I'm not naturally organised. Honest, I'm not. But I know if I don't overcompensate for my naturally disorganised state by being compulsive about things I'll die a horrible screaming death from not having things done. And then someone will get mad at me, and yell, and that will be the end of the world.
M started to pick my notes apart today, before she got called to the OR. Little things - she had to get nit-picky about whether the orders from this morning were the orders that had actually been carried out in the end, whether fever and sepsis were two different problems, whether I had done things exactly right. All the other residents just sign the bloody things. They're impressed with my thoroughness. I don't know enough to get by on skill and experience; I must rely on being compulsively thorough, or I'll miss something. But M found things to pick at, and I felt a knot in my throat as I reflexively tried to defend myself. And she has this extremely clear diction, and a soft voice, and a hint of some kind of accent that makes her sound like Dr. S, my third-grade teacher. And I just wanted to cry suddenly because it wasn't perfect.
I'm over that now. But it's there in me, this beast of compulsion and the tears I try so hard to control. Maybe that's why I try so hard to overcompensate, to be organised, to do things right. Because I'm afraid of failing. And I'm afraid now that I look like a ringer, like I'm trying too hard and it shows, that I'm bossy and pushy and overbearing. And I'm afraid everyone secretly hates me and won't tell me. I don't want to be the person everyone's nice to at school but never invites to parties.
It's late, O Best Beloved, 9:30 already, and I was going to go to bed early. I'm posting this entry and one more after it, then to sleep.