One block in Boston, seven years apart
October 2016
I’m descending the stairs at Fenway Health on Boylston Street; I don’t remember which floor.
I’ll scurry straight across the street from my CBT session to the office, still unbearably anxious about the hour away from my desk, despite never taking lunch breaks anyway and despite the fact that Fenway Health is a literal five minute walk from my current startup’s downtown space (and despite the fact that a mental health appointment is perfectly normal and acceptable within my workplace’s culture.)
I add another few notes to my CBT Google Doc, in the Negative Thoughts column:
I must be super annoying.
He probably wonders why he even hired me.
in reference to my boss, despite things going objectively well (in fact, I’ll be there another four years).
I already emailed him about something else just now and that is too many and annoying.
He has to put up with me AGAIN.
in reference to my hesitation to send a quotidian text to my partner, despite the fact that we’re still a thing nearly a decade later.
The CBT does help and puts my anxiety disorder into temporary remission within a few months.
Now I’m waiting at a crosswalk on Boylston Street, playing a wonderful and tinny and textured song I’ve just discovered for the two-hundredth time, the same one I’ve looped all week on the chilly walk home down Memorial Drive. I climb eight flights of stairs at Landmark Center and tuck into my little corner to do the same QA and testing stuff that I’m good at and have actively limited myself to, despite technically being a computer science-educated, full-blown software engineer with reasonable competence and even creativity, both of which I outright deny posessing to my boss and the CEO’s faces during one-on-ones.
Whatever; they’re clearly fine with the p̶i̶g̶e̶o̶n̶h̶o̶l̶e̶ niche I’ve carved out here, and I prefer to play it safe. It’s not like I’d be able to focus on anything complicated anyway, what with the overwhelming chattering and clicking and breathing sounds of the open office, not to mention the goddamn scents of lunches and lotions and god knows what. Whatever; I’m making money. And I like these people (still do).
I unload the ridiculously oversized waterproof backpack (you just never know when your routine will be complicated by rain!) and power back on the laptop I purchased myself (we were still too small to provide those until a few years later).
I reminisce about a recent trip across the pond, to see my favorite band in concert for the first time. For that entire week in London and Derby, I ate local food just once (if sushi counts) and hoarded bland, calorie-controlled safe snacks for the rest. The music festival was magical and worth it, but I’m still not adventurous.
October 2023
I’m descending the stairs at Fenway Health on Boylston Street, this time from the second floor.
My backside’s a little sore from the Testopel insertion, but it’s more than manageable and I mosey across the street to poke around Target in search of those damn good ranch cashews they’ve started carrying. Next I’ll seek out some bougie caffeine. I’ve taken the whole day off this time, because our vacation is unlimited and I’m human and I deserve it. Our vacation was unlimited in 2016, too, but I didn’t take it seriously because, well, anxiety.
That anxiety disorder was cured — completely — by the proper hormone therapy I’ve just topped up on today, and I smile to myself as I cross the street toward Landmark Center once again.
I put my song on again, too, the same one I’ve looped for over half a decade now,
♫ Kill me? I’d like to see you try. ♫
♫ You take my life, I fail to die- ♫
and slip my phone into the side pocket of a newer, even fancier waterproof backpack (you just never know when your routine will be complicated by rain!) to free up my hands as I dig for my wallet.
The Landmark Center, my old office building, has a Time Out Market sprawled across the gutted first floor now. I treat myself to a ✨Creme Brulee Boba✨ with an extra espresso shot and regular dairy milk (it never did bother my stomach — just my silly mind) before taking my time to stroll home in the almost-autumnal air.
I work entirely from home now, at a third startup (the first one succeeded a few years after I overstayed my personal growth’s welcome; the second one stole my soul despite its own well-meaning soul). These days, I’m an experienced software engineer with more than reasonable competence and even creativity, and at least half of the time I actually believe it (I’m really gonna let myself leave those latter italics in, I think).
I shepherd projects, blabber ideas at meetings, review code, semi-mentor the Gen Z youngins about more code, write semi-coherent documentation, draw semi-lucid diagrams, and of course, actually write piles of outrageously enjoyable code myself. I turn off Slack notifications on my days off, and turn up at the physical office almost never. I know what kind of environment my autistic mind needs to succeed, and, these days, I’m a lot less hesitant to make it happen.
And I’m walking down Memorial Drive again, these seven years later.
I reminisce about a recent trip across the pond, to see my favorite band in concert for the ninth time. For that entire week in Dublin, I ate local food a much more normal number of times (and tucked into the much smaller snack hoard a much smaller number of times).
The concert was magical and more than worth it, and I’m a little bit older, a lot more alive, and a little more adventurous.
