The Reasons He is Still Single (Because There Are Many)

When I arrived at the restaurant, Charlie was already waiting in the lobby. I was a few minutes late, as a consequence of getting a little turned around at the restaurant’s entrance.

Unlike I expected, Charlie did not offer to pick me up. I had sent him two Afghan restaurant recommendations late on Friday night and I intimated (Note to self: You should have known not to be subtle with Charlie) that the one closest to my apartment would probably be better, considering the distance he had to drive to get to Virginia.

Well, surprise! Charlie said he liked the menu of the other one better and asked if I would mind meeting him there. I didn’t see his message until 5 p.m. yesterday, by which time he would have already left Maryland. I texted him that I would see him at 6:30 p.m. and got ready to go.

Before dates, I usually think of at least a few go-to topics to reasonably fall back on, just in case. I’m fairly gregarious and social, but I fear the awkward silences! So, as soon as we sat down, I started with one of my fail safe topics.

“Did you go to church today? Where? How was it?”

We talked a little bit about this, but strangely, Charlie shifted the conversation to his past dating experiences almost immediately.

Reason #1: He then spent most of the date talking about various women he had dated in the past.

Not only is talking about past dating experiences a no-no in my book, but I would never think of discussing multiple women so openly in front of…another woman (or man).

Perhaps Charlie did this intentionally, though, since the last time we saw each other, Derrick was with me. In a moment of horror, the three of us realized that this nice man I had met on a dating website was also the childhood BFF of Charlie. The afternoon was beyond awkward and Charlie passive-aggressively said something to me about how for someone not seeking a serious relationship, it was surprising that I was on a dating website. (For the record, I wasn’t trying to find true love on the website. I was looking for a quick and dirty ego boost after calling off my wedding. And, it worked.)

Anyway, Charlie’s litany of women stories started with one he had met on eHarmony.com. She was living in Texas and he had visited her there, but then she got a job in Maryland and moved only a couple of miles away from Charlie. He said that she didn’t do this for him.

Reason #2: He is lacking in emotional intelligence.

I couldn’t believe that Charlie seriously believed that it was all coincidence and just some miracle in the universe that a woman he was starting to fall for just “happened” to find a job in Maryland. Why are men so stupid?

He said that the woman wasn’t Adventist (a big turn-off for him, apparently), but that she started coming to church, again he said, not for him. (Please refer to Reason #2.)

Apparently, Texas woman came to visit Charlie's church one day when he was a greeter (a person who stands at the entrance of the church shaking hands and handing out bulletins). Since he wouldn’t enter the sanctuary until after the service started, she had found seats for them somewhere in the middle of the sanctuary.

Charlie said that by the time he was done greeting, the sermon was about to start (Since when do greeters spend half the service standing in the lobby? Just saying.). He said that where the woman was sitting was inaccessible, lest he actually walk in front of the stage, so he first stood at the back of the sanctuary and then eventually, saw a seat in the last row near some friends. He went and sat with them and was talking to them afterwards. It wasn’t until much later that he decided to look for his womanfriend. She was gone by then and when he texted her, she said something like, “I left because you were clearly busy.” He thought she was overreacting.

Reason #3: He doesn’t show women the interest they deserve and is clueless about it.

I believe it’s poor social protocol to call a man out on being a douchebag on a first date, but I was also a relationship advisor for a number of years and old habits die hard. I tried not to be rude as I tactfully told Charlie that I could understand why the woman was upset. She had come to the church for him and whether or not he intended it, not texting her to say where he was or immediately finding her after the service sent the message that there were other people more important than her. His face reddened slightly in front of me as I told him this, and he proceeded to explain how the next day he was supposed to help her move, but she never called. When he texted her again, she said something about how she didn’t need his help. He was attempting, I think, to show his efforts at ameloriation, but now is a good time to mention Reason #4.

Reason #4: Is this man not acquainted with the phone? Charlie texts and emails constantly, in lieu of actual communication. He is 35, not 15. Someone please help him.

I have no idea how long this conversation about Texas woman went on, but Charlie managed to tell me about how they got together again at some point and in the car on the way to dinner, she tried to hold his hand. He said that he pulled away and said softly, “We’re not there yet.”

I nearly had to suppress laughter at this one, you guys. I had a flashback to my first boyfriend, when I was a freshman in college, who also used to pull away when I tried to hold his hand, telling me emphatically that, “We need to resist sinful urges!” I don’t need to tell you that this partly explains my many years of dating non-Adventists.

I gently explained to Charlie that in the non-Adventist world, people do umm… a lot more…than holding hands on a first date. And, this wasn’t their first date! They had known each other for a while and the woman moved from Texas to Maryland for him.

Charlie said that Texas woman started crying after he pulled away, that he was dumbfounded (and obviously, just dumb), and that the date was ruined. She tried the hand holding thing again on the next date (Dude, why did she go out with him again?), he responded the same way, and eventually, the woman stopped talking to him. (Shocking.)

Reason #5: Charlie fears both emotional and physical intimacy.

I understand that a lot of Christian men delay physical intimacy, but I don’t agree that holding hands is “moving too fast.” Also, I feel that he should have explained his reasons for not wanting to hold her hand instead of just rejecting her advance like a jerk. It’s not like she tried to feel him up in church or something. She reached out to hold his hand, in the car, when they were alone, on the way to dinner. Geez.

Perhaps sensing my allegiance with the phantom women characters of these stories, Charlie started to explain to me that he is very “cautious” when starting relationships and that he is often accused to being too picky. In his book though, he said, so many relationships go wrong. Why proceed with something you’re not sure of?

Reason #6: Charlie is a commitment-phobe.

I’m not really sure what more a woman would need to do, besides moving halfway across the country, coming to his church, initiating things physically, and generally putting up with nonsense for Charlie to want to commit.

But, Charlie was not finished explaining to me why he is still single.

Charlie had mentioned to me before that he doesn’t intend to work at his office job forever. I (falsely) assumed that this was because office jobs aren’t generally that challenging or that it’s hard to become passionate about paper-pushing. This was, presuming, that Charlie wasn't lazy.  As it turns out, Charlie finds his four day a week office job to be overwhelming and taxing.

Reason #7: Charlie is lazy and lacks ambition.

Charlie told me that once upon a time, he was a substitute teacher and loved it. It was so great, he said, to just be able to show up and not do a lesson plan. Then, when the kids asked him questions, he would just tell them to wait and ask their regular teacher. It was all so fabulous, he said, the no planning and no responsibility! He lamented about how the one year that he was a full-time teacher, it was so hard. He had to work on lesson plans and grade papers on Sundays and it was just so much. After that year, he started substituting.

Considering that Charlie (apparently) wants to get married, though, I asked,

“How would you support yourself financially, as a substitute teacher?”

“Well, when I was subbing, I’d make about $60/day,” Charlie said. “And then, you know I have the condo (an investment property) with tenants and I have roommates.”

“But your wife isn’t going to want to have three roommates,” I pointed out.  (And, since when is $60/day enough to live on?)

He laughed before saying that he hoped that eventually, he could move to the south, where selling his house in Maryland would allow him to buy a house cash down there.

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. His life ambition is to have a job that requires no planning and no responsibility because his office job is too stressful and he sometimes has to work until 6 p.m. The indignity of it all!

I didn’t bother to open my mouth about how when I’m tired at 5 p.m., I have roughly seven more hours of my day to go, not one. Or, how planning and responsibility are sort of the hallmarks of most other careers, including medicine.  Or, how a four day work week is a coveted fantasy for most of the working world.

It wouldn’t have been relevant anyway, since I didn’t get a word in edgewise the entire dinner.

Reason #8: Charlie doesn’t let his dates contribute to the conversation monologue.

Who knew that Charlie could actually make my ex-fiance Rich look better?  I'm as shocked as you, but at least Rich had a decent job and feigned interest when I talked about medical school.

So anyway, Charlie picked up the check and I went home and watched TV. As we were leaving, Charlie hugged me and said, “We’ll have to do this again sometime.” Unfortunately, that is unlikely to happen, lest I offend him by talking about my day or accidentally brush his elbow and elicit a sexual desire. Besides, it’s only fair that Charlie regale some other poor woman with stories about me on his next date.  Oh wait, he may not have any, since he didn't ask me anything about myself.

Like I said, he is single for a reason. Several of them, actually.

Giving It a Shot

As if on cue, Charlie emailed as I was posting that last blog entry to ask if there was anywhere in particular that I wanted to go for dinner.

I was in the library, so I turned to my friend Karen, who was sitting next to me, to ask for advice. She said that I should give him the benefit of the doubt, because a lot of guys have trouble with date planning. She cited specific examples, including her fiance, and said that I should go and see if Charlie redeems himself on the date.

So, on the way home, I called Charlie in the car. I asked what kind of food he likes and he gave me his ranking (I'm being completely serious) in order of preference: Indian, Ethiopian, Mexican. (Note: This is not residency matching, Charlie.)

He also asked how far the drive would be from his town in Maryland. I told him 45 minutes to an hour, but that was a conservative estimate. I guess that the commute on the time-eating monster known as I-495 can be a little surprise for him tomorrow night! (Sort of like the choice of restaurant being defaulted in my direction was a little surprise for me tonight.)

I chose a hole-in-the-wall Afghan place, up the street from my apartment, that's gotten fabulous reviews online. Updates to follow.

Another Thing to Annoy Me...And You

As of this morning, I had not heard from Charlie, regarding our dinner date tomorrow night.

Of course, none of you are shocked by this. It’s not like we’re dealing with Neighbor Guy, with his sweet emails containing Washingtonian restaurant reviews, personal thoughts about the chef, and plans after-dinner date activities. This is Charlie, the commitment-phobic compulsive emailer, whose face I have not seen since October, but whose email word count is probably in the millions by now.

For our first failed attempt at lunch, I had suggested two restaurants to Charlie that were in walking distance of the medical school, but I asked him to choose a time (within a window) and make the reservation for us. Why? Because Charlie needs training. I'm purposely making him do the legwork of planning the date. I'm also expecting him to pick me up and to pay--not things I necessarily demand from others--because I know that he's playing games with me and that comes at a price.

Once upon a time, I found Charlie's dating tendencies fascinating and entertaining. But last night, I decided that if Charlie did not contact me by 2 p.m. today with the name of a restaurant, the time we were eating, and an offer to pick me up, I was going to cancel on him. I'm a big fan of non-medical distractions to keep me sane, but not of people wasting my precious time.

Well, Charlie emailed around 11 a.m. to ask if I’ll be in Virginia tomorrow night. I presumed that he was asking, because he was now (the day before) in the process of planning dinner. So, I sent a quick reply saying yes, I would be in Virginia and went to class. I expected to open my email and find the date plan waiting for me when I got finished. Except...there is nothing there. And, this date is supposed to be going down in 24 hours or so.

I do get excited by the prospect of witty conversation and someone to apprise me of what's going on in the outside world, but we already know that Charlie is way below my standards. I should have just let the pink elephant stand and ignore the fact that our original lunch date played out in such an awkward way.

The question now is, do I just cancel or ignore Charlie's obvious ineptitude and let this play out for its (rapidly fading) entertainment value? I'm leaning towards the former.

Hopefully Not Prophetic

My classmate just walked past me in the library and said,

"Last night, I dreamt that you were pregnant."

Umm...WHAT?

No.

Just...no.

Take note, world: As previously mentioned, I am not ready.

Getting Pregnant in Medical School (As if I Needed Another (Potential) Reason to Drop Out)

Like most medical schools, mine has a number of lunch lectures given at any time during the week. Different interest and student-run organizations sponsor them and very often, there is food served. Today, we had a lecture sponsored by a national women’s organization, of which I am a local officer. The theme of this lecture was when to have children in medical school.

Last year, I remember being traumatized by a similar lecture. It was only second in the shock factor to a lecture sponsored by the Catholic Student Association on natural birth control. (By the way, I am in full support of both Catholics and natural birth control, but if you are hosting a lunch lecture combining the two, you should warn people before you put up images of cervical mucus while they are eating. Also, comparing taking oral contraceptives to setting off an atom bomb would be considered...excessive by some.)

Anyway, what was traumatic was not the idea of having children in medical school, but the personal testimonies of the students, residents, and physicians on the panel. Last year, one of my professors (now a hospitalist) actually held back tears as she described giving up her coveted cardiology fellowship when she was pregnant with her third child. Her husband was also a cardiac fellow at the time and realizing that they couldn’t maintain the demands of both training programs, she conceded and started practicing internal medicine. She described the decision as a “lifelong regret.” Every time I see her smiling in lecture, I think about her sitting on that panel, swallowing her tears, and wonder if she ever resents her husband--the now cardiologist.

This year, the attendings and residents were all pro-babies, but of course, what is a lunch lecture on childbirth without instilling fear and trembling? One of the attendings told a story about when she was a resident and her colleague was pumping breastmilk for her newborn. If you’ve read Michelle Au’s blog, you already know that physicians and residents are forced to find literally whatever closet or unlocked stall they can for such a deed. In addition to the physical limitations of pumping, though, this resident only had enough time to pump during her break--not to eat.

So, at some point, she realized that the only thing she had time to consume was her freshly pumped breast milk.

She didn’t do this because of some weird fetish or compulsion. Acknowledging the time restraints and inherent nutritional value of breast milk, she did this to survive. As the attending told this story, laughing, a wave of horror spread through the auditorium. I mean, I feel like medical schools should be obligated to tell you these things when you are interviewing.

As a medical student, we will show you graphic images of cervical mucus viscosity, while you are eating, during your precious one meal break of the day. But don’t worry, it won’t be as bad as when you are a resident and are forced to drink your own breast milk to survive.

The resounding theme of the panel was that you need to hire good help—and lots of it. Many of the panelists have their in-laws living with them and recommend moving closer to home for this reason. As I was thinking about the cost and logistics of all of this, I was beginning to realize that if I want to procreate in medical school, I’ll probably need to marry someone wealthy, with obsessive parents who always want to be around. Except…that situation sounds strangely reminiscent of my relationship with Rich.

Crap.

Unfortunately, Rich did not satisfy the other requirement of surviving motherhood in medicine—being a supportive spouse. Many of the panelists talked about how awesome their husbands are, with their regular working hours and doting paternal tendencies. One attending said that her husband used to wake up at 4 a.m. during her surgery rotations just to make her a peanut butter and jelly sandwich before she left. Let me tell you, Rich would never have done something that. So, I’m good.

Except, I’m not good. Having babies in medical school terrifies me and even though I’m going to be really, really old (no, you don’t need to post statistics about aging eggs and fertility, because I know), I don’t want to have children until after my medical training is over.

I love and support my friends who have made the opposite decision, but I don’t think I could muster the finances or emotions to pull it off. I mean, where does one find the loan money to hire a live-in nanny? My loan money currently supports a family of one. I didn’t really know it could stretch further than that.

So, are any of you mothers in medicine? What are your thoughts about this? Am I just being irrational or squeamish? And for heaven’s sake, please tell me if you have resorted to drinking your own breast milk before, because I need to know these things up front.

The Worst Kind of Desperation

As you already know, I refuse to buy my own pens. With all of the “free” (my tuition money doesn’t say it’s free!) paraphanalia routinely pushed in my direction by the medical school or the drug representatives that leave their marketing detritus at my attending’s office, there’s just no reason to. Except, today I found that I was without writing implement. As has happened in the past, I must have accidentally left my pens and highlighters on my desk at home when I was studying.

So, I asked to borrow a friend’s pen in my morning class. Then later, I had to do the same thing with another friend in the library. I had an appointment at the Student Health Center today, though, and as I was checking out, I eyed the multiple buckets of communal pens greedily. I knew I had a few more hours of studying left at school before I headed home and that I would need a pen to make notes. So, I did it.

I took a pen from the Student Health Center.

I know you are wondering why I didn’t just take my chances with a pen from the DC sewer, coated in toxoplasmosis, but I was feeling especially desperate. Then, I got to the library and found that I had both a pen and a highlighter in the bottom of my school bag. I hope the hospital grade disinfectant I slathered that pen with before using it is in fact, hospital grade.

Dating the Player, Apparently

It started when Charlie’s Facebook status this morning proclaimed that he might have damaged his eardrum and that he was having some hearing loss. His status said little else and like the rest of Charlie’s updates that (constantly) show up on my Newsfeed, I probably just should have ignored it.

But, considering that I own an otoscope thanks to my nearly in-laws (Rich’s parents), who loved to endow me with medical equipment, I knew that I could take a cursory look and pre-empt a trip to Urgent Care or the ER.

Since we haven’t spoken since our failed lunch date, though, I couldn't just randomly start commenting on his status. I needed to say something...else. So, I sent Charlie a private message saying that I would be busy for most of the day, but if he started having pain or was worried, he knew my cell phone number and could give me a call this evening. Then, I added,

Also, you owe me lunch, punk! You are so lucky that I've been distracted by exams and forgot to follow through on the harassment regarding that!

(As you know, I did not forget. However, I did have exams and I wouldn’t have had time for Charlie had he chosen to follow through anyway.)

This set off a chain of email responses, the first of which being,

: ) I thought about that just yesterday or the day before. When are you available?

I still hold that you saw me walking into the restaurant and rerouted to the nearest restaurant before I could see you. I don't have hard evidence, but I'm allowing my imagination to be the evidence.

So, as requested, I gave him my available dates (this week is light, since we just finished an exam block), including a choice of several weeknights. I also said that if those didn’t work, I was available next weekend too.

His response?

Maybe this coming Saturday night? How does that work?

He picked date night, you guys. Of the five possible nights he had to choose from, he chose Saturday night.

So, here we go. It's on for date night, apparently. I'm sure he'll remember his cell phone this time, but unfortunately, now there's a possibility that he'll be partially deaf.

The Problem With Having Relationships in Medical School

In a tawdry display of some scheduling administrator's warped humor, we had a Cardiac Physiology exam today. On Valentine's Day. Unfortunately for the coupled members of my class, the ill-timing of this prank had a few consequences.

Medical School Classmate 1: When I got home on Saturday, my husband had surprised me by cleaning the house, having dinner planned, putting red roses out, the whole shabang.

Medical School Classmate 2: What did you do for him?

Medical School Classmate 1: I stuck a post-it note to his work bag this morning that said, "I love you."

(Fail.)

Play On, Player

Today, while taking a two minute study break on Facebook, I discovered a possible reason that (my "friend" slash compulsive emailer) Charlie hasn't called to reschedule our lunch date.

Charlie's Current FB Status: At it again...
Followup Comment from Womanfriend: Writing me back?
Followup Comment from Different Womanfriend: Me too!

Oh, goodness. Really, women?

I almost left a third comment of my own saying, "Damn, Charlie. How many email girlfriends do you have? I thought I was the only one!"

Except, as we all know, that might be a little too close to reality to be funny. It would also stroke our favorite player's ego in a way that really wouldn't be healthy for anyone involved. The last thing that Charlie needs is to have three women enlisting public pleas for his affection via Facebook.

And now, my professional advice for all parties involved:

Charlie: It is definitely impressive that you can keep up with so many email conversations, but don't flaunt it on Facebook. It's tacky and is going to perpetuate your cycle of singleness. Random Womenfriends: Stop leaving obsequious comments that show that you are not only compulsively refreshing your email, but also, stalking this man on Facebook. It makes you look desperate. Red Stethoscope: Good job cutting this one loose. The smack talk emails were fun, but imagine how hurtful this situation would be if you actually started developing feelings. (Yes, I just spoke to myself in third person. Listen, studying alone for 8-10 hours a day is bound to make any normal person a little bit crazy.)

Now, back to your regularly scheduled programming.

I Guess This Had to Happen to Maintain Balance in the Universe

Remember how when I had my itchy eye thing (conjunctivitis, for you fancy readers), my grumpy-looking ophthalmologist at University Hospital saw me for free because I am funny and have a charming personality that's apparently what doctors do for other doctors (or medical students, in my case)?

Well, my favorite ophthalmologist also referred to me an optometrist at University Hospital, because he wants me to switch contact lens brands.  I had heard through the grapevine that this doctor doesn't take insurance, though, so I just called the hospital to see how much this little checkup was going to cost me.

Me:  Hi, I have an appointment with the doctor coming up and wanted to make sure that she took my insurance.

Receptionist:  Umm...well, we have you down for a new contact visit and she doesn't accept insurance for that.

Me:  Oh, well how much does an appointment like that typically cost?

Receptionist:  $120 and up.

Me:  Oh.  Really?  Can you cancel my appointment then?

Receptionist:  Absolutely.

I hope my favorite ophthalmologist doesn't get mad at me for going to a non-University Hospital optometrist, but seriously people, I already pay an obnoxious price for medical insurance (although, it should be noted that there were times when I was a writer that I didn't have insurance, so yay for insurance!).  After getting price-gouged for university insurance to cover services that I rarely use, did he really expect me to see a doctor who runs a cash only practice?  Seriously, stop joking.

Also, I think medical practices who don't accept insurance should be obligated to say so up front.  What if I had shown up for my appointment, not having been in the University Hospital information loop, and been surprised by my whopping $120+ service charge?  Not cool.  Not cool at all, doctors.

Just In Case You Were Worried About My Dating Life

I've been meaning to write a post about my dating life, since there haven't been any updates since the "I Thought He Stood Me Up" Mixup with Charlie. 

(I know, you've been waiting in agony to hear what's going on.  Well, at least one of you has been waiting.  I'm looking at you, sister of mine.)

Anyway, after my last update about Charlie, I wrote the following entry, but decided not to post it.  I figured three entries about the same man in one day was enough for you kind people.  Here's what happened after his phone call to explain what happened:

--

"It seems that Charlie feels really badly about accidentally standing me up today. An hour after he called to deliver the most angst-ridden, apologetic story I have ever heard, he emailed me to apologize again. This time, he wanted to apologize for "dominating the conversation" and then ending it tersely when his contractor showed up to do some work on his house.

That's right. He emailed to apologize for how he delivered his apology.

I do feel badly that Charlie is tormenting himself, but at least he's admitting his wrong and trying to fix it. If he really is a "player," he's a sensitive one. Or, maybe more accurately, an Adventist one who knows that lest he cover his tracks properly, word is going to get around."

--

I haven't heard from Charlie since this email.  Of course, I could very well call him, reassure him that I'm not offended by what was clearly a huge series of accidents (I did do this via email, though), and gently prod him in the right direction for the makeup date. 

But, why?

Casual dating has been a fun distraction from my breakup with Rich, as well as a welcome break from the endless monotony of medical school.  But lately, I've been feeling less...motivated. 

I guess I'm just getting tired of wasting time with men I know that I have no interest in pursuing a relationship with and with whom, I will likely not end up being friends.  Perhaps it's a sign of closure from my relationship with Rich, or maybe just a natrual progression towards long-term dating, which is more my style.  I've been feeling like if I'm going to spend an evening out and have fun, I might as well do it with my girlfriends who are going to be around for the long-term.

Speaking of, remember I mentioned how I found a home church with a great group of women my age?  We had our first Girls Night Out two nights ago.  We finally got a chance to talk and get to know each other and I told them about my relationship with Rich.  When they then asked if I had started dating again, my answer was,

"Actually, yes."

So, I probably should not be surprised to have received the following email today.

From:  Andie, New Church Girlfriend
Sent:  February 9, 2011 at 7:10pm
Subject: guyz

I'm sure you don't need help being set up on dates, but I thought of you when my husband was talking about his friend having a hard time even meeting SDA* girls. His name is My Husband's Friend if you want to see what he looks like on facebook. Looks are definitely one top priority for me, lol. I haven't said anything to him or anything just a thought since I always find a lot of SDA guys to be kind of weird when dating.

Did you notice her statement about "SDA guys tend to be kind of weird when dating?"  Ha!  Wait until I let her read this blog.  She has no idea. 



*"SDA" = "Seventh-day Adventist"

Let Your Heart Be Filled With Good Things

"A good man brings good things out of the good stored up in his heart, and an evil man brings evil things out of the evil stored up in his heart. For the mouth speaks what the heart is full of." -Luke 6:45

Doctors Can Be Funny Too (Or So They Tell Themselves)

Notice anything unusual about this Physiology noteset? (Besides the fact that it's boring and you're thinking to yourself, "Woman!  I did not come to your blog to read about cardiology.  That is your job!")

(Click to enlarge)

OK, here's a hint.

So clever, these physicians.  Clever, but nerdy. 

A Year Ago Yesterday

It was thirty degrees colder and there were 26 more inches of snow on the ground.

February 6th fell on Sabbath and it was on an afternoon walk (Read: trudging through thigh deep snow), that Rich insisted on taking me on, that he proposed. I spent the rest of the weekend being distracted from studying for my Immunology midterm.

I didn’t remember until this morning, when I was seated in unusual room for that same Immunology midterm. Usually, we have assigned seating in one of the main lecture halls, but today, we were in other lecture hall and seating was not assigned. The same thing happened last year for the Immunology midterm.

I remember feeling unfamiliar in that testing situation and self-conscious of my ring.  I was preoccupied with the foreign weight on my hand (I don’t usually wear jewelry) and anxious about the flurry of excited classmates I knew were waiting to accost me after the exam, grabbing my left hand in a too-familiar way that I would soon grow accustomed to.

How things change in a year. I wonder if Rich remembers.

Friday Confessional: My Mother is Driving Me To Therapy

Note:  This is a pretty long entry and a departure from the usual, bulleted "Friday Confessional" posts.  But, this situation has been on my heart for a long time and I need to talk about it.  I can't emphasize how important it is to acknowledge psychiatric illness, and seek treatment when appropriate.  So, thank you for reading if you choose to. 

It started when my mother called me one night last October, to tell me that she hadn't been to work in three days.

She was non-chalant, yet edgy, in her tone.

"I didn't want to tell you because I knew you had exams," she said over-dramatically.

I was meeting friends for dinner in a few minutes and I didn't want to hear the details. I didn't want to get upset about this before I saw them. Pacing up and down on a side street next to the medical school, I tried to ascertain exactly what had happened, over the phone.

She had been in a pre-glaucomic state for a while and so, she said something about her eyes. She couldn't see when she was at work, she said.  She said that the room was "clouding up" at work and the walls were closing in.  She had had to leave.

To a psychology major turned medical student, what she was describing sounded more like a panic attack than a medical issue. Still, I didn't want to discount her symptoms, so I kept trying to prod her more, coercing her to divulve the mystery behind her "eye issues."

"I don't know," she snapped, when I kept asking for better descriptions. "I couldn't see! I just couldn't see!"

"Mom!," I said sharply. "I can't help you if you don't tell me exactly what is happening. This is frustrating for me too, but you have to remember that I'm a medical student and if anyone can help you in the family, it's me."

My mother is an English teacher, who recently published her first book.  I know that she can be articulate when she chooses to, so I was annoyed.  There is well-established literature on the tendency of Asian-Americans to somatisize mental health issues, though. I know this. I shouldn't have been so foolish to keep pushing.

--

In the car with my friends, as we drove to dinner, I couldn't hide my emotions. I told my friends what was happening.

"You know, I don't want to downplay her medical symptoms, because I'm sure they're partially real, but there has to be a psychiatric component too."

My friend, Sara, agreed. (Hi, Sara!)

"At the least, she's having some sort of mild depression."

Sara was being kind, but what my mother was really having was a full-fledged major depressive episode, complete with crippling anxiety and panic attacks. She would never acknowledge this, but my sister (another healthcare professional with a psychology degree) agreed.

From our respective distant locations, all my sister and I could do was beg my mother to please take her eye medications and please get some Xanex now, to take the edge off, and please, start taking Lexapro again.

Half-heartedly, my mother began her Lexapro, but it would take her two weeks to get a presciption for Xanex (I'm guessing because she minimized her symptoms to her psychiatrist and refused to follow my and my sister's instructions to call the primary doctor on call and have it called into the pharmacy the same night).

She also refused to start taking a new eye medication until I got home for Thanksgiving.

"I'll just wait until you get here," she would say, demurely, when I would rant about statistics and the seriousness of people going blind from not taking their glaucoma eye drops.

This is probably where my burgeoning resentment began.

--

I had planned to visit a cousin in California for my (unusually) long Thanksgiving break. Having been a bona fide grown-up, living outside of my mother's house for 10 years now, I hoped this would be fine. I kind of knew it wouldn't, though. In my mother's mind, my obligation should be to her.  Unmarried women don't trapse around the country, traveling alone (Although, it should be noted that this is exactly what I did when I worked in marketing after college. But, I digress.).

The conversation that I had with my mother about going to California was the last one before she announced that she hadn't been able to work "because of her eyes." She also started getting crazy(er), telling my sister and I about how she needed to sell her house, liquidate her retirement savings, and buy a short sale condo. Her grandiose plans were ridiculous and unfounded.  It was clear that if one or both of us didn't go down to Florida to corral the situation, we'd be going down to pack up my mother's house, likely after she realized that she sold her house and had nowhere to go.

So, off to Florida I went on my Thanksgiving break. I walked into my childhood bedroom to find my nearly wedding dress laid out on my bed.

I tried to control by anger, but I had (somewhat harshly) asked my mother why it was that she needed to remove it from storage in the closet and why, if she had to move it, did she think it would be appropriate to store it on my bed?  She couldn't understand why I was upset and merely moved it to the bedroom across the hall. I finally told her that she needed to properly package it in a wedding garment bag (which we had! for this precise purpose!) and that for the love of my sanity, I did not want to see that dress.

She didn't understand.

I got her to start taking her medications, but she was still non-functional. Every day, I would wake up to find her sitting on the living room couch--staring out into space. She would be wearing a house dress and sitting silently. When I would ask what she was thinking about, she would say suspicously, "Nothing," or sometimes, more believably, "All the regrets I have about my life."

After Thanksgiving, I left Florida, turning over the care of my mother to my very patient sister and brother-in-law, who went down for two weeks. After they left, it was expected that I return to spend my Christmas break with my mother. I did, but only because I was plagued by guilt and the belief that I should do the right thing.

--

My mother was jovial when I arrived in December.

She accompanied my high school friend to pick me up from the airport and wanted to go out to lunch with us afterwards. She was eager to have me at her mercy, dragging me into and out of the supermarket, Wal-Mart, the farmer's market. The list of ordinary tasks she had accumulated was endless and I was annoyed that she expected me to accompany her on all of them. I found her doting tendencies, asking me what she could cook for me and if I needed my laundry done, to be ingratiating.

I didn't want to be at home and I didn't want her treating me like an 18 year old college freshman, home from the dorm.  When I actually was a college freshman, she was absorbed with other things in her life, and didn't have the time to worry about me.  I remember being envious of friends who said that their mothers had eagerly greeted them at the airport, then had their favorite meals prepared during breaks.  I routinely waited two or more hours at the airport for a ride, before learning that I should make arrangements with my own friends when I was home on break.  If I wanted a home-cooked meal, it was also contingent upon me going to the supermarket, buying food, and cooking it myself (which I frequently did).

I was understanding of my mother's position as a single mother, working two jobs, during those years.  Now, her attempts to baby me felt belated and insincere.

"I bought you these black bean burgers, so you can take them back and freeze them," my mother told me at Thanksgiving.

"Mom, you don't have to do that. I have grocery stores in Virginia and I'm an adult.  Besides, I brought a carry-on.  I'm not taking those back."

"But you don't have time to cook," she would counter.

"I don't cook because I'm never at home. The burgers are just going to sit in the freezer and I'm still going to buy dinner at the hospital every night."

--

She had no concept of my life, but I didn't know what to do about it. She had always been hard on my sister and me--pushing us to be better and stronger. Now, we were.  But with that growth came independence. I thought that by now, she would understand that there was no chance of me moving back to Florida.  I have roots, a career, and a life in Washington, D.C.  She chooses to believe what she wants to about my life, though.  I think there is still a suppressed hope that one day, I'm going to move back to my hometown. 

I know that her attempts at mothering affection were some sort of delayed reaction to empty nest syndrome, but I didn't have the patience for it last fall.

"Mom, I won't always be able to do this, you know," I would say, referring to her expectation that I keep flying down to Florida every couple of months. "This is my last year with holidays off and when I'm a resident, I won't have any vacation."

"I know that!," she would bark. "You keep telling me that!"

And yet, when I talked to her two nights ago, she wanted to know when my semester was ending. I gave an estimated date and asked why she wanted to know.

"No reason," she said sweetly.

As for my mother's depressive episode and what could have triggered it, my sister and I struggled to figure this out for a long time. She has had a number of depressive cycles throughout her life--during her horrible marriage to my father, and again after her mother died. When the latter happened, my sister and I had sprung into action in much the same way. I was in graduate school and working two part time jobs, but one of those jobs was in marketing and I had a ton of frequent flyer miles. We took turns flying down to Florida to force my mother to take her psychiatric medications. Like many psychiatric patients, though, as soon as she felt a modicum of normality, she stopped. She refused to listen to either my sister or my pleas about the data on recurrence and much to our chagrin, did what she wanted to do--bragging about it to everyone. She had gotten better so fast, she told them. She was no longer on anti-depressants.

--

This is probably a good time to mention that I am a huge advocate of anti-depressants. After my parents' divorce when I was 13, I refused to talk to a therapist with curly, dyed black hair and a saccharine smile, that my mother took me to see. I had no abandonment feelings or emotions about the fact that my father had left. I was glad my father left and I hoped that he would die a tragic, horrible death alone. I used to tell my friends, "At least if he dies, we'll get his life insurance policy money and then we won't lose our house." I wish I could say that I was just a stupid, bratty kid, but even know, I realize that I was simply wise beyond my years. 

(With the exception of a very painful phone call when I was 19, I have never seen or spoke with my father since I was 13.  The only means to communicate with my sister and I that he left was a P.O. box, when we were teenagers.  That address was court-ordered, as my father was still legally required to pay half of our medical bills.  I don't need to tell you that my father also refused to pay child support.  Thankfully, his wages were eventually garnished, which prevented the foreclosure of my mother's home when I was 13.)

At age 18, though, the tragedy of life as I knew it was facing me head on. I had worked aggressively in high school at every extracurricular and volunteer activity imaginable, knowing that the only way I'd be able to attend an ivy league school was on a full scholarship. The alternative, in my mind, was letting my father win. After cleaning out my sister and my college and savings funds, as well as all of the joint accounts he had with my mother, I knew that he wanted to see us struggling and penniless. I knew that what he wanted was for me to end up barefoot and pregnant with some minimum-wage job in my hometown. What I hoped and prayed for more than anything was to grow up and have a life that would declare the opposite. Although I was too naive and lacking in self-awareness to put the words to it, I wanted to tell my father that I was too good, too pretty, too smart, and too capable to not succeed. I wanted to tell him that he could take the money and go to hell.

When I was accepted at my first choice college, Harvard, I was elated. In the end, though, my father had the last laugh when he refused to return my financial aid paperwork or even a sign a statement that he would not be contributing to my college education. After a month of inconsistent communication with my father, my financial aid officer at Harvard told me that he didn't believe my story because my father, among having several outside investments that made him wealthy, was a middle school principal.

"It's just extremely hard to believe that a man who is spending his life encouraging others to pursue higher education would not want to pay for his daughter to attend Harvard," my financial aid officer told me. "I've never encountered a parent who doesn't want their child to attend Harvard."

I remember the grimness of that conversation, the stabbing, piercing heartache, and the way I swallowed my bitterness by politely thanking him for having taken the time to work so diligently on my case. The day after this conversation, I accepted a full scholarship at a very prestigious research institution in Baltimore and tried to convince myself that this would be OK.

It wasn't.

I hated everything about the place. The students were pretentious and elitist. The professors were inapproachable. The pre-medical advising office refused to see me, telling me that I wasn't "medical school material." I internalized so much rejection and self-loathing from that experience, it's unbelievable. Little did I know that several years later, I would be offered 9 interviews from the 15 medical schools that I had applied to. I would have had three acceptances before voluntarily withdrawing the remainder of my applications, because I had been accepted to my first choice. I would end up attending a medical school with a 1% acceptance rate--having been chosen to be part of a class of 170, from an application pool of 14,000.

But, I didn't have the life experience or foresight to know that one advisor's opinion can't control your destiny. Instead, I found that I could no longer find the will to live under the weight of my dreams, which had been crushed so easily.

I became so severely depressed that by the time I returned home the first summer after college, I had at least six workable plans to commit suicide. I would obsess about them constantly, thinking about the potency of the chemicals I was working with in my summer research lab, or how easily it was to just brake slightly, as I crossed the train tracks on the way home. The only reason I didn't hang myself in my college dorm room that first year was because I knew my roommate would be the one to find my body. As much as I hated her, I knew that ruining her life along with my own would be wrong. It was solely a haunting vision of my lifeless body, and her entrance to the room after I was gone, that stopped me.

During this time, I asked my mother to take me to a psychiatrist. I told her that I had researched the symptoms and that I was having many of them. I told her I knew that what I was feeling was serious. She said no. She said that everyone's first year of college is hard and that what I was feeling was normal. In much the same way she refuses to acknowledge her own issues now, she also refused to acknowledge mine. When I finally did see a psychiatrist that summer, it was the beginning of a rapid transition to being an adult that required me to take the reigns of my own healthcare. I never asked my mother for help or medical advice after that summer. I just found my own doctors and took care of my own medical issues.

She hassled me and bothered me for the entire two and a half years that I was on anti-depressants, telling me that I needed to stop taking my medications. Thankfully, I was learning to stand on my own when it came to making serious decisions.  I sternly countered, telling her that 70% of first time depressive patients relapse because they stop their medication too soon. After two and a half years on anti-depressants and the same amount of time in therapy, I realized that seeking mental healthcare was the single most life-changing event of my adolescence. It very literally saved my life.

--

I still use the coping skills I learned in therapy and when my world came to a crashing halt this past summer, it was not one, but two different therapist's office, in which I appeared. (I also saw a psychiatrist, which is a requirement of my university before seeking counseling.  The psychiatrist said that she felt that I was doing fine with my coping skills and didn't want to prescribe an anti-depressant.  I agreed, but if I had felt differently, make no mistake that I'd be unashamedly taking Lexapro myself right now.)  I am not afraid of mental illness. I am afraid of what it can do when it is ignored.

This is why my mother's situation is so frustrating. She is grudgingly seeing a therapist, but only because my sister and I are forcing her to.  Because I know she is not invested, I have doubts about the efficacy of this approach.  I use avoidance behavior to cope, because if I think about the next time my mother is going to have a breakdown--and the implication it will have on my life--I start getting anxious.

My aunt recently told my sister and I that she thinks that the trigger for this depressive episode may have been my breakup with Rich, since my mother admitted to my aunt that she was experiencing a recurrence of emotions from her own divorce.  Since learning this, I have been mad. Annoyed and resentful and mad.

After feeling like I just got on my feet after the breakup, and doing my best to use coping skills and get through MS1-The Dejavu Version, it is my mother who is depressed? Whether or not these feelings are valid, I feel like she should be the one who is there for me right now. She should wiping my tears and telling me that everything will be fine. Instead, I have to console her about a breakup that she had no part of?

I'm trying to be understanding, but it's not working. I don't want to speak to her and I definitely don't want to see her. I'm sorry that she is depressed, but I also feel like she is not taking ownership of her issues. Both my sister and I sought, and continue to seek, professional help when we face emotional challenges in life. I think that it is selfish and irresponsible that she refuses to do the same. When she starts involving my life and my issues, and then cycles through her periods of deterioriation, just expecting that I will come home and clean up the mess, it makes me angry.

So, I am going to make an appointment to see a therapist. I don't know how to handle this anymore, but I don't think that my present course of avoidance and denial is healthy. How ironic that my mother's refusal to confront her own mental health issues is now driving me to see a therapist to confront them for her. God bless the man who falls in love with me, because he has no idea what special kind of crazy he's going to be marrying into.

Shirts and Tags

[Internal Monologue]

Hmm...what should I wear today?  Ooh, I haven't worn that shirt in a while!

(Sorry this picture is so bad...I quickly hooked the shirt onto the closet door and snapped a picture as I was rushing to get dressed this morning!)

Maybe with a royal blue cardigan...and my favorite jean-like accessory, jeggings...

(Picture taken after I got home tonight...when I had more time to worry about things like picture-taking.)

Yes!  Let's do it!  Wait...what is this...?  Are you kidding me?  How long is it going to take for me to wear all the clothes that came from Rich's dry cleaner!

(I don't know if your dry cleaner attaches these small identification tags with the customer's name to every item of your clothing, but Rich's dry cleaner did.  This is why I have employed the green boxes of privacy, so you can't find out Rich's real name and tell him I'm writing this blog stalk him.)

Later in the day...

Wow, these cuffs are really well-starched.  I love it!  This dry cleaner did a really good job actually. 

Hey, I wonder if I can still drop off dress shirts and charge them to Rich's account...!