sweepthefloor
see jane nurse
- Joined
- May 25, 2010
- Posts
- 11,836
There are at least seventeen different ways to get to the beach. I don’t even know the names of the roads to get there. I just get in my car and the endpoint is the ocean.
First you drive through corn country, make a right on blueberry lane, then travel through the forest and you end up at the beach.
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There’s something about critical care nursing and a history of dangerous encounters on streets with no streetlights that have fine-tuned a rare instrument that beats not in my chest but in my belly. It’s the power of rapid cognition and I read about it once in a book.
It doesn’t mean that I don’t have to stop and think, it just means that I appreciate the first few moments of any situation. My body tells me what to do. It’s exhausting sometimes.
It happens a lot at work. I walk into a room and know when something is wrong, and then I stop to think about exactly what is wrong.
It happens with men and I learned a long time ago when my belly says no, something is wrong, I don’t take the time to stop and think about exactly what or why—I just leave.
This doesn’t mean I am not vulnerable. It’s just a trend, a cluster of dots on the graph of my life. I used to think that these feelings were nothing more than an underlying rhythm of anxiety. I do know that when I belittle my stomach and punch myself in the gut for telling me what I don’t what to feel—I get in trouble.
First you drive through corn country, make a right on blueberry lane, then travel through the forest and you end up at the beach.
---------
There’s something about critical care nursing and a history of dangerous encounters on streets with no streetlights that have fine-tuned a rare instrument that beats not in my chest but in my belly. It’s the power of rapid cognition and I read about it once in a book.
It doesn’t mean that I don’t have to stop and think, it just means that I appreciate the first few moments of any situation. My body tells me what to do. It’s exhausting sometimes.
It happens a lot at work. I walk into a room and know when something is wrong, and then I stop to think about exactly what is wrong.
It happens with men and I learned a long time ago when my belly says no, something is wrong, I don’t take the time to stop and think about exactly what or why—I just leave.
This doesn’t mean I am not vulnerable. It’s just a trend, a cluster of dots on the graph of my life. I used to think that these feelings were nothing more than an underlying rhythm of anxiety. I do know that when I belittle my stomach and punch myself in the gut for telling me what I don’t what to feel—I get in trouble.
