Maybe I’m afraid of doctors because the only time I’ve ever seen them is in times of panic. But isn’t that true of most people? Why else would you go.
Maybe I’m afraid of doctors because I’ve always had a strong dislike for science—not in a vaccine hating, let meningitis run free kind of way—in the way that I used to fall asleep in chemistry class, and even the things I thought I’d find beautiful or interesting like astronomy or biology fill me with this instant and all-enveloping boredom that makes me feel resentment and anger towards whoever is talking. Except Bill Nye, obviously.
Maybe I’m afraid of doctors because I’m afraid of death. But isn’t that also true of most people? How boring!
My mom says that my sister and I both came into the world exactly as we are now. I was all wide-eyed and impatient, staring right into her face. Long story short, I came much too fast and the doctor at the small town hospital assumed she was trying for a home birth, disapproved, and treated her abhorrently as a result. He demanded she stand up shortly after delivering me which led to her losing a lot of blood and falling to the floor all while I was screaming my little head off down the hall, all colic-y and jaundiced and ready to get things rolling.
That’s kind of how I’ve been feeling this week. Colic-y and jaundiced and trying to do everything at once. Just chill, Gena.
There’s more to the story, I guess, but more what I’ve been thinking about this week is whether trauma really can be inherited. Whether our cells divide and hide in solidarity with, or in response to, the pain of our parents and their parents and their parent’s parents.
In any case, I’m better now.