When you're dreaming with a broken heart, waking up is the hardest part.

Broken hearts are hard to heal.

Everyone has a different remedy. Find a rebound. Get a hobby. Stuff yourself with chocolate and ice cream. Take up running. Get a dramatic new haircut. Buy some cute new shoes. Or clothes. Adopt a pet. Throw yourself into schoolwork. Surround yourself with friends.

I blog.

It doesn't matter what you do...all that matters is that you forget about the boy. Forget why you fell for him. Forget all the fabulous times you had together. Forget the funny stories.

After all, if you forget it all, you can't be reminded.

Tonight, I played a dangerous game with one of my friends. Eye for an eye, we exchanged lovelorn stories from kindergarten. Seventh grade. Senior year of high school. That one literature class for our English major.

It's amazing how one simple story can take you back. How you start to remember everything. The way his aftershave smells. How nervous he was when he asked you out to dinner for that first date. How much you hated men when you were stood up because of a misunderstanding. The first kiss. One memory just starts triggering all of the rest.

All of our stories ended with our sentences trailing off, as our minds wandered nostalgically back to days past.

Which brings me to my point.

I think no matter how hard we try, we never ever really get over past loves. We move on (or at least we try to), but a little part of our lives will forever be intertwined. And by a little part, I mean all of it.

But that's okay. These episodes shape us into who we are today.

For instance, I will forever associate seventh grade with my failed Sadies Hawkins' dance. And because of that, it will forever be hard for me to make the first move.

Orchestra will always be connected to my first huge crush. And prom. And Roman Holiday. And acting so silly at one of Switzerland's swankiest restaurants and consequently being grounded.

My memories are intertwined with these failed loves. But they're good memories.

My summer job in Los Angeles is now forever linked to memories of Tim. Trying on dorky sunglasses. Universal Studios. Singing along to Kelly Clarkson at the top of our lungs on a road trip to San Francisco. Thrift store Hawaiian shirts and poodle purses. Group rivalries.

And while I can look back fondly on orchestra and seventh grade algebra now, I can't yet look back at this summer. It's too soon.

Tim wrote me an email two weeks ago. And while I could ignore it then, blaming my upcoming test for not responding, I don't quite know what to do now. I could write him back. Be the bigger person. Give him the peace of mind he so desperately seeks. Pretend that yeah, I'm fine. We can be friends. But I'm not ready yet. So I deleted his email. Blocked him on facebook. Because to write him back? Would be opening old wounds. Ripping off the band-aid before I'm completely healed.

So much for shoes and chocolate and moving on. I just need time. We all need time.

Here's the take home message. You take as much time as you need. There's no clear-cut mathematical formula for figuring out how much time is enough time. You take exactly as much time as you need to figure out how much is enough. Don't erase your memories a la Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Because while those memories may be hard to recall now, those memories are us - at every point in our lives. Don't forget about the boy completely. You forget about the boy for a little bit so that you can look back when you're good and ready. So that when you look back, you get that nice warm nostalgic feeling.

Those boys after all are part of our memories. They're our memories of cooties and grade school plays and missing front teeth.

Broken hearts are hard to heal, but they do. With time. It's amazing really. We bounce back. We're resilient. We just need time.

Wreck of the day

Good things should happen to good people.

And it totally sucks when it doesn't.

I volunteer in the pediatrics ward of a rehabilitation hospital, and over the past couple of weeks, I've gotten to know a young man pretty well. He's great. He smiles, he's polite, he's encouraging, he's active, he cracks jokes, and he's really super sweet. But the first couple of weeks, he could barely get around in his wheelchair, depending on others to cart him around. His condition seemed dismal at best when he first came in - no one could understand what he was trying to say, he had casts on literally every single limb of his body, and it didn't seem as though he'd ever walk again. But as time has passed, his therapy seems to be working, and every week, there's a new improvement to crow about. No neck brace! No feeding tube! No trach! His complete mastery over his power wheelchair. His first full sentence. His attempts at walking again. Every time I see him, he greets me with his huge beautiful smile (that only recently has come out of hiding), and tells me excitedly about the new happenings in his life, and together we pump air and yell out yays and hurrahs.

And his mom. She is absolutely amazing. A force to be reckoned with. Every day, she wakes up at 5am so that she can drive into the city and be there when he wakes up - sitting in his room, reading the newspaper, pretending everything is normal. And somehow, she knows the perfect balance of being there for him, but not being overbearing. She goes to therapy with him, encouraging him on, reassuring him when he can't do something, pushing him to new limits at other times, and always smiling. She works on crosswords during rec time, so that he can talk with the other boys about sports and cars without a mother hovering close-by. Then, after getting the next day's schedule from the nurses and figuring out events that her son would want to go to - yes to the jazz concert, no to dogs (he wouldn't be able to pet them), yes to the scary movie - she waits until he falls asleep around ten, and then she makes the two-hour commute home to make sure her daughter and husband ate more than just pizza for dinner.

She does this every day. Every day for the past two months.

Now I've always admired these two. I don't know how I would do it. If I could do it. Because I'm pretty positive that I wouldn't be able to stay optimistic. I wouldn't be able to keep smiling.

I never pried to find out how it happened. Why he was in the hospital. Why he couldn't walk anymore. Then one day, it came up casually in conversation. Car accident. I didn't ask for more details. I just assumed that it was his fault. Drunk driving perhaps. An illegal right turn.

His high school had a benefit for him a couple weeks ago, and so it was on the news. And the actual details came out. It was a car accident. But it wasn't his fault. He and his friend were driving to the supermarket to get more soda for a choir fundraiser. Unbeknownst to them, two men had robbed a bank, and were being pursued by the police. The two men, making their getaway, crashed into them, killing the friend, and leaving my new friend so severely injured.

This shouldn't happen to good people. It's not fair. And I know life's not fair, but when things like this happen, I can't help but feel completely and utterly discouraged.

He's supposed to be a senior in high school. He was in musical theatre. He probably would have been the lead male in this year's musical -Wicked, his favorite. His mom says he sings like an angel. Right now, he's just learned how to reform his sentences.

These people are good people. This shouldn't be happening to them. They shouldn't be making plans for Thanksgiving in a hospital - wondering if the cafeteria will let them deep-fry a turkey. He should be at home. Living out a plain ol' happy, normal life. Making plans with his friends to go ice-skating. Freaking out over whom to ask to the big Homecoming dance.

I know. I'm getting too attached. But I can't help but wonder...what happened to justice and karma and all that good stuff?

'Cause he really really really doesn't deserve this.

In repair

I never thought I would say this, but it's gotten to the point where I'm kinda sorta maybe really relieved that Tim broke up with me.

I've always loved the single life. This was the Year of Yes, afterall. Being single means being able to go out without having to reassure antsy boyfriends that yes, you're being a faithful girlfriend. Singlehood means not having to waste two hours on the phone every night, when you know I'd much rather spend that time getting some much-needed sleep.

That's not to say that I don't miss being a girlfriend. I think I can be pretty fabulous at it. And yes, I miss having a boyfriend. I miss having someone kiss me goodnight. I miss having a bug/spider exterminator on speed dial. I miss having someone call just because they missed me, and not because they want to know where this meeting is at this and that time. And having a boyfriend? Meant that you could have guy friends without girlfriends becoming jealous. Could have guy friends without worrying about them misinterpreting your flirtatious-by-nature behavior. I miss all the things Tim represented, all the boyfriend-y things he did.

But I think I can cautiously say that I miss Tim a lot less. I miss having a boyfriend, not necessarily the boy in particular.

I think that's a step in the right direction.

But I'm nowhere near getting there yet. I'm in repair.

I don't think I'm going to be dating for a long while. What with juggling med school and trying to define myself as a person, I can't deal with adding signficiant other to my list of responsibilities. This is officially where I kiss the Year of Yes goodbye. Ten months to the day. Two flings, three flirtatious encounters, and one boyfriend later, I think we can all agree that it served its purposes.

I dated people I never thought I'd be open to. I talked to people I'd have run away from before. Bad boys. Smokers. Long-haired hippies (although I suppose he thinks of himself as emo punk rock). TAs. Shorter boys. Republicans.

It's been a busy year.

Today it ends.

Not to say that it wasn't useful. I learned a lot of new things about myself. Deal breakers turned out to bearable. Seemingly inconsequential things turned out to be huge annoyances.

But here's the thing. You can't teach an old Michelle new tricks. No matter what happens, I'm still me. Having flings? Pretending that I'm not emotionally involved? Not caring? So not me. I'm a die-hard romantic through and through. And regardless of the guy, I'm still the naive, goody two-shoes girl who doesn't want to hurt anyone.

Which brings us back to the point I was trying to make in the beginning of this post. I'm glad Tim broke up with me, because I wouldn't have been able to do it. Reading my old posts, it seems almost obvious that I knew it wouldn't last more than three months. That it wouldn't last the distance. But I would have held on for a long time. Let's face it. Our relationship had nothing going for it. And it was dying a slow and painful death. But I would have held on, just for the sake of holding on. For the security of having someone.

So I'm glad it's over. For better or for worse.