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.