This writer.

On an average day, I think about writing anywhere from maybe 4 to 84 gazillion times a day.  Mostly, I'm thinking about awesome blog post ideas, none of which I ever write, of course.  And that's because the other 2.4% of the time I'm thinking about writing, I'm doing so in the context of the fact that part of my job description entails me sitting down to write official medical documents about the clients I see daily.  Having to think about this kind of writing on a daily basis usually makes me want to claw myself out of my skin and sell it to the next available homeless person so that THEY can go do my day job, write my progress notes and eventually get fired for doing a shitty job. 

See: while I clearly don't care about the prospect of actually being fired, I do care about carrying around the moral weight of something like professional termination, which at least keeps me afloat most days.

But even that is cutting it close.  I know that I'm in dangerous territory because at least 6 times tonight (while writing these horrid progress notes) I had really sexy fantasies about walking into my supervisor's office, sitting down and giddily handing over my letter of resignation.  It went something like this:

Supervisor:  Woooooow.  Okay, Morgan!  So what's your new job gonna be? 

Me:  I don't know!  I don't care!  All I know is I only have two more weeks of this shit!  (I say this smiling like an imbecile, and I can't decide if I want to be sitting there in my pajamas or something else really disrespectful, maybe eating an ear of corn or something.)


And that's where the fantasy ends.  The legitimacy of the fantasy comes not from having a Plan B, but from the gumption required to say "Fuck this job!" with a smile, and without giving two turtle poops if I have anything to fall back on, all while sitting back in complacency knowing I never have to start another progress note with these two dreaded words ever again in my life:

This writer.

This writer has to start each and every progress note she ever writes about the clients she sees on a daily basis with the words, "This writer...."  This writer has to speak in this highly confusing and objective point of view to iterate the fact that these notes are supposed to be medical record and free of any original thought, feeling, gender or sign of human intelligence.  This writer writes notes that read like the ingredients on a box of soap, which is ironic, because this writer works in mental health, with kids who have been seriously traumatized, and who seriously just need a hug or a parent who isn't the parental equivalent of an unplugged refrigerator: full of potential and usefulness, but lacking the fundamental requirements for basic functionality.

The other day a dear friend and co-worker and I were in the same snug little office-shaped coffin, and she was writing one of these progress notes.  Meanwhile, I was chatting with another co-worker, waiting for a meeting with my supervisor which was supposed to have taken place 35 minutes prior, but who was counting!  I have all day!  Anyway, the dear friend/co-worker started laughing while she was typing, and then pointed to the screen when I made my face that says, "You're at work.  Why are you happy?"  I looked over her shoulder to see that she had started writing a progress note, but with a more ornery twist:

This writer greeted Jane and informed her that there is nothing wrong with her, that she does not need our services, but that we're forcing them on her so we can meet our monthly productivity.

I know you would all probably appreciate this more if you had some context for why this is funny, so I'm gonna help you out.  Here is an example of a note I may have written recently:

This writer reviewed Bobby's progress toward treatment goals over the recent week, especially pertaining to his ability to manage and control his anger, refrain from aggressive acting out, throwing objects, yelling, screaming, etc.

Here is what I want to write:

This writer knocked on Bobby's front door and immediately hoped that Bobby's crazy mom was finally wearing a bra.  While reviewing Bobby's behavior over the recent week, this writer feigned interest and sat listening to Bobby's mother talk about how Bobby used unkind words toward his brother and thought, "I'd wanna punch that fucking kid, too."  This writer also considered telling Bobby's mother that if she would like Bobby to use nicer words, she might consider building a time machine out of all the crazy glue she's been sniffing, go back in time, and erase the fact that his biological mother used to make him sleep on a piece of cardboard outside when he was bad.  This writer eventually had to go to her happy place and imagine tropical beaches and warm, salty breezes to get through the next half hour of her life.

I mean, it's not all bad.  I have, you know, a job.  Which is nice.