, and it’s excellent research. He’s been assured of his forthcoming promotion to faculty status, his K99 award is likely to be funded, and he was awarded a private office.

I will not be saying the same in one year.

Now I’m genuinely happy for Rick. He’s really a good guy, and very deserving of all his success. For all my competitive instincts, I’m not at all jealous. I don’t – for some reason – want what he has. It’s fine for him, but I don’t know that it’s for me. Making an impact by doing research that's done well and highly regarded.

…Two…
More recently, I sat at a conference table waiting for Chris to arrive. We’d exchanged email at Boss’s request since I was to take over a menial project Chris had been handling. He was busy with classes and it would be an easy way for me to enter another clinical realm of which I’m not familiar. I’m not excited about it, but I’m not excited about much of anything. It’s fine though. I’ll do it.

Chris walked in and I noted – without any personal interest – that he was rather cute. Overly built, I decided on closer examination, and wondered when I started to prefer average stature rather than really firm pecs and arms. So he covered some of the relevant project information and I decided it was really straightforward. So I asked if we could meet, cover one example set of data when it became available, and started to stand up to leave.

“Are you sure you don’t mind me taking over?” I asked, not wanting to step on toes and knowing that once I take ownership of a project, I remain possessive of it. And I’m not exactly eager to take on more work right now, I guess. But it’s fine. (If I keep repeating it, perhaps I will believe it’s true.)

“Absolutely.” He assured me. “I just wanted some extra hours of the summer.”

“So it’s not related to your research interests?” I confirmed.

“I’m leaving with a Masters.” He confided. And I sighed. The friends I have from grad school? My favorite people in my class? They left with Masters degrees and are making 2-3 times more money than I am. Doing a job I decided to ignore in favor of getting my doctorate and doing…what I’m currently doing.

“Do you know where you’re going to work?” I asked, then nodded and offered advice as he listed his ideas. “I’ll send an email to Dave.” I finally said. “If there’s someone worth knowing, he probably knows them. He’s quite social. So he might have some decent contacts for you.”

“The only hard part,” he offered after thanking me, “is that I’ve been seeing this girl. She graduates this May and we’ve been together about 7 months, so she’s worried about where I’ll end up. She says she’ll follow me anywhere, but would rather stay in this general region.”

“You’ll work it out.” I predicted. People who aren’t me tend to fall in love, get the right jobs, live happily ever after. And that’s fine. Good for them.

And Three
I passed Steve in the hallway yesterday and smiled weakly.

“Got anything for me?” He asked as we continued to walk past each other.

“Not so much.” I said, turning my head as I continued to walk and he looked behind him as well. “I don’t even remember what I was supposed to do. Let me read that email again.” And he laughed and kept going.

Then he showed up at my desk a couple hours later, pulling a chair closer and putting one foot across his opposite knee.

“What’s up?” He asked, and I wasn't sure of his motivation. If he knew I wasn’t doing well or had some specific question or just had some spare time and decided to weave through one particular maze to find my desk.

“With what?” I tried to clarify, feeling confused and sad enough that I didn’t really want to talk any more than necessary. “Project B? I need to email someone and ask about an initial step. That should probably be redone. Then I’ll do that thing you mentioned. I found the email.”

“I meant in general.” He offered after shrugging over the work I should have completed for him.

“Meaning…?”

“How’s it going? What are you working on? How are you doing?”

I appreciate his interest – I really do. So I looked down at my papers and lists and books and plans that litter my desk, shook my head and blinked back tears. Then I composed myself and launched into a believable monologue on my plans. I know what the specific aims are, have honed the methodology and can speak of these projects with relatively clarity. Steve nodded at the appropriate times and indicated his understanding of the most pressing problems.

“It’s hard.” He commiserated. “I know it’s slow. But what’s your plan from here?”

“I don’t know.” I said softly. “I wanted to leave in the early Fall next year, but now it looks like I might stay 2 more years. Which is fine. I know it’s a good place – great people and resources and environment. But it’s not right for me.”

“Didn’t click.” He said. “That’s too bad.”

“Not really.” I argued. “I’m glad I know this isn’t the place. That I want to move on at some point. I just wish I was more than grossly ineffective while I’m here.”

So we talked and I whined and my office mate returned, so we ceased our personal conversation and he left shortly after. And I noted my upset stomach and oncoming headache and miserable attitude. I know how this feels, I thought. But what to do about it?

I’m at the point of taking my seat on the bench, giving myself time to gather my resources and strength so that I can scoot ever closer to another try. But I recently had enough – needed to take a step back and try to figure out what I’m doing here. The good news is that I feel better now than I did last night. The bad news is that I fear my next turn will yield 3 different strikes for the same general effect.

I want to be happy. I want to love my job on some days and feel satisfied that I’m doing good work on others. I want to know I can abandon this path if I’m sure it’s not working – I just don’t know when to make that call and which way to go if I stop doing this. So if you picture me sitting on a bench, people moving around the dirt and grass in the foreground, I’m peering out in the distance, seeing if there’s anything out there that’s more appealing.

I just don’t know what that is. So now I’m sad again.

Chemistry

“Wow.” Boss said as he viewed the results that appeared on a screen. I looked up as well and cocked my head as I determined how I felt about our first run.

“That’s…really a lot of Chemical.” He said mildly, and I grinned immediately and decided what I’d write about when I got home. It’s a cute story, I decided. I can connect it to something else and it has a moderately decent point. Lovely.

I had to work this afternoon, and was expected to bring something. I wrote about my first attempt at creating said item, and my second attempt occurred today. I parked my car upon arriving at my institution, carried what was left of my gallon of distilled water in one hand, purse in the other, and unlocked multiple doors and turned on a few lights to find my way to my desk.

My plan was to purchase a certain seasoning blend that contained the chemical of interest. We’re trying to detect Chemical for this specific reason, and I had carefully calculated molarity – doing stoichiometry and everything! – and carefully measured and dissolved and made sure each container was rinsed with the distilled water in January.

This time? Not so much.

First, I’m not feeling very well. I’m actually having convulsive stomach cramps at times, which is extremely unpleasant. Luckily, they’re sporadic. So I’m semi-functional. I looked for the seasoning containing Chemical at three stores, growing increasingly sad when I couldn’t find it. Apparently ordering online is my only good option here in my southern town. But since the experiment started in a little over an hour, not even the fastest of deliveries was going to help me out.

I had a backup plan in place though, so I went to the capsules I’d used before. I read an email discussing how much of the seasoning to use in ½ L of solution – 4.4 grams. After finding each capsule held 630 mg of Chemical, I decided I’d use ¼ L of water and 3.5 capsules. I clearly subscribe to the “close enough” method of doing chemistry. This is a good thing, as we’ll shortly discover.

I do have a decent Chemistry background - though it was never my focus, but it was corrupted my years of employment in an environmental lab. Once I got a feel for the levels we were detecting, it was true that “close enough” was usually more than sufficient. So the bad news is that I abandoned precision and know enough to be dangerous. The good news is that I’m highly efficient and can often accomplish my goal with items at hand.

I counted on these skills once I arrived at the office, having only capsules, water and 2 ziploc bags for the transportation of my final product. Luckily, the idea was pretty simple. I wanted to take 4 capsules, cut one in half, then dissolve 3.5 of them in about 250 mL of water. I thought it would likely be really strong – of far higher concentration than was necessary. But screw it – I didn’t feel good, there was no reason it had to be perfect – we just wanted Chemical to be detectable and crazy-strong was certainly detectable. So I headed to the ancient kitchen on the way to my desk and set my bottle of capsules near the sink, then plunked my gallon of water on the other side of the faucet.

Something to mix in, I decided, was a good place to start. So I saw two punch bowls – pretty crystal ones – off to the side of the sink. But my relief at finding a suitable container was short lived. One was put aside as I touched it as briefly as possible. Who knew what those awful yellow specks were from?

I decided to use the other, though I was frowning at it as well.

“Do you contain any detectable chemicals, gross gray film?” I asked the coating on the bottom of the dish before squirting a liberal amount of dishwashing detergent (I found it by the sink too) in it and shrugging before scrubbing with a paper towel from the nearby dispenser. I got most of it out before making my icky face and calling it good.

I opened the smaller of the two bottles I’d carried to my disgusting little workstation and counted six capsules that I’d shaken into my palm. Replacing two of them and twisting the lid to seal it, I set the four white pills in a puddle of water I’d accidentally created when washing my punch bowl.

I briefly considered throwing them away and getting new – it was not my intent to get them wet.

“Yeah, Katie.” I chided myself silently. “Between the concentration you haven’t calculated, gross gray film and other errors we haven’t made yet, a little extra tap water is going to be your major source of contamination. Goose.”

So in their tiny puddle they lay while I tried to decide how to measure ¼ L of distilled water. No measuring cups, I deduced after a quick check around the room. I could guess, but my skill with measurements is about as good as my sense of direction. If I was going to figure out how to cut one of those capsules in half, I could at least get close to ¼ L.

So I opened the refrigerator.

The three gallons of ice tea weren’t going to help, I decided. Nor was the canister of yogurt or a sad, wilted apple. But I reached eagerly for a tiny container of chocolate milk located all the way at the back of the second shelf from the bottom.

236 mL. Close enough! But how was I going to use it? It’s impolite to steal someone’s milk, so perhaps I could devise some weighting system where I could pour an equal amount of water in some container in one hand, then try to balance the weight of the milk I held in the other hand.

Even I – with my “can do” attitude – thought, “how the hell is that going to work?” So I twisted my mouth and thought some more, turning the milk container in my hand.

“Oh, that’s gotta be rancid.” I said upon seeing the OCT. 6 stamp on the spout - it's almost November. “Fantastic for me!”

I opened the cardboard container, and – holding my breath all the while – dumped the milk down the drain and began rinsing the inside of the cardboard with tap water. I rinsed and rinsed, peeking inside to see how clean it was. Apart from a couple of chocolate stains, I think I got most of the residual contents out.

So I filled it with distilled water, then transferred the measured water to the semi-clean punch bowl. Then I dumped a little more water in, with “Yep, totally scientific.” nod toward another 14 mL.

“Now to dissolve these capsules.” I noted happily, pleased with my progress so far. I had about 250 mL of water and that was half the battle! So I started to saw through one of the pills with a steak knife I found in a plastic bin near the sink, helped along by the fact that the pill was rather damp.

“Fortuitous.” I complimented myself out loud.

Then I threw my 3.5 tablets in the water and poked at them with the tip of the knife. Remembering I’d heated the water to aid dissolution before, I made my icky face again when I opened the microwave.

“Aacky.” I said mildly, wishing I’d remembered to hold my breath again. But I set it to “frozen entrée” and waited while the water heated. After about a minute (because a frozen entrée apparently takes 2:45), I retrieved my punch bowl and set it on the counter, frowning down into the opaque white water.

“Is that milk or just really strong solution?” I wondered, then picked up the bowl to peer at the bottom of the dish. I could still see partial capsules lying sadly on the bottom, so I stuck my hand in, fished one out, then tried to cut it with the steak knife.

Slightly fearful I’d injure my thumb, I set the knife down after only 2 slices and twisted my mouth again. I tried to crush the pill between my fingers, but was unsuccessful.

Then I saw some salad tongs and smiled with what can only be described as giddy satisfaction.

They worked perfectly.

I also used them to stir my increasingly white mixture, pleased with my accomplishment. I held a Ziploc baggie open with one hand, then started to pour my concoction into it. I decided to fill one very little and the other quite a lot. No real reason – I just wanted to mix it up.

So I finished the small one, then carefully removed most of the air and sealed it. Then I prepared the second baggie, and frowned when I saw the large amount of white precipitate at the bottom of the punch bowl.

“That’s not good.” I frowned. “Swirl and pour. Swirl and pour.” And when the bag was halfway full, I decided that was good enough and sealed it. Then I cleaned the punch bowl, nodding at my ability to remove the gray film by some mixture of washing, mixing and microwaving, then put it back where I found it. I cleaned the steak knife and salad tongs as well, drying everything – including the counters – with the brown paper towels.

So, yes, my creation was really strong. But Chemical was detectable, which was my only real criteria. And if we happened to detect some indefinable compounds as well? It’s difficult to hypothesize from whence they came, and it doesn’t really matter for our purposes anyway. I had a goal and made it happen. We detected Chemical in a spatially heterogeneous pattern. Our technique and equipment work, and I have data I can process. Mission accomplished.

My point – and the reason I’m telling my chemistry story – is that it doesn’t have to be perfect. Life isn’t neat and tidy and all measured and cleaned properly. Sometimes I slap something together. I look at the major goal and decide how much time I have to get there. I do what I can with what I have, then I hope for the best. If nothing else, I can learn for next time.

I plan to apply this “guess and check” approach to the medication I’ve been taking. My Celexa prescription ran out and I didn’t refill it. I think the depression was very related to an event that hit me very hard. Every time I’ve done very badly, it’s been related to some specific life change. Big exams. Being homesick for the first time. An injury to love and trust. Missing friends.

“I was trying to figure it out.” I told Unnamed Friend a couple days ago. “And my first thought was that I experience emotions – bad emotions – on a level more profound than other people. But that isn’t necessarily right. And it can’t be tested.”

She nodded. “You might,” she allowed. “But it’s hard to tell.”

“So the problem,” I continued after agreeing with her, “is that I seem to be less capable of coping with the bad emotions than normal people.”

But I’m more aware of myself and my limits. This episode was bad – I’m trying to ignore that, but my blog entries make that difficult. Writing during the worst moments might have actually been a good idea. I can look back on some of that – and I have – and recognize the truth in how agonized I was. Recall waking to moan at the severity of the pain. Shake my head over the hours I spent on the bathroom floor, desperate to find comfort and endure the time that was so very miserable. I remember. I know. It was very bad.

Now I feel better. Balanced and stable. Like myself again – and it’s been months and months since I could say that. So why not continue with the medication? I’m not sure. I’m curious, I think. I want to know how I’ll do without it in an environment where people know I have the ability to get quite ill and can inform me if I start to slide downward again. The people at work are now guarding against the worst of my moods, and I have every faith that Unnamed Friend won’t spare my feelings if I start to get morose and despondent. Even you’ll be able to know from reading, and I think that some of you would mention it might be wise to refill that particular bottle of capsules.

But it’s not always pretty. Sometimes there’s a weird gray film. Other times I use a milk carton when a graduated cylinder would have been more optimal. It’s good when I find salad tongs when I’m trying to crush half-dissolved capsules.

The question that just occurred to me is why struggle – or risk a struggle – when it’s not necessary? If I’d had a measuring device, I wouldn’t have even looked for the milk carton. Or if someone had offered me a container of ideally concentrated, perfectly formed Chemical, I wouldn’t have even considered making me own just for fun. For all my attitude and efficiency and education, I do what works. Which means I’ll make a different point than I originally intended.

I’ll refill the prescription tomorrow.

I don’t think I’ll take antidepressants forever, though I guess that’s possible. But I am going to take them for a little while longer. Because I am better. I think they helped. So I’ll let them help some more. Ideal or not, I can't tell from here. So I'll take the safe route for the time being.