Can I graduate?

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Although I’ve lately borne much closer resemblance to a closet Mexican, there is still some truth to the Third Eye Blind’s slacker anthem of the same name, and I find myself asking the same questions posed therein.

Tri 8 is indeed much lighter than the preceding trimesters.  I had also been looking forward to the classes – I mean, these are the icing on the cake: Geriatrics, Ob-Gyn, classes that are/were supposed to separate the men from the boys, or at least the doctors from the technicians/therapists.  Then we heard through the grapevine from those who have gone before us a sense of disappointment and boredom, that those classes failed to deliver the goods and be all that they could be.  Those taught by professors we’ve had before reiterated tired old themes, the whole “if you’ve heard him once you’ve already heard it all” vibe.  Then we got into the classes and found that the reality of it all was somewhere in the middle: information did sometimes overlap and in true Parker spirit, could lack depth and meaning, but there were at least variations on those tired old themes and you could even spy a rare gem or two buried deep in the rhetoric.

Maybe it has to do with the big bang the trimester started out with and the shell-shocked lagging catch-up that followed, but I find that I’m pretty short on motivation this time around.  I never did consider studying my activity of choice, especially when there are so many other options, and I’m actually probably more interested in the subject matter we’re learning this trimester, as it is all clinically relevant and useful.

I think that I owe part of my “enough, already” outlook to the fact that I’m cabin-feverish and sick of our classroom.  I’m tired of dressing in clinic attire every single day, complete with the lame-ass nametags pinned to our white coats.  I’m sick of the drama of Parker High.  I’m tired of hearing about yet another item stolen (it’s not the notification I’m sick of, it’s the fact that thieves walk among us, undiscovered, in the first place).  I’m tired of the whining, the disrespect, the do-gooder chearleading, the numbers, the hypocrisy, the slick marketing (in all the wrong places) and the fear mongering.  The buck-passing, fundraisers, lack of professionalism, and class meetings really got to me too.  I’m sick of the duplicate emails, the seminar notices, the computer system hiccups every tri.  I’m burned out and ready to go.  I don’t feel anywhere near ready to tackle that victim of a nasty car wreck, but I sure am itching to ditch these walls.

Otherwise, my lack of motivation is a fault that resides only within me and I own it.  I just simply don’t feel like doing anything school-related anymore.  I still have a zest for life and learning that I always did, but this time I’m being compelled to channel it in other directions for reasons I can’t currently explain.  In short, my time and energy are going elsewhere and it’s on a very instinctual, compulsory level.  The last time I felt this way, life monumentally changed shortly thereafter and majorest of questions were clearly answered.

What lies ahead?  I know what it’s not.  It’s not the choke-chain moneygrab of a clinic or the snakepit administration that runs it.  It’s not a total of eight five-digit numbers designed to run my life for the convenience of others.  It’s not limited to back pain, neck pain, and headaches.  And it certainly doesn’t end in -ubluxation, especially as the cause of all that ails you.

Instead, I hope it’s fulfillment.  I hope it helps to make a difference in someone’s life.  I hope it’s satisfaction in a spot deep down where a fat paycheck can’t reach.  I hope it’s a slower, more relaxed way of life that gets back to basics and allows me time and energy to stop and smell the flowers, and enough of a presence of mind to register and appreciate the scent.  At a bare minimum, maybe it’s just enough to keep my punk ass off the street.

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