Hearts will never be practical until they can be made unbreakable

Everyone I have ever loved has eventually broken my heart. Disappointments are one thing, but heartbreak involves betrayal, pain, or the realization the person you love is not that person at all.

I have a hard time keeping friends. Some drift away, but usually, I just walk away. Despite my overall low self-esteem, my expectations are quite high when it comes to relationships. Hurt me once, shame on you; hurt me twice, well, no, the opportunity for that isn't going to be there.

At least one friend was fired based on the possibility of disappointment. MJ and I met through work about 14 years ago. She had erratic moods and behavior, but she was a good friend. When I was newly diagnosed with bipolar disorder, MJ admitted that she was also afflicted. She told me how she had struggled with finding the right medication, with leading a normal life, with two suicide attempts, and with not dwelling too much on what other people thought.

In those first weeks of my diagnosis, I talked to MJ frequently. I had a million questions and there was a lot of information that only a fellow sufferer could understand. One day, Sonja--who was also MJ's friend--said, "Let me give you a word of advice here. MJ is not reliable. Don't depend on her too much. One day you're going to need her and she's just not going to be there."

I thought about that for a day or two and then I removed MJ's contact information from my phone and email contacts. The same question kept coming back to me over and over in the days after Sonja's admonition: If I can't depend on a friend when I really need her, then what's the point of having that friend at all? What kind of friendship is that?

That was 2004 or 2005, and I've only spoken to MJ three or four times since--and then pretty much by chance. I miss her, but that is greatly outweighed by the possibility of her hurting me.

In the last year, I've lamented the fact that I can't hold onto relationships. It's one of my biggest shortcomings. I believe I do my part, and that's why I expect others to put in the same effort. Take it seriously.

This topic is on my mind because of Joanna. We used to talk frequently, regardless of our respective geographic locations. We helped each other. We were supportive. We tried.

Joanna is an important scientist who works for the government. Apparently, her head is so full of science that the part of the brain that normally controls actions such as dialing a phone or answering an email has been completely excised. Have I called? Yes. Have I emailed? Yes. Have I received any acknowledgement at all? None whatsoever.

Frank and I were trying to figure out when, exactly, we last heard from Joanna, but we couldn't come up with anything in 2009. The last conversation was about three hours long.

Here's the thing. I don't need a three-hour phone call once a year. I'd prefer to know how Joanna is doing all throughout the year. I don't need a marathon phone call or a novel-length email. A simple reply to "Hey, how are you doing? Is everything OK?" would suit me just fine.

I've wondered if she's alive or not. I've wondered if the man she lives with but who doesn't love her is intercepting my phone messages. Has he somehow manipulated her mind?

One of the things about Joanna is that she has always been able to identify the perfect gift for me at any given time. Last year, this hit a snag when she bought me a life-size cardboard stand-up of Glinda, the good witch of the north. I'm a big Glinda fan, don't get me wrong, but I live in a 1200 square-foot house that is already too full of weird stuff that my mother insists on forcing on me. Glinda remains folded up and shoved between storage cabinets where she gets whacked by the doors and where Frank accidentally kicks the edge of her dress (and swears) at least once a week. Sending me the picture from the catalog would have made me laugh; sending me the 6-foot stand-up Glinda just irritated me.

After hearing nothing from Joanna for a year, a Christmas gift showed up on my doorstep. It was from a company that ships packages of Philadelphia foods to those who miss the taste of home. The box contained a hoagie (meat sandwich), a cheese steak (meat sandwich), two Philly pretzels (big carbs I can't have), cherry soda, Golberg's peanut chews, and some Tastykakes.

Let's play, "How well do you know me?" Ummm, I'm a vegetarian and I have been for years. I don't drink anything carbonated and I haven't for probably 15 years. I don't eat chewy breads because of my Eustachian tube dysfunction (doctor's orders). I haven't been able to eat chewy, sticky candy since the early 1990s when I had complex dental work done; in fact, I can't even chew gum. The Tastykakes are in the refrigerator, chilling in a box of spite.

This would have made a lovely gift for someone, but giving it to me really just shows a complete lack of thought. Does the thought still count if, in fact, there is no evidence that thought actually occurred? Has this woman completely forgotten who I am?

After opening the box and laying out the contents on the kitchen counter, I retreated to the living room sofa. For the rest of the evening, I fought back quiet tears, mostly without success. It wasn't because the gift was all wrong; it was because the gift clearly demonstrated how the friendship had apparently become nearly meaningless to someone who I had, until now, always assumed would care about it as deeply as I did. It was devastating to realize this loss.

Frank ate the cheese steak and the pretzels, and he gave everything else away to coworkers.

This is not how holiday gift-giving works. Does it? A heart-felt gift and a gift hastily given out of a sense of obligation are not one and the same--and it's hard to disguise the latter as the former.

All I really hoped for was a phone call or an email. Don't send me a useless gift and expect it to speak for our friendship. Or maybe that's exactly what it does.