The saddest part about this, the first official post of my first official blog, is not necessarily the profound lack of inspiration. Nor is it the fact that this post is being written in my mother’s kitchen, kilometers away from my University Res, kilometers away from the dark, claustrophobic walls of my Institution of Higher Learning.
The saddest part about this blog is not the fact that I am taking time out of my two-month holiday (the Last Holiday, as our seniors so dubiously termed it, glaring jealous daggers at our carefree backs) to do something as dorky as setting up a blog about my chosen educational path.
No, dear friends. The saddest part about this post is the fact that I just wrote an entire two paragraphs of completely unnecessary verbal diarrhea (sp?) to prove a point.
The point is, no matter how ‘normal’ we may attempt or profess to be, no matter how ‘well-adjusted’ and ‘well-rounded’ our relatives may consider us, us folk who actually decide to devote over half a decade of our lives to studying after more than a decade of basic education have serious issues.
We’re not normal.
We are a rare kind.
We need help.
Maybe that is really what the saddest part about this first post is: the fact that I suspect, I honestly and truly believe, that this blog is necessary. Maybe it’s not an entirely original concept. I’ve found countless items on the blogosphere which testify to the idea that medical students and personnel desperately need a support group where they can feel at least someone understands the pressure, the stress, the madness, the emotional weight, the…
The beauty. That special something about this field that makes us love to hate it and love to love it. The feeling of purpose, usefulness, even a little know-it-all-atude. The way we learn certain things and go…wow. The fascination we have with the human body after only having a small, basic knowledge of what a cadaver even is.
That’s the saddest part. But you know what?
I guess it’s also kind of the best part.