Breakaway

I think I'm homesick.

I always get this way around the holidays. Especially right after Thanksgiving. Maybe it's because I don't go home. Maybe it's because I spent Thanksgiving with my roommate's adorable cousins, and I miss my own family. Maybe it's because I spent Black Friday with my older sister and her fiance, and it just hit me that our Thanksgivings will never be the same after she's married.

Maybe it's not homesickness at all. Maybe I'm just realizing how much studying I have yet to do, and I'd much rather disappear. Or run away from it.

I'm burnt out.

That sounds so silly. It's only been two units! But I am. This constant stressing to be at least average on a test? Not healthy. But every day, the stress levels just seem to rise a little higher, and I swear, I feel like I'm in over my head for this current unit.

I'm burnt out and I miss my parents.

I'm overwhelmed. And I shouldn't be. But I'm at a top twenty med school, and I'm starting to wonder if there was a huge fluke in the admissions office the day they sent me my acceptance letter. Honestly, should I be floundering this much? Should it take me 3-4 lecture run-throughs to have a vague idea of what I'm supposed to be learning? If I'm supposed to be here, why don't things come more easily than they do?

This unit was going to be different from the last two, I told myself. I was going to stay on top of things, study with a genius, swallow my pride and ask the stupid questions, get things done...I was going to prove to myself that I belonged here. That I could be a top twenty med student. That the admissions office didn't make a mistake.

I don't know if that's going to happen. Tomorrow's the one-week mark. And despite my resolutions, I find myself hoping, crossing my fingers, that I'll somehow miraculously pass. Here's hoping I have a guardian angel looking over me. Honestly? There are serious problems with going from being the top student in high school to being above-average in college to clinging on by a hair in med school. I peaked in high school, and it's been a steady decline ever since.

One thing's for sure; my self esteem is plummeting.

But that's not what concerns me that much. I can handle not being the smartest person in class. I can deal with low self-esteem. What worries me is that I might not be as competent as I thought. And if there's one thing I don't want to be, it's an incompetent doctor.

So much for wanting to help people. I should have became a baker instead, and made a fortune off of healthy dessert alternatives.

I wish I were home. Having bonfires with my friends and enjoying the year-round California weather loveliness. I wish I were studying at home, knowing my mommy would bring me midnight snacks of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with the crusts cut off. Giant bear hugs from my dad. Yes, I'm twenty-two years old, but those childhood pleasures still make me infinitely happy.

I just need a sign, an omen, validation. Anything, really. I need something that tells me that yes, I do belong here. That yes, Chicago could be home too.

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.

Vultures

Trust me. There's a reason why they put the word gross in gross anatomy.

We started lab this week.

I know it's a rite of passage. Every med student goes through it. And dissecting a cadaver? Means you get to be part of that cool club with the cool handshake with the other cool people whom you can talk to about all that cool anatomy stuff.

And I was excited. Excited to see everything I've been learning from books and lectures. Excited to be part of this "med school experience." Excited to learn from doing. But I was also so apprehensive. Seriously. Cutting someone open? Especially someone who's dead? It's not natural. And it's not like chopping up chicken for stew. This is a person! Someone just like you and me. I couldn't wrap my mind around the fact that I would be cutting through someone. Cutting through skin. Fat. Muscle. Bone. I couldn't get over the fact that it felt like a total invasion of personal space. Personal privacy. Yes, I know that they donated their body to science. But when they made that decision, did they realize that first year students would be doing the dissecting? In other words, complete idiots to the whole dissection process. Cause honestly? Most of us know nothing about dissecting a cadaver. We don't know how thick the skin is. We barely know where and what muscles should be where and what. When we're dissecting, our hands are everywhere - prying, pulling, pushing.

Now mind you, I'm completely grateful to these people. This is an experience that no one outside of the medical field has ever had. Will ever have. And oh man, learning by doing makes so much more sense than reading pages and pages of anatomy books and then trying to correlate that to illustrated drawings.

But the first day, I was scared. When I walked into lab on Monday, all decked out in my anatomy gown and purple gloves, I was shaking. Not visibly. Heck, no. I have far too much pride to let my classmates know how freaked out I was. And that false swagger got me through a lot. It got me through the smell which hits you the moment you walk into lab. And, to be perfectly honest, I don't think I'll ever get used to it. The smell follows me around. No matter how much I wash my hand, I swear I can still smell it on my fingers. It's on my salt and vinegar chips. It's on my clothes. It's in my books. I can't escape it.

Yet somehow, I managed to get to my group without hurling up the breakfast I had forced myself to eat that morning. And bright, fake smile in place, I met "George." Luckily, the anatomy staff had placed big black trash bags over his arms, his legs, his face. Also, he's a pretty big guy which kind of distorts the body. All of which made it much easier to pretend that there wasn't a person lying in front of us. That it was just another science experiment to get through.

Two of my group members made the first cut.

I couldn't do it. And I don't really know quite what I was expecting. Stuff to ooze out, I guess. He didn't "wake up" on the table when we made that first cut, like he did in my nightmares. Nothing happened actually. We folded back the skin, and proceeded to start taking the fat off so that we could see the muscles underneath better.

Now, because George is a big guy, we all had to help out. And pretty soon, I was de-fatting like nobody's business. I was so concentrated on my little section, that I completely forgot exactly what I was doing. Focused on the details, I could forget all about the big picture, which I was more than happy to do. We were at it for a good two hours. And then, finally, we started to see the muscles. The pectoralis major. The pectoralis minor. The deltoid. Every now and then someone would find something huge. A nerve we were supposed to locate. The vein without an artery. Each time we would get very excited. "Look what I found!" "Whoaaaaaaa..." "SO cool!" We were like little kids. "Look here!! Look here!!!"

And then, all of a sudden, I started to feel very weak. Maybe it was from standing for the past two hours, but I felt my knees starting to buckle. So I grabbed the lab stool and tried to keep going. But then my head started spinning, and I noticed I was breaking out in a cold sweat. I tried to reason with myself in my head. Michelle. Don't freak out. You're doing great. Look at how much you've done already! Heck, you found the cephalic vein! There was no use. I couldn't get the room to stop spinning. I was starting to black out.

Muttering an excuse to my group, I rushed out of lab. But I could barely see where I was going. I was just fumbling to get through any door. I ended up in the supplies room. I didn't care how we were told not to touch anything in the anatomy lab. I plopped down on the floor and put my head in between my knees. After ten minutes, I tried to get back up, but the moment I stood up, the dizziness started all over again.

I couldn't finish anatomy lab that day. And after freaking out for twenty or so minutes that I wouldn't be able to get through med school, I went home and ate some chocolate. Talk about a cure-all.

I got through anatomy lab just fine on Wednesday. True, I'm still prying and pulling and pushing and I still have absolutely no idea what I'm doing, but I guess that's what the actual rite of passage is. Figuring it out. Working it out.

Out of reach

I know I ended my last post resolving to move on. The exact words being move forward, if I recall/read correctly.

I lied.

I miss him.

I want so much to call him up and tell him that. Cause I do. I miss him a lot. Even though we did the long-distance thing, and he technically wasn't ever physically there for me, I knew that I needed anything, he was just one phone call away. He was emotionally there for me. And so, I miss him.

But I know I can't. Call it pride. Call it smart. Call it whatever you want. I can't make that phone call. Cause somewhere, deep down, I know that he let go of this relationship a long time ago. He's already well into the healing stage, whereas I am still barely treading water. I just got over the shock of it all a day ago. See, the silver lining in long-distance relationships? Once you break up, there's no chance of an awkward run-in. No worrying about seeing them in the corridors at school. No hiding about in the supermarket. No avoiding eye contact. No hedge diving. Actually, the long-distance breakup has ideal conditions, if you think about it. Everyone around you probably knows you better, and so, is automatically, "on your side," even if there are no sides to speak of. There are no "spies" to go back and report to him how horribly you're doing.

So I've been taking full advantage of this "ideal" breakup situation. Not showering. Vegetating in front of the television with lots and lots of junk food. I definitely feel no need to cook for myself, so I've been subsisting on whatever's edible in our fridge. Kraft single slices of cheese. Spoonfuls of peanut butter - straight from the jar. Gummy bears meant as part of a birthday package. Yogurt (that turned out to be past its expiration date). Pickles.

I knew there was absolutely no chance that I would see him, so I'd go check my mail in the lobby occasionally - pajamas and unkempt hair be damned. I knew I wouldn't run into him on my way to class, so I would throw on the stained sweatshirt that I left on the floor a week ago, and walk out the door. I had absolutely zero energy to devote to looking nice, or even presentable, really.

It was pathetic, really. And my apartment was turning into an absolute pig sty.

Last night, my friends were fabulous. They made me finally get out of the house, and took me to the Joffrey - where the dress code dictates that you a) must have taken a shower prior to the performance, and b) look relatively nice.

The ballet was gorgeous. Amazing. Wonderful. But what's even better is that my friends and I then just hung out at one of our apartments afterwards - taking silly pictures and basically just enjoying ourselves. It was so therapeutic. They got my thoughts off of Tim. Which is a lot harder of a task than you might think - since I was supposed to go visit him this weekend.

So once I got home, I resolved to put my life back in order. Folded my laundry that I had been sleeping on for the past day and a half. Did the dishes that had started to overflow in the sink. Finally stepped back into my room and got rid of that last bit of Tim - unpacked that suitcase that I, last Monday, thought was bound for Kansas City. And with the unpacking, threw away any last bits of denial that my relationship was really over. Okay, in the spirit of being honest, I tried to get rid of that denial. A big part of me is still clinging to the hope that he'll call and tell me he misses me. As much as I miss him.

I really do. Everything I see or hear makes me want to call him. Tell him things. Or I'll think things and relate them back to us. I see people flirting with each other, and it's super cute. We used to be super cute. I just found out that one of my friends is dating a girl who lives in Japan. Has been dating her. For over a year now. If he can make it work, why couldn't we? Or maybe more importantly, why didn't he want to make it work??

I know I'm just hurting myself by thinking these things. But I can't help it.

I miss him. Terribly.

And I was a fool for thinking I could move past it so quickly. I need this time to "get over him," to fall out of love with him. I was so hopeful - wanting to be able to be that bigger person and forgive and forget quickly. But, I know me, and so I should have known better. It's gonna take me a while. And I'll probably hurt for a while. And I need to be okay with that. After all, time heals everything, right?

She will be loved

Today was hard to get through.

I woke up hoping everything would turn out to be just a bad dream.

It wasn't. And so...today was hard.

It was hard smiling at others and responding in the affirmative to casual how are you questions. It was hard going about my normal routine, realizing that it wasn't actually very normal. It was hard leaving class, and looking at my phone, and stopping myself before I did something I'd regret later.

And if I'm completely honest with you, I'd tell you that I haven't even ventured into my room yet cause I know there's just too much to handle in there. It would be just a little too hard.

Tim and I broke up last night.

That line took me ten minutes to type out. But there. I said it. It's officially real.

The room finally burned up.

I wanted this to be an angry post. Angry at the world. Angry at the situation. Angry at him. Angry at all men. It's my pity party, and hell, if you're gonna crash it, you're gonna listen to me rant.

But I can't. When all is said and done, even though I have a million questions, and I think we could have lasted for another year or so, he's right. Long distance is hard. Maybe we could have talked more. Maybe we could have arranged to see each other more often. Maybe if we had met two years earlier. Maybe if we had a stronger foundation to go on. Maybe if we hadn't started out long distance. But those are all maybe's, baby. No use dwelling on the what if's, the what might have been's.

Speaking of dwelling, or rather refusing to allow myself to do so, I finally officially de-relationshipped myself from facebook, and untagged all of our couple-y pictures. I wanted him to do it. Part of me, pathetic as it might sound, hoped that he'd do it and realize what a huge mistake he had made. But I did it. Threw away the roses he sent me for my birthday. Got rid of the screensavers. Locked away the postcards and the little trinkets from his trips around the nation. Took control. Took charge.

That doesn't mean it was easy. Not in the least. Pushing that "cancel relationship" button, throwing away those gorgeous pink flowers...made it all so very real.

One of the big reasons why it's so hard to face the reality of it all, is because it was so unexpected. I think it's safe to say that I was completely blindsided, and am still reeling a little bit. Shell-shocked. A week ago, he bought me a ticket to Kansas City. Four days ago, I told my parents about him. He had his crazy I-don't-know-what-I-want-to-do-with-my-life quarter-life crisis two days ago, and yesterday afternoon I found something that would fit his wants and needs perfectly, and set up the necessary connections. I thought we worked. That we were a good fit for each other.

While he was busy detaching, I was trying to keep us together.

It seems so silly that I would be so wrapped up in a three-month relationship. But I fell. I fell hard. How did so much change in him in just one week?

I went to the dentist today. And it felt so strange not talking to him on my way there, knowing that he would have assuaged all of my fears of dental drills. I walked home from clinic, not knowing who to call about my apprehension over the new unit. He thinks he was a bad boyfriend because he never really had time for me. I mean, can you really sustain a relationship on brief five-minute snatches of conversations? Regardless of what he thinks he was or wasn't, he was someone that I depended on. And all of our little interactions added up to a whole heck of a lot that I really missed today.

I wish I knew what he was thinking. What he is thinking. What he's feeling.

But I know the only way I'm going to get out of this only half-burned, is to be strong, and move forward.

---
And you ask me what I want this year, and I try to make this kind and clear - just a chance that maybe we'll find better days. 'Cause I don't need boxes wrapped in strings, and desire and love and empty things - just a chance that maybe we'll find better days. So take these words and sing out loud 'cause everyone is forgiven now - cause tonight's the night the world begins again. - Better Days, Goo Goo Dolls