Ok, fine.

I miss him.

I hate everyone and am going to eat all the chocolate cookies ever

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Despite today being a holiday of atonement, repentance, and forgiveness, I have for some reason decided to make it a day of eating everything in the world ever and angrily remembering old grudges.

I’m usually able to muster some combination of forgive and forget when it comes to people who have wronged me, but it is nearly impossible for me to do this for certain men.

1.     Creepy ones 

2.     Ones who sleep with me and then disrespect me

Exhibit A: A creepy man I was forced to work with over the summer

How anyone let this man earn a medical degree is beyond me. I naively thought the numerous times he would take me out to lunch were just acts of kindness and friendship, a sort of peer-to-peer courtesy. I was wrong. He found it appropriate for a 37-year-old, paunchy, awkward, overly-handsy virgin to not only pursue his 23 and 26-year-old coworkers, but also to act childishly upset when rebuffed. Constant “Haha, you’re of drinking age, right??” and “You’re too serious. I’m sure you’re wild outside of work!” jokes didn’t help to dissuade the general aura of creepiness. I was forced to face the horrible truth when he began jealously asking, “You think he’s cute, huh?” about every male in the vicinity and refusing to speak to me (even if I addressed him first) after news of me dating a grad student circulated the lab. I wish I were exaggerating. I will close with this lovely story: when my 26-year-old female coworker was driving us to lunch, he actually put his hand on her thigh and said, “Just listen to everything I say, and you will get into med school.” Flashbacks of his advances still give me dry heaves.

Exhibit B: A summer hookup

My naiveté got the best of me yet again. Shy glances, park swing sessions, vigorous massages, and cutesy face nuzzling all mean nothing if he announces that he’s not looking for anything serious...AFTER you've already gotten naked. I should have gathered my clothing and dignity, fled, and never spoken to him again. But no. I just lay there on my stomach, as if frozen, while he gently rubbed my back and repeated this dreadful statement. Maybe I just didn’t want to believe how shitty the situation was, so soon after a previous heartbreak. It didn’t help that I let my guard down again at the words, “I’m sorry. I just can’t stop touching you.” He was getting over a breakup, and he had cried to me, even! How could I resist? I spent most of the year giving him the benefit of the doubt. He was a good man, I thought, for continuing to try and maintain a friendship. I found out recently that he had reunited with his ex, and this made me realize that his weak attempts at friendship weren’t for me at all, but just to make him feel like less of an asshole for using me to temporarily fill an empty space.      

 

      

MS 2.5 - Summer 2012

There is no such thing as the right time. I’ve come to realize this.

My friend and I had been anticipating this Friday evening for weeks. We rode the subway, talking and laughing excitedly, so happy with ourselves and each other. Our desired restaurant was quickly discovered, and we made short work of a series of delicious drinks. It was still warm and light out. We needed nothing but each other’s company. Full of alcohol and positivity, we languidly meandered about Hollywood before finally settling into our bar. I scanned the crowd, purely out of habit. A group of men with a British girl playing a bar game caught my eye, and I seated myself and my friend strategically. As we sipped our drinks, I observed them out of the corner of my eye. They were very aware of themselves, looking around at everything and everyone while being careful not to meet any returned gaze. They spoke loudly, deliberately. I gradually lost interest as the night went on. We were getting ready to leave when I decided – I still don’t know why, really – to talk to a man who had just arrived and was standing at the table next to ours. I teased him, and he responded enthusiastically. Soon, I found myself seated again and talking to him still as his friends approached. One seated himself at the table, and I found him much more visually appealing than the man I first addressed. It was dark. I could only make out a bit of him – he was tall, blonde, dressed very casually. But it was something about the way he leaned over the table towards me, face resting on and slightly obscured by his hand. Like he was afraid and at the same time trying his best to conquer it. We talked for a long time. About what, I forget. It was something I hadn’t ever done before – speaking so closely and for so long with a complete stranger. His friend left us, and we continued to talk. His group announced their desire to seek food, and he waved to them and remained with me. At last, I realized that my poor friend had been entertaining his friend for a while. It was time for us to go. He hugged me, a hug full of boyish enthusiasm and excitement.

I already know that I do not love him. I am fond of him, and I don’t mind his company. He fills an empty space for me. However, I know that this isn't love because he, by himself, is not enough. We need to be doing things. Sitting together at a table in a pretty restaurant, with other couples on dates all around us. Walking together down the street, him reaching back for my hand or ruffling my hair or pulling me closer with an arm around my waist. Sitting together in his car. Sitting close together on his couch. Cracking jokes at his roommate as though I've known him for more than a few hours. Kissing him until he finally picks me up – one of my favorite things that he does – and carries me effortlessly through the house. Lying in his bed in his sparsely furnished room, completely comfortable with each other’s bodies. He could easily be replaced. I know this. And yet, I’ve already shed tears over him and delayed my move back east for him. Why? I think it’s not because of him alone, but because he represents a lot of things for me – the languid days of summer, experiencing my hometown as an adult, taking a break from the oppressiveness of medical school, freeing myself from my very painful past relationships. When I leave him, I leave the comforts of my summer fantasy world. I will need to start studying, to see familiar faces and places full of unpleasant memories. And I will have to face it on my own.         

           

MS 1 - NY 2

I had spent all day trying to get F to invite me upstairs. He, being his usual inscrutable self, acted as though I were asking for a pound of his flesh. Several unanswered phone calls later, I briefly regained my sanity (or perhaps just my sense of shame) and decided to pointedly avoid him during the Anatomy Closing Ceremony. But this proved impossible. When J pretended to light my hair on fire with his candle, F dared to laugh. For one moment near the end, as we were all putting out our candles, he even stood near me and made small-talk, as though nothing had happened. I wanted to jump out of my skin with unease. Why was he being like this? I needed to let him leave when my back was turned. I forced myself to focus elsewhere and not turn around until the very last people trickled out of the anatomy lab.

By some bizarre twist of fate, F and I lived within 20 steps of each other. Phone calls between us usually meant that one was right outside the other’s front door. As soon as I was out of sight of the med building, I called him again. I nearly jumped when he picked up. “Hey, I’m just about to head out,” he said, sounding far away. “Well, I’m leaving for New York in two hours,” I countered, “And I wanted to say goodbye.” When I finally found myself in his room, sighing as his hands gripped me hard enough to bruise, I remember wondering whether I’d won or lost this round.

My roommate, T, and I dashed downtown, half-open duffels slung haphazardly over our shoulders and a pair of shoes clutched in each hand. A missed bus and five or so cramped hours later, we staggered out of Penn Station and into the middle of Times Square. A few more hours were spent taking advantage of a massive Sephora and waiting anxiously for our last adventurer, S, who’d arrived via a friend’s car but somehow ended up wandering around Times Square alone and quite lost. But the three of us reunited at last and piled into a taxi to surprise our friend, Dan, in the city for his birthday. Dan lived in a building with a doorman, one who eyed us three gypsies suspiciously, with our numerous overstuffed bags and heavily-eyelinered eyes. When we finally burst in, yelling SURPRISE, I wanted to add that it was really a surprise to us, too, that we had actually made it.

Birthdays are a wonderfully dangerous environment. One feels unable to refuse anything, whether out of understanding that the day only happens once a year or fear of offending the celebrated host. We were pumped full of adrenaline, coasting on the joy of escaping med school and the endless possibilities our new environment offered. The three of us took shot after shot of all manner of clear spirits. A wayward arm knocked my glass out my hand to shatter musically on the kitchen tiles. Someone asked, “Have you ever tried Four Loko?” I turned to see four cans of it, their neon garish against the ornate dining table. S vanished for a moment only to reappear with a huge cookie cake that she had somehow transported all the way from Providence. When we had fully exhausted the wonders of the apartment, we trooped downstairs, pausing to cheerfully salute the doorman, and then downstairs again into the subway.  

The unfortunate man playing “Wonderwall” and accompanying himself on a guitar in our subway car was soon drowned out by our much louder and drunker rendition. We made our way to a bar offering “10 for $20.” 2 rounds were ordered. By the time I finally regained a sense of who and where I was, I was standing before a very tall man, who was tenderly clasping one of my hands in his and asking, “I know this is useless, but I’ll try it anyway – is there a chance I’ll ever see you again?” T and I broke off from the rest and walked out into the open air. We walked aimlessly until the delicious smell of hot grease awoke our primal instincts. We followed a long line of other night creatures and somehow managed to wedge ourselves into the hopelessly crowded Pommes Frites, an internationally renowned hole-in-the-wall French fry shop. What time was it? Two Cornell 4^th years offered to share their fry sauce with us if we’d let them try ours. I forgot exactly what we talked about, but we sat with them for a while. The rest of our ragtag crew trickled in and boisterously saluted us. “They’ll never let us get near them,” one med student told the other, eyeing our sudden five male companions. They got up and left soon afterward.

“I own the whole Carlton,” said Marc. “Yeah, his family owns the whole thing,” someone chimed in. T and I were trying to think of where to spend the night. A five star hotel was awfully appealing at the moment, as we sat with bellies full of grease and alcohol. “Or you could just come back with us,” came another suggestion. “There’s lots of room back at my place.” His apartment was indeed very large, with lovely and probably very expensive views of the city below. We finished up the fries, sweeping the insides of the paper cones to catch every last crumb before discarding them on the table. T and I walked slowly down the street with the birthday crew. S had left at some point during the night to find her sister. The fog in my brain was wearing off. It had gotten very cold outside. T caught my eye and announced, “We’re going to find Mel. Her apartment isn’t far from here.” We exchanged our last pleasantries for the evening and went on our separate ways.

“I called Mel earlier asking if we could sleep over at her place, in case things didn’t work out,” T said, as we walked quickly through steadily emptying streets. I still didn’t know what time it was. Innumerable blocks later, we found the cross streets to her friend’s apartment near Chinatown. She had instructed T on finding the keys – they were hidden in a small black plastic bag next to the stairs. I picked up a stray bag and, as if by magic, they jingled inside, just as she’d promised.                                                  

MS 1 - F

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It was the night before the Formal. I sat next to my friend B, doodling hearts on my arm and sipping a can-concealed mixture of tequila and ginger ale. We were both listening to our classmate, F, perform a cover of a pop song for the annual med school concert. It was very difficult not to laugh. I had just spent the day telling B, with a strange mixture of emotion in my gut, that I wasn’t sure what to do about F. F and I had, in the space of a few months, developed a very singular relationship. Long story short, it had most recently resulted in me spending the night and having morning breakfast at F’s place, all before even having broken up with my boyfriend. I had been rather giddy afterward, confused by the adrenaline rush of almost-cheating and gleeful at having a man make eggs and coffee for me for the first time. After a much-needed but still-tearful breakup, I managed to pull myself together enough to honor my last pathology exam and steal secret glances and reassuring touches from F. Things were tough, but they were looking up. I managed to sit through the song (which B insisted was secretly dedicated to me), downed my can, and quickly ducked out to go home and make myself presentable for the Formal. I didn’t feel like facing F until I was both very lovely and very intoxicated. It was really the only way to go about things at that point.

The Formal was to be the first of numerous parties that had me following F around like a schoolgirl. This sudden need to be near him was unfamiliar and unnerving. I couldn’t make sense of my feelings, and was too drunk to care. I remember thinking that he looked comical and completely unattractive, and yet I couldn’t bear to let him out of my sight for too long. Thus, I unfortunately barely remember anything about the Formal, except being with F and looking for F and distracting myself with other friends for a few moments in between. My sharpest memory is of sitting down with a very drunk F, him grabbing my thigh to slur out, “I don’t care what people think anymore. I want to be with you. It doesn’t matter,” and me hurriedly pushing his hand away with distaste.

We all slowly trickled out and stood in the freezing cold, booze-addled brains struggling to process what to do next. At last, most of us managed to squeeze ourselves into taxicabs. We all got back to my house somehow and crowded into the kitchen. F hadn't left with my group. I called him. "I'm on my way," he said, sounding very calm, and his group soon tumbled in to join us. There were too many people in the kitchen. F’s neat, white dress shirt was stained by a wayward mug of spiked cider, and I innocently told him I had an extra shirt for him in my room upstairs. I had absolutely no machinations in mind, but as soon as the two of us were alone and maneuvering about in my extremely tiny room, I realized I couldn’t have planned it better if I tried. Off went the stained shirt. "You look silly wearing a t-shirt with dress pants," I declared. Those came off as well. I gave him a pair of my men's pajama pants to put on, but the finished effect was ridiculous. "There's no way I'm going down like this," he said, as I couldn't contain my laughter, and he removed the pants. When I asked how exactly he planned to return downstairs without his pants, he responded by lying down in my unmade bed. Confused again by the excitement of having him in my room - no, actually, in my bed - while everyone was still downstairs, I didn’t even pause to think before climbing in with him.              

           

MS 1 - Drinking

My best friend in the first year of med school was a stocky, Navy-bound former frat boy. I had been rather intimidated by him during most of undergrad, so I was almost relieved to realize upon first being introduced that he was probably equally intimidated by the rest of the class. He had a preconceived notion that most med students wouldn’t like “people like him.” Once I dashed this fear, we became fast friends. We shared a birthday, after all. We became inseparable, enough to inspire dating rumors. I introduced him to my other friends, including the hilariously-nicknamed “Bros” of our med class, and we all got along swimmingly.

But this isn’t the main point of this entry. I want to talk about a game that this friend of mine introduced to us, a drinking game that came to define the first year of med school. “Edward 40-hands” consisted of duct-taping a 40 oz of malt liquor to each hand, leaving the newly Frankensteined wearer unable to do pretty much anything – including using the restroom – until 80 oz of liquor had been downed. As we were puny med students rather than stout, hearty frat boys, we decided to both spare ourselves a lot of pain and incorporate some teamwork into our version of the game. We would each chose a drinking partner and split three 40’s between us. But, being med students, we also couldn’t stand not to add a bit of competitiveness to the proceedings, so it became a speed contest. About 5 pairs of us sat in the living room, chattering excitedly as a friend taped us together – one hand with its own bottle, and the other sharing a bottle with your partner's hand. Edward 40-Conjoined Twins! It is a good thing I partnered with my Navy friend, as he made short work of two of the three bottles. For the rest of the contestants, myself included, it was the probably the most we'd ever had to drink in one sitting in our lives. 

My friend and I won - no thanks to me, really. He unfortunately also ended up tearing his brand new shirt and jeans on a fence and didn't realize it until the next morning. 

I was drunk on a lot of things that night. Surrounded by adventurous new friends, I felt that this was my chance to break free from the monotony of my college life. Sure, I was still the same person, with the same fears and insecurities, but I had been handed a brand new identity and it was too irresistible not to adopt. All the glamorous scenarios I'd wanted to live out as an awkward, shy undergrad were suddenly very much within my reach. People didn't know me, and they listened to my crazy ideas. It was too intoxicating. THIS is what it means to be a med student, I thought, as the thoroughly alcohol-steeped pack of us stumbled down the street to the amusement and heckles of passers-by.  

And I had it all terribly wrong, of course. 

The night ended in me sobbing drunkenly and uncontrollably in my room, in bed with my not-yet-ex. I was dying to shake off everything to do with my past, but it was no easy feat to deny four years of myself. I wanted to go back to talking too loudly and too closely with people who didn't know me, so I could keep pretending. 

It is obvious that I was nowhere near being ready for med school.   

I did not expect

to make it through the first day of class.

the lectures this year to be so dense, somehow making them both panic-inducing and mind-numbingly boring at the same time.

the hurricane to leave my house power-less for a week. I was intrigued – even excited – at the novelty of setting up camp at the med school building. Fifteen hours later, saying that I started to have doubts about the sustainability of my plan would be an understatement.

to find myself exposing, despite the terrible anticipation of fresh pain, the bruised pieces of myself that I had safely locked away, all just because of the tiniest chance that it could be worth it.

to finally speak my heart and my mind for once, despite my crippling fear of it destroying something I wanted so much. It didn't get me what I really wanted, but I suppose I can count it as a victory for the building of my character or whatever.

to become so lost that I'd actually turn to the one person I'd been trying to run from, willfully forgetting everything he'd done.

to actually lose all desire to feel anything ever again.

No, actually.

I don't want to be friends with any of you shitrags.