The Highway

I am not a patient person. I never have been. Even as a kid, I had a difficult time understanding why some people just didn’t get it, why it took some people longer to figure out what I had already learned or discovered. My parents worried about me. They were concerned that I would grow up to be intolerant and standoffish, cruel to those who are not as quick as me. In a way, their suspicions sort of came true. I have had to consciously work, my entire life, on accepting the fact that everyone runs at different speeds, that people’s minds do not function the same way mine does. I battle, every single say, to keep my patience in check, to hold back from lecturing people on what I think is the correct way to live. It has taken a really long time for me to become aware of my penchant for edginess, but now that I know that it is a salient aspect of my personality, I look for it in others. My problem with impatience has done a back-flip; since I have to constantly worry about my own disregard for the nuances in people’s personalities, I find myself worrying about everyone else’s too. Failure to recognize the differences in people’s minds and actions has now become my pet peeve instead of just my own personal imperfection. It haunts me in every aspect of my life.
As seriously screwed up as this sounds, we all struggle with a certain level of impatience. Humans are self-centered beings—we only value what WE think to be the truth, we all attempt to impart our way of life onto others. This has been the case since the beginning of time (think American Imperialism, Nazism, Globalization…you name it). There is real truth behind “it’s my way or the highway”, so it shouldn’t come as a surprise to me, or anyone else, that people often revert back to this inherent flaw and neglect to take into account that people handle situations differently. We tend to forget that, more often than not, people much prefer the highway.
Ok, enough of my soapbox, here’s the rub: the other day, I found myself in a very awkward situation. While pre-gaming at a friend’s house, I found myself in the same room as a person with whom I have nothing but negative experiences in common. He and I are by no means friends, yet our paths have crossed on many occasions, none of which I look fondly upon. His presence has always made me somewhat uncomfortable, so finding myself in the same social setting as him made me highly uneasy. Sitting there, next to the air conditioner, drinking more wine than probably necessary, I was reminded of a bad time in my life, a period in which heartache ruled and logic fell to the wayside. Watching him socialize with my new friends made me hate myself for what I used to be. It was depressing to be around him. So, it seems somewhat understandable that, as soon as he left the house, I let the drama queen out of her cage. I launched into a panic attack, complete with empty threats of future suicide attempts and exclamations that I was going to vomit. I paced around the room, squeaking about how much he and everything associated with him makes me want to punch a baby, running up and down the stairs and snapping at even the slightest attempt to calm me down. It was not cute.
Ok, so I flipped out. I lost my cool for a moment. I gave into my impulses and lost control of my rational thought processes. But it lasted for all of ten minutes. Ten minutes of unattractiveness, ten minutes of overly-emotional, bat-shit crazy passion, ten minutes of attention to my past—and everyone witnessed it. I knew it wasn’t pretty, I felt bad about forcing everyone to attend my pity-party; yet, at the same time, I feel I was entitled to a little indulgence at that moment. I needed that ten minute freak out, if only to get it out of my system, to make room for my logic, to move over so that my problem solving abilities could kick in. Excuse me for being human.
Even though I felt (and still feel) that my panic attack was warranted, I still felt the need to apologize to the people who were there, just to remind them that I am not always that crazy, that I don’t often give in to the overly-emotional part of my personality. So, when I IMed my friend the next day, during another impossibly boring Epidemiology lecture, to apologize for the outburst, I expected him to just say thanks and move on. No. Someone forgot to turn on his understanding that morning. As soon as I expressed my apology, he responded with a terse, “don’t apologize for living, Danielle”. Confused, I asked him what he meant by that, and he said, in so many words, that no one should ever do anything that he or she is going to have to apologize for later. Yeah? No shit—easier said than done, no? Here I was, just trying to be nice and apologizing if I had made him uncomfortable, and he launches into this whole speech about how I should never allow myself to lose control. I’m sorry, but last time I checked, I wasn’t you. How dare you try to impose your way of life on me! Let me do me and I’ll let you do you. If I want your advice on how to live, I’ll ask. In the meantime, try and realize that not everyone handles life the way you do. Take a walk in my shoes…I guarantee you won’t find them very comfortable, but it won’t hurt you to try them on.
I try to make it my business to attempt to understand people. I always try to figure out what makes people tick, that way, when they do tick, I get it. I too have problems with empathy, I also struggle to remember that people are different from me, that everyone lives their lives their own way. All I ask is that people do the same. So, next time someone does something that you think is completely contrary to what you believe to be acceptable, remember that if everyone continues to choose the highway, and you still can’t realize that that’s okay, your way will end up being pretty damn lonely.

DRPWORLD

It has recently been brought to my attention that people actually read this blog—like people other than my mom and her coworkers. I always thought that the only people who read it are those to whom I send the links, those people who understand the way my mind works, who know what makes me tick. I did not intend to make this a public thing. I wasn’t planning on using this at as platform with which to spout my own opinions, a place to broadcast the fact that I have axes to grind. I always thought, and still sort of think, that blogs are for weird people, those who either have way too much time on their hands and think they are interesting enough that people would want to read about their lives or those who are overly obsessed with some kind of hobby or celebrity. I do not fall into either of those categories—I do not, by any means, think I am interesting or feel that anything I have to say is really all that worth listening to and I definitely am not obsessed with anything (well…other than Glee). My friends from college told me to start blogging so that I would stop bothering them with my endless emails that ended up being longwinded rants about how much I hate boys, love sex, and/or need to get over myself. I really did not intend for it to reach such an extended audience. I mean nothing by it. It’s just me thinking, talking, bitching, being crazy.
I am tempted to use this opportunity to apologize; part of me wants to say sorry to anyone and everyone who this blog has offended, to tell those who think that they know (or are) any of the people I have pointed a literary finger at, that I didn’t mean to stir up any trouble or embarrass anyone. Apologizing would be the noble thing to do. Claiming that I had no idea that so many people would stumble upon my works would seem appropriate.
But I am not going to do any of that. Fuck propriety. I said what I meant and I meant what I said. If I have called you or any of your loved ones a pussy or an ass hole or claimed that he or she is lame or evil or emotionally stunted or stupid, then he or she probably, in my mind at least, deserved it. I am not going to apologize for being honest. I put myself out there, on the internet, for any shmuck to find, and I shouldn’t be surprised that people did. So if my opinions or beliefs offended you or you feel as though I was personally attacking someone specific, then I invite you to stop reading because I’m sure as shit not forcing you to sit there and read. It’s not in my nature to keep quiet even if what I am saying is not all that ladylike. I won’t apologize for being me.
So now I am going to stop being embarrassed that I have a blog. Apparently some people do like to read what I have to say. I am going to embrace the fact that I have a way with words and use it to my advantage. From now on, everyone is welcome to read my blog. Come one come all, listen to the crazy chick talk.
You’re in DRPWORLD now, bitch.

The Waiting Game

Medical school is an interesting phenomenon. Everyone always tells you that it’s the hardest thing you will ever do in your life. You are warned that you will shut yourself off from the world, become addicted to coffee, and hate every minute of everyday. Doctors discourage you from going. People smile knowingly when you tell them you are about to start, as if they are in on the plot to ruin your life too. No one ever tries to sugarcoat it, paint it rosy, or tell a little white lie… medical school is going to suck, but, hey, good luck to you. Someone’s got to do it.
It’s funny because, from what I can see, which, let’s face it, is not much, medical school doesn’t suck at all. I have spent the past 2 months drinking myself into a naughty oblivion, socializing with people who I never would have spoken to 3 months ago, and discovering a whole new side of a country in which I have spent half of my life. I am in medical school but I still watch TV, I still hang out with my friends, I still go out on the weekends…hell, I just got back from a week long cruise to Greece. Everyone who said medical school was going to be the death of me can bite me because med school fuckin rocks.
I know, I know. It’s only the beginning. It’s going to get harder. It probably will suck at times. I will probably drink a lot of coffee. I will probably stop thinking Tel Aviv is so awesome. But, for now, I will try not to burst my own bubble by thinking about how much things are going to change and enjoy my time for now. I’ll worry about the important stuff later.
But there’s a catch of course. Since I have decided to dedicate much of my time to socializing instead of academics (which I will inevitably pay for later…work with me), I find myself noticing, once again, how lacking I am when it comes to…well…social charm. I was thrown into a mix of 62 new people who come from different upbringings, schools, countries, socioeconomic statuses, genders, and sexualities. Part of me is excited by the prospect of getting to know so many new and interesting people; however, another part of me, the one that is shy and scared of the unknown, is highly overwhelmed by the notion of having to be on my game at all times. These people are going to become my family and they don’t know me from a hole in the wall. I, therefore, have a very rare chance to reinvent myself, to show these people the most awesome version of Danielle there is. And, yet, I act like myself. I am loud and course and opinionated and judgmental and sarcastic and ultimately, not charming. I want to be charming so badly. Do I have it in me? Can I be soft and welcoming and easy to be around or am I destined to be the tough chick, the one with the big mouth and the big hair who talks dirty and shows a lot of cleavage?
My lack of feminine mystique wouldn’t be such a problem if I weren’t so concerned with finding myself a lover from among the slim pickings in my class. If I am going to be honest here, I am not sure if my desire for a partner stems from my need for affection and companionship or from a place of raging hormones and sexual frustration, but it is there nonetheless. I know I always say that I like being single, that I cannot afford to set aside all the time and energy it takes to make something romantic work but that’s really not the issue at all.
When I cut the crap and bottom-line it for myself I am really just a big pussy. It’s not that I don’t have time for a lover, it’s that I am too afraid of rejection to put myself out there in order to get one. I never used to be that way. I used to be the girl who let it all hang out, take it or leave it. I never cared if the boy responded to my advances because I always had another project lined up if the original plan failed. This is no longer the case. A year and a half of emotional abuse from my last relationship, the subsequent and accompanying prescription for anti-anxiety pills, and the resulting extra 50 lbs (thank you Celexa for making me less inclined to cry but more inclined to eat) has drained me of every ounce of my mojo. I no longer have the balls to put myself out there; I cannot make any moves, I hold out for everyone and everything to come to me. And so I wait. And wait. And wait some more.
Ok, fine. You caught me. I have a crush. It’s a little stupid one but it’s there and I have no idea how to make it anything else. I can talk about my feelings for him and analyze our conversations until Armageddon but I can’t seem to take my shit or get off the goddamn pot. I don’t even know where to begin.
My friend told me the other day, when I was, once again, expressing my frustration with the fact that I am the lamest person on the planet, that I should stop holding onto my old baggage, put myself out there, and in the case of rejection, deal with it and let that become my new baggage. Baggage is ok as long as it’s new. She might be right and I want so badly to practice that preach but you and I both know I won’t. So I’ll just be here, in my room, waiting until my mojo decides to come home.