So far, it seems

My first college boyfriend (or something like that) just didn't care. Although I had been thrilled by the ideas of Albert Camus and Jean-Paul Sarte, dating an existentialist was not all it seemed to be. He would forget about our dates because he doesn't believe in time, but he could always make it to class. When we went out to parties together, he would spend more time in religious arguments than he spent talking to me.
You would think that even if we were only dating for the hook-ups, there would at least be an incentive for him to spend time with me; but instead, he was never around, leaving our trysts on occasional weekends to feel more like one-night stands. The whole time I was trying to figure out if I should let myself become completely close to him so that he might feel more inclined to do the same, but I wasn't looking for heartbreak.
I think I dated him because he was so cynical--so far from self-actualization--that I wanted to help him come out from his facade of wit and sarcasm and come to terms with himself. This humor that had attracted me to him in the first place became a wall that I just couldn't break through, even with intense attempts. The fact that my co-dependency had become apparent in this relationship with him and I couldn't do anything about it made me feel choked, like I was going to be physically sick. As his humor became hurtful, my power as a healer was put in question. Could I even get through to anyone if I couldn't help my own situation?
I've wanted to become a doctor since the age of three. For me, choosing a major was as easy as doing research to see what major intersected with pre-med requirements the most. My choice of colleges was narrowed by only looking at schools that had that major. Sometimes, it seems, my whole life has been about choosing right and getting in--choosing not to party so much, choosing the right classes and extracurriculars, finding what would make me stick out in a pool of applicants so that I could attend a college far, far away from my home, where recent deaths and my parents' impending divorce was pushing me to the edge of my sanity.
The boyfriend challenged me. He was an avid reader and made me rediscover my bookworm side. He wants to be an English/psych major and he made me think from a different perspective, unlike my science courses, which tend to force people to think along the same wavelengths. This fruitful discussion of books and social mechanisms helped me to grow and explore my literary side, but was it worth the pain and mental distress?