“Insanity laughs under pressure we’re cracking
Can’t we give ourselves one more chance?
Why can’t we give love that one more chance?
Why can’t we give love, give love, give love, give love, give love, give love, give love, give love?..
‘Cause love’s such an old-fashioned word
And love dares you to care for
The people on the edge of the night
And love dares you to change our way of
Caring about ourselves
This is our last dance
This is our last dance
This is ourselves
- Lyrics to “Under Pressure,” by Queen
Today was a long day for me. I worked at the PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) clinic at the VA (Veterans Affairs) Hospital in the morning. I was reminded, yet again, of what the true spoils of war actually are. Yes, many fewer soldiers have died in the Iraqi war than in wars in the past. However, those who actually live are (arguably, not necessarily) less fortunate in some ways. Many of them suffer lifelong mental distress from their experience during the war. Many of them suffer from TBIs (traumatic brain injuries) and other consequences. These are the ones who show up in my office. And they are not the minority.
I also spent a portion of my day doing what I call “BP” work. BP is a term that I coined years ago, which stands for “Business Professional.” BP means all that work in the universe that few people enjoy, but simply has to be done. Examples include doing laundry, filling out forms so that one continue to have a job come July, and taking online quizzes that have absolutely zero benefit to me or society. It was quite painful, as BP stuff frequently is. Yet I did it. Because I have to.
I then went to a meeting of a society that I’m a part of. It started out as a BP item on my list, but eventually culminated in the fruition of some actions, so the end was somewhat worth the means.
On a completely unrelated yet related note, a quite random stranger in the UK has been shipping me boxes of books, magazines, dolls. She is one of those one in a million type folks with a heart so big she doesn’t know what to do with it. I’ve been filling up my office with these paraphernalia, and many more still exist in the mailroom of my hospital and possibly on a plane somewhere between the UK and New York. She sent me these things for my patients, and for not my patients, and for anyone who may benefit. Soon they will be on their way to changing other people’s lives.
I’m not entirely sure where my thought process is going in this post. But it has something to do with being under pressure. And with releasing pressure. And about the love that dares you to care for the people on the edge of the night.
Photos: 1) Taken on my walk to the hospital for the meeting tonight. 2) The “K Dara Library,” which is growing exponentially at my hospital.