What Have I Done Here?
I’ve been blogging for coming up on 6 years. Countless hundreds of pages of mostly crap, spun out over more than half a decade of sobriety and various life events. A divorce. A career involving two jobs a thousand miles apart. Some academic successes. Some failures. Physical and emotional changes. A new romance. Life.
But I don’t know what I’ve done here. Is this a thing? What is the structure of a blog? What is the value of this archive of occasional murmurings? I never kept a diary. I only write because I hope people read. I hope I have something to contribute. I like contributing to things. To what?
Sobriety? I have been told I’ve helped a few people in that regard. And I hope that that’s true. I like helping. But sobriety is an individual journey. and the successes of others belong to them, not me. I cannot claim credit for anyone’s recovery, nor would I want to. But I do like the idea of being useful.
Science? I’m barely a scientist. And it’s plain I don’t belong among the professional biomedical scientists who are actually doing important work that gets cited and drives human understanding forward. I am quietly making a few small inroads into using computer modeling to improve healthcare delivery. Maybe I’ll make a difference in the literature. Maybe people will try my ideas. Probably not. But what I report here is not of any obvious value to me to the scientific community.
As an engineer, the most important thing is to contribute to my local environment. I’m doing that. My efforts are being adopted and my hospital is improving based in part on the work I’ve done. But I don’t really discuss that here.
I started blogging to try to chronicle my life in recovery. My journey in sobriety. Slowly, that mission crept and ramified. I began discussing politics, science, fitness. The river of my internal monologue fractured into many small streams. Until none, I think, is large enough to slake any thirst. This is the Okavango. My words reach no sea.
I write because I write. Because I hope to connect. I feel like a can strung to a limp cord.