Electric Vampire (Boom De Yada)

3:11 am, Friday 17^th, 2013

I find myself in reverse diurnal, another way of saying that I am a relapsed nocturnal. My circadian rhythm working against presence of sun, or biomagnetic field it creates as earth revolves and rotates in its orbit around it. My melatonin was triggered on daytime, by the first chirping of bird I am dozed up unconscious. I like to think I am a modern day vampire, sans good look or charming points. As créature nocturne, we are in this world that never sleep, the fall of Berlin wall of communication barrier, rise of the social network Jedi and shit like that, as we communicate more, we sleep less. We talk more, we listen less.

My personal side-table fan acted up. I think I broke it from years of forcing air current through its blade towards me. I am a lazy breather, I have a lung of 35 year old man, when I was 25. At least that was what IPR technician told me on my spirometry. Might as well saving up for LTOT later. These intercostals and those accessory muscles were here just because it is God given anatomy. I find it hard to hold my breath under cold shower for less than 10 seconds, you can kill me drowning in bathtub for less than 20 seconds, as panic takes away the rest of typical human oxygen deprivation capacity. So no sexual asphyxiation sadomasochism for me for sure. No choking, no smothering please. Sigh.

Now I am typing this entry under scorching warm night, to chuckles of those people of African tribes who sleep under the star and grow phototrophic towards the sun, instead of green they are melanin-rich. First world problem. Yes.

I think my thyroids were fucked up. From years of consuming caffeine. It got confused and decided to work as it please. T4 here, T3 there, TSH everywhere *sing to the tune of Old Mac Donald Has a Farm*. I can’t tolerate heat. Static air makes me sweat. I got palpitation at dawn. Thought it might be Somogyi in response to dawn surge of insulin. Then again I am a delusional diabetic. Not on paper, never in real life. At least not yet in near future.

Oh yes, my back pain is here. Hoorah on that. My old friend who stick with me through hard times. Never have I own a friend who actually there, come bearing pain and suffering like my favorite backpain. Stocked up on analgesic patch though we know it did nothing to it but I’d like to cheat my body to think that I am doing something to treat it, maybe placebo effect can cure it, as its existence is a somatization, so will the treatment. Like cures like. The pseudoscience of homeopathy adage.

I was asked many times about my list of hospitals for housemen-ship, to my surprise were their expression of regret that I decided to return to my place; my center of gravity, my motherland. I could have been sure that I am the most hated person in my batch. I’ll bet my toes on that. Like if I were to give them free pass to stab me with no legal consequences, I am pretty sure I will ended up like that poor man on Tarascon cover, only worse; decapitated, amputated and all. I am not a people pleaser, I act on whim and talk on impulse if I think something is intolerably stupid. Or maybe their response just to be polite. You know pretense polite, because it is socially awarded to be one. Though dumbfounded by this current reaction I remain unmoved. Give me one reason to stay, I’ll unpacked. So far, zilch, nada. So leaving is anything but arbitrary.

As much as I am deep-wrecked to leave. I also feel slight percentage of liberation. New people, new possibilities, new relationship, this one to bury.

P.S. this entry written under influence and fueled by hunger. Late night hunger pang and bullshit like that.

Old Dog, New Trick & Unleashed

Toward the end of this journey, I find it tricky to deal with certain adjustment. Just now, I am setting alarm clock on my phone, which usually consist of three sets of alarm 0600 0615 to 0630, with three minute snooze and 10 repetitions each as I am well aware of how recalcitrant I am. Because I have to catch 0730 bus to Klang, I need to be ready earlier or else I have to wait another hour to catch the next one. Though sometimes, I purposely let myself go and wake up later therefore missing important morning sessions or be a late-comer. But if morning sessions is ward work or clinic work or SDL, I usually opt out to dream work instead. Attending hospital seemed such optional, as long as your attendance is 80% and above, be a kid in a candy store, you may choose your day to skip.

But early today, at approximately 0500 as I am priming my mattress and setting my alarm clock, resting my head and re-evaluating my energy expenditure for today (which usually was badly spent on counterproductive activities). It strikes me like sudden gasp of air, on realization that last week was the end of formal teaching of my MBBS years. There are no more compulsory attendance to clinic or an urge to attend ward work or scheduled teaching sessions worrying over attendance percentage. This is it, no more teaching.

Like a domesticated and caged wild animal released into natural habitat, perplexity ensue with incapacitating deliverance. I am liberated from such guilt and requirement, some sort of sweet release with bitter aftertaste.

I AM FREE. 

IMPENDING EMANCIPATION. 

MY MEDICAL STUDENT YEAR IS ALMOST OVER. 

INSHA-ALLAH, GOD-WILLING THIS TOO WILL END SOON.

Every Sunday night, I usually experienced such adrenaline rush and urgency precipitate by delayed comprehension that there are still too much task at hands not yet done. Haven’t catch up on my reading and revision etc. But not this time, what left to do is preparing myself for upcoming battles. When it is all over, no system will put me on schedule anymore. No more bedside teaching, ward work, clinic work, seminar, tutorial, case presentation, self-directed learning, case write-ups, on-call etc. I am left to fend for myself.

Wow…

…wow

Next time, whenever the alarm ring, I will have no option to snooze and ignore. I need to wake up because it is my responsibility to be so. I have patients to manage, clinic to attend and shift to cover. It is no longer optional, I am responsible for it. Punishable even. 

I am trying to embrace this reality slowly, if not reluctantly. I am going to miss all those sessions and carelessness. No more sitting in class pretending to listen and all those bittersweet moment of medical school. As much as I want it to never be over, and chronically persist, that will never happen outside Never Land. I ain't no Peter Pan. I am literally going to be a working adult, if age isn't prove enough. 

I am such melancholic bitch. Counting the day to goodbye.

All Sorts of Beautiful, Some Kind of Wrong

To be honest, I had this title for quite sometimes now. It just suddenly crossed my mind at some random moment of clarity but I don’t know what to write about it. When the stress is impending, my writing productivity (as act of displacement) inexplicably mounting. I rather write than study. And I found out that whenever I am with my Netbook, my urge to write blog entry is intensifying.

Maybe because it felt personal, this little ‘black book’ of mine. Tried writing on tablet, but due to my factitious ataxic fingers, I spend most of my time correcting my spelling instead of writing. So yeah, that one effort down the drain. Sometimes technology is just another way to screw you frustrated; front and back, left and right, up and down.  

The exam season is here. First, the end of cycle (EOC) clinical and theory exam followed by Professional Exam III. Yes, back pain, I am anticipating you like a loyal dog wagging its tongue, full Pavlov.

Arghh, something deep inside of me felt such fondness towards the system as it unravel into such way, molded and crafted into pre-perfection if not less flawful. I want to be medical student forever. I am pushing 30 and still I am not ready for responsibility. License to kill. I wanted to be careless and not worrying any consequence it may bring. I know my dark and twisted mind will somehow trying to sabotage something, hell if I know what it is but we’ll see.

Some part of me dreading on fact that we will soon part ways. Oh how we’ll drifted apart. I am a sucker of nostalgic feeling. Those memories though sweet are indeed lethal for you in an attempt to move forward. Like some invincible strings tugging you backward at each endeavor to leave. Like dog on leash. They keep you yearning, vacillating and lingering on past moments. Along come sadness and melancholy in bulk. Come crushing abruptly like a flipped figurative cargo truck. 

It never easy to walk away from something good and familiar, something comfortable and warm; but reality is one mean bitch you need to face. Should instead of would. Pocket it all and tuck it neatly in ever-vacant corner of your heart. Know that wherever you go, those pieces are there to keep you whole, covered and dressed. Rummaging through it is like pulling on pointless layers of band-aid, on chronic non-healing venous ulcer. You know you fucked up, but still you want to see the damage there is, pus, necrosis and all (ultime hyperbolique).      

:::::ABRUPT MOOD CHANGE (ANTI-CLIMAXING):::::

This memory I will treasure. Bittersweet such it is. All sorts of beautiful, some kind of wrong.

So this is another Pre-Goodbye. My favorite song from my favorite singer. I know it kinda pathetic, but yeah I never said I ain't one.

Don’t Explain (Be Obtuse)

Exchanging meaningful glances

Repeatedly

Every day, or

Every chances

Never subtle

Never afraid to get caught staring

Smile

Lingering around

Stare

Eye contact

Repositioning

Glance

Less conversation

More adoration

Never closer

Only pining

Est. 2009

A champion of being shy

A winner of being obtuse

A master of long-flirting

Game so extended no one else play

But us…

*Title per Nina Simone’s

We Will Cross That Bridge (When We Come To It)

We’ll let out the ghost and face it

We will say our heart desire

We’ll light up ourselves a fire

Blow off  the smoke

Let wind scatter fogs

Let it gone to the dogs

Let our hearts rush

Let the rain wash

Let the wave bring it ashore

Let less be more

Let river flow

Lot the truth show

We will cross the bridge when we come to it

Or let it burn then nothing’s more to it

- 2:37 a.m. April 10, 2013

Personal Renaissance

The end is nigh…

Almost reaching the predicted and assumed destination. Feeling like a sprint with overwhelming hurdles to jump over. A decathlon, hell yes long distance triathlon even. I am not as excited as I wanted or used to be. I wanted to be excited, God knows I am, but those enthusiasm faded by time. Lost its color, smell and taste. The sense of gripping it the first time is as good as letting go in the end.  

You know the feeling when you finish your favourite TV show marathon on its final season and suddenly you are left hanging empty. What’s left is recurrent thought questioning your purpose of existence.

I used to be too engrossed reading To Kill A Mockingbird that by the end of it I was left confounded not knowing what else to do. Good read always do that to you. That void you used to stuff yourself with hedonistic, momentary high, anticipation and short-live endorphins bingeing, that left you questioning the entire emotional journey you’ve been through. That void is still there, like an infinite sinkhole consuming its insatiable greed.

This is it, end of the line. Cross that line win or lose at least you got to finish whatever your almost thirty years existence meant to be. “Start (your life from) here”, figuratively written on snakes and ladders board game. At times you’ve been fucked hard by those serpents, at times you climbed those ladders and almost reached your goal. Destiny decided by a rolling dice. Mountain of frustrations. Trials and tribulations.

Dice offers you one sixth chance to further while the rest are five ways to screw you. Russian roulette seem merciful in comparison. In a six rounds revolver you chance of not blowing your heads off is five in six. Now how generous is that than a flip of coin; you either live or die at one toss.

My current situation is like replaying those excruciating moment finishing Virginia Woolf’s “Mrs Dalloway”, in the end you kind of rushing through pages unwilling to register any words. Merely scheming. You just want it to end so fast to justify your purchase. By the last word you just close it and throw it away muttering to self “The fuck did I just read,” no satisfaction in it.

By the end of this, you can finally be someone or something you long to be, your transpired dream they say. But like running cross-country marathon, those concluding distance towards the finish line is the outmost ordeal you have to face.

Like Stockholm syndrome, you grown to love this situation that always kept you over the edge. Those humiliation, those hopelessness, those future threatening moments. Liberation seemed incapacitating, compliment means nothing. Too grown in fondness of pain that  gratification equals nil.

Was I callous or am I masochistic.

This is it, here and now.

Ad Dictum

In my ‘My Document’ folder and ‘Blog Entry’ subfolder, there lie plenty of half-written blog posts that were left unfinished. Cause halfway in my writing I decided that I got bored of my own story, and sometimes I was preoccupied with other petty chores and I lost flow and momentum. To start again, I need to revoke the whole entry might as well open a new word document. Some were left incomplete and fragmentary maybe because I had some sort of fugue or absent seizure that I wondered and got lost in the worldwide web.

                

My body is a temple of caffeine. I am an addict. First step to recovery is admitting the problem. Only I am not planning to recover from such stimulant. I am not a hardcore user (denial), my caffeine worshipping is deluded by my hypochondriac nature. Trying to rationalize myself that drinking 8 liters of green tea steep with 16 bags of tea per day is okay, it’s an antioxidant, it’s healthy, I am Japanese at paradox. My body is so depended on them that depriving myself more than 8 hours will assure me of excruciating withdrawal headache. Maybe the problem is I hate getting sick, in my growing years I am at every family physicians books, and I always give them good business. Getting an acute tonsillitis mean that I will jump from one family physician to another all within a week, assuming antibiotic will work like magic bullet as they were regarded back on those penicillin discovery days, to treat clap.

                Caffeine and me is like air to lungs, we have such affinity to each other. It can survive without me, better given O2 concentrated, but I can’t. I am an obsessed lover who has been writing about it like a faithful worshipper. World without caffeine is like planet sans orbit which in case, we’re done for.

                I’m burning my incense of sanity, on the altar of addiction. Get down own my knee and pray for absolution.