meus intuitus

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ah yes, facebook

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I minimize thee.  Nobody will be allowed to post on my wall.  I will post no more things for people to comment on.  Why?  Because I do not like what Facebook does to me.  Some people may be able to handle the beast with more grace than I, but I am finding that Facebook turns me into a whore of self-promotion.  It’s like a drug—chasing these “likes.”  Fond are my Facebook memories of having over two dozen “likes” on a given post.  Often I say to myself, and I quote, “this is going to be an awesome profile picture, I am so happy.”  Indeed—so happy that I now have something “spectacular” to showcase to the world about how awesome my life, no, how awesome I am.  Look at me and all my artsy and thoughtful pictures.

Beyond what it does to me, I dislike what it does to us.  Old friends?  I don’t talk to them ever.  I “like” their crap, they “like” mine, and we subconsciously call that maintenance of our friendship.  Certainly, I am blessed to have friends legitimate enough that even without frequent catch-ups, we un-arduously “pick up where we left off” even after months without contact.  However, I am sick of the illusion of connection that Facebook sells.  I would rather have fewer “likes” and more phone calls, emails, even just messages on Facebook; I won’t dream of written letters though—a tad archaic, quite unwieldily, and possibly awkward.

I will not quit Facebook.  It has its uses and it is indeed a marvel of modern technology.  Magnificent for networking and connecting the previously easily disconnected.  It’s a fantastic medium for the sea of acquaintances in my (any) life.  Thus, I will keep it in a minimized form—one that enables me to remain connected to a degree, but one such that I no longer feel accountable to it.  I eagerly await any isolation that may come—for it will be impetus to call those I consider important to me instead of settling for dried husks of human interaction.

No offense intended—I consider none on here shallow by any means.  In all likelihood, my friends carry the mixed blessing of the Book of Faces better than I.  Only for I, for now, it has been too much of a curse.

On this day, Day 1, I feel good.  I feel a sense of… freedom.  I feel as though I am living less for the sake of some collective approval and more for the sake of my authentic self.


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January 29, 2013 at 7:07 pm


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Every moment is a choice.  Every moment is a choice between bitterness, cynicism, despair; and gratitude, love, happiness.

Life is not about doing what you love.  Life is about finding love in the things you do.  Humans have infinite capacity for acclimation, disillusionment, and boredom.  To expect occurrences in life to bring you to ever higher highs is not unlike an addict upping the dosage of his heroin.  This is not to say that we should become complacent, not at all.  We should always strive towards our wildest tomorrows, but we must do so while holding the deepest of appreciations for all the blessings that we enjoy in the present.

My present depression is born of a deep dissatisfaction with the way the world is—from the state of the global economy, to American politics, to the medical profession, to the gross deficiencies in human ability to understand and connect with one another.  I am a dreamer and I can not help but imagine anything and everything better.  However, I forget…  I forget all the blessings upon which my melancholy ponderings are built.  A comfortable home, a loving mother, great step-siblings, a spunky little brother, a silly little sister, a hilarious cousin, the privilege of being a medical professional, an unparalleled degree of career stability, and the most genuine of friends.  I am blessed with gifts rarer than diamonds.  I must never allow myself to be so blinded by my imaginings of better worlds that I lose sight of the beauty in my own.

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December 19, 2012 at 8:22 pm

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Diamonds and Plaster

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I was digging for coal and I found a diamond.  Diamonds, rare and exploited.  This magnificent diamond, I thought I might keep it—protect it from crueler hands.  I put it in a hole in my heart.  It seemed to fit.  However, something about it was uncomfortable; and weighed heavily on my consciousness.  The diamond wasn’t too comfortable either, but it was content with its lot in life—to be whatever its holder needs it to be.  Whether waiting to be found, being put on display for its beauty, locked away by greedy hands, or used fill the holes in the lives of men—the diamond is content; such is the source of its beauty; such is the nature of its curse.

The diamond weighed heavily on my heart.  I never was a diamonds kind of man.  One day, I pondered…  What would I do if I ever found a piece of heart that fit the hole in my own?  What would I do with the diamond?  Take it out, sell it, throw it away?  Put it in my pocket?

I am the exploiter.

God damn it.  All I was looking for was some coal.

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September 30, 2012 at 4:19 am

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why psych?

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I’m taking a mental health break (double entendre intended) tonight to write this post about my impression of primary care medicine and my thoughts on my career path so far.

I’m beginning to develop a particular sentiment—a feeling that may progress into a genuine and personal philosophy on medicine.  After working in a fast-paced 20-patients-a-day primary care clinic for a week and a half, I am finding myself somewhat uninspired.  Medicine is just so…  Algorithmic.  Reflexive.  Rote.  Patient complains of X, Y, Z?  Test him with A, treat him with B, failing that try C.  These are what the data tell us to do.  Unlike what I was promised, there is no art here.  The art is lost to the minutia.  It’s not that it should be any other way—evidenced-based medicine is a wonderful thing.  It just may not be right for me.  If there is anything I have learned in the last two years of medical school, it’s how extremely right-brained I am.  The regiments of medicine easily slip through the sieves of my creativity, inspiration, and intuition.  Ambition got me into medical school, but ambition is not enough to build a career, a life on.

Thankfully, medicine provides its own exit:  Psychiatry.  For all the reasons that my colleagues hate psychiatry, I love it.  No obvious right answers, intricacy of personalities, no measurable chemicals.  This is the realm of the intuitive.  Certainly, plenty of measurement and empiricism is present (otherwise it would be quackery), but the cores of the analyses are amorphous.  The mind is complex in a way that we, as complex as our minds are, can not even fathom.  The mind is like the weather—billions of inputs, effects, and endless results; you can make small predictions about it, but bet on what it will do next year and you will lose your wagers.  Indeed, like the weather, but more complex.  It takes a technician (albeit an admirable, dedicated, and high-functioning one) to be a master of medicine, but it takes an intuitive to be a proper psychiatrist.  Internal medicine is checklists, criteria, and algorithms.  Psychiatry is understanding.  The psychiatric patient may fulfill the checklists for depression, but if you understand her well enough, you may yet come to the conclusion that her trials are more chiefly situational and that all she needs is some extensive support and guidance; you must then determine the nature of the support and guidance you will provide—something that, again, requires understanding.  This, at least, is my fledgling impression of psychiatry from the four weeks I spent on it.

More practically, I am just more interested in minds than I am bodies.  As noble and important as it is, I seriously don’t give a damn about managing a 50-year-old’s LDL cholesterol levels so that he can get a little more mileage out of his wretched body.  Life, for me, is not about longevity.  Life is about experience, revelation, and enlightenment.  Life is about growth.  Longevity is merely a conveniently large canvas upon which to paint the progression of our minds.  I want to help people grow—out of their demons, out of their prisons, and into better versions of their former selves.

This past year, there was a psychiatrist who got locked in a cell with a homicidal psychiatric patient.  The patient laughed and advanced towards the psychiatrist.  The psychiatrist, in spite of his horror, analyzed the situation and stated, “you can not hurt me!  It’s snowing outside.”  The patient’s thoughts blocked and his movements ceased with them “…what?”  The psychiatrist repeated, “that’s right!  You can’t hurt me because… it’s snowing outside!”   The patient clutched his head with both hands and began pacing the room, “…what?!”  The orderlies had just enough time to get the keys to the cell and the doctor was freed.  That’s understanding.  ~True story

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August 22, 2012 at 6:14 pm

sartorial frustration

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I’m suddenly struggling with rationing my money among threads, the alterations they need, and food.  Fit alterations are the straw that’s breaking me.  The way menswear is cut off-the-rack, you wonder if they meant for it to look like shit; but once you know you can’t go back.  I’ve gone full retard—and by full retard I mean fully obsessive-compulsive.  It’s offensive, I know.  A shirt sleeve falls 0.5” below the wrist bone, a jacket sleeve stops at the base of the wrist bone, waistlines of shirts and coats should have no more than three inches of “billow,” even my CK briefs– Just kidding, I wear boxers.  How did this happen?  How did I get this way?  Oh how simple were those days long past—of saggy jeans, cut-off tees, and backwards caps.  Actually, let’s never go back to those days…  but oh how wonderfully simple they were.

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April 12, 2012 at 4:35 pm

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There was a family that came in today:  A gangly woman, a mumbling bearded man (the patient), and another man that I call Happyeyes.  Happyeyes was certainly a man grown, but there was a child-like connotation in his gaze—not in the sense of innocence, but rather in joy and appreciation.   They were a rather dirty and unkempt bunch; and in the patient room, they collectively smelled a little sour.  They were good people and I genuinely liked them, but the back of my mind still whispered “hillbillies” to me a few times.  Indeed, even with a wealth of good input and optimism, my meso-consciousness continued judging—such is how truly stereotyped their appearances were.

As for us health care providers, there was myself, a tall Asian male stinking of urbanity with my thick plastic-framed glasses.  The medical resident was a small Indian girl with large eyes born in rural Kentucky.  Our attending physician was a well-dressed Virginian gentleman.

Upon leaving, Happyeyes said something that floored me a little.  In a pungent southern drawl (more precisely, southern labor as opposed to southern money) he said, “the kinds of people they got workin’ in here… This is some true diversity—I tell ya’ I love this place.”

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April 2, 2012 at 3:29 pm

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closed minded

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I need to relax my ideals and expectations in relationships.  I need to open myself up to different types of relationships from what I have experienced and what I idealize.  It’s not going to be easy or pleasant, but it’s hugely necessary.

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February 28, 2012 at 2:01 pm