I remember reading this one thing one day. It said, the Jewish faith prefer that you perform mitzvot regardless of whether you believe in Judaism or not. Its reasoning was that, you will perform it and come to love the reason behind the mitzvah. You will come someday to love the faith again, or even for the first time.

That’s what med school is like. I come to class every day, whether or not I want to. I take notes to the best of my ability, depending on my mental capacity on that particular day. Many days, I hate going and I feel overwhelmed by everything. There are a few days, however, when it strikes me that I love being here.

Life is like that sometimes. I wake up whether or not I want to, and at some point, put my feet on the ground and elevate my butt off the bed. I make my way through the day, propelling myself with just enough energy to get around, though not with any degree of enthusiasm. And then sometimes, something happens to make the next day exciting and worth jumping out of bed for.

I have issues with my weight. Some dieting days are good; others not so good. Some days I almost starve myself; some days I beat myself senseless in a dark corner of my mind for overeating. I say to my husband, “I hope I can always be your sexy wife. I hope I can always be sexy mommy for our kids. I don’t want to be the woman that you know is a wife or mother, the woman who let herself go or couldn’t get herself back after kids. I don’t want our children to be ashamed of me. I hope I can always be sexy to you.” Apparently, I place a lot of weight on my appearance (no pun intended).

I have issues with my accomplishments. I still think I have a lot to prove – and perhaps I’m not far off in thinking so. This is, after all, medical school. Throughout the first semester, we in the DO Class of 2011 were reminded frequently that we beat out nine other people for the seat we each sat in.
No pressure.

I feel, however, like I have so much to prove. Throughout grade school, it was proving that I wasn’t a dummy, that just because I was one of the few students in a Catholic school with divorced parents didn’t mean I was horrible or cursed. Throughout high school, the enormity of my father’s neglect hit me, and his shenanigans started to mean something personally to me. I now had to prove to him that my family and I in particular, did not need him. Despite his threats, my mother’s children, and I in particular, would succeed without him, and in spite of him. In college, I was still proving to my father that I was better than him; I was going to finish college and attend graduate school. I would earn respect and do exactly what I wanted to do in life: be a doctor.

Now that I am in medical school, I no longer care about proving my father wrong. My father is long gone, if not physically dead, then dead to me. I am happily married, though wondering who I am working for now. I want to be so much for so many people, but I find myself flagging. I have begun to put different emphases on different aspects of myself, things that I never before thought important. My husband loved me when I was one hundred and sixty pounds; he loves me just as much now that I’m one hundred and forty-eight. He doesn’t care about the two pounds I put on the other night after eating two grilled cheese sandwiches and a bowl of soup. When I go home tonight, he’s still going to roll over and try to pounce me before falling asleep. His hands are still going to blaze trails down my sides and undress me carefully, his lips lingering on my neck. In the morning, he will still nuzzle his nose into my hair and kiss my cheek before ever opening his eyes and say, “I love you.” My weight, my awards, my motivations all mean nothing to him except in terms of my happiness and my health. Am I happy? Am I healthy? Am I doing what I want to do and am I satisfied with how things are? Am I happy trying to improve what I’m not satisfied with? Am I happy with where I, and we, are going?

Why can I not ask the same things?

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