Love Life – An Introduction

11 Dec

heartsMy first love. Easy.

I was in the fourth grade. Had a major crush on a quasi-geeky, blond, blue eyed bookworm, with hair that covered the entire left side of his face. I knew we had that special bookworm-to-bookworm bond, even though we never spoke, or looked at each other, or sat next to each other, and I drew little red hearts with his name in them all over my diary and imagined the deep conversations we’d have about books and about our love for each other once he finally noticed me.

That went on for a while. I don’t think I was over it before I turned thirteen. Talk about your cereal monogamist, even before I had ever kissed a guy I knew that crushes were supposed to last forever, or at least long enough for the guy to grow out of his geekiness, start wearing baggy pants and think he’s cool, an obvious turn off.

Ages 14-16. Girls will be girls.

Well there were many little insignificant crushes here, mostly since, well, I was 14-16, so by definition, there had to be crushes. Otherwise I’d have had nothing to day dream about and fill up my diaries with.

I went to camp. There was always some hot DWAG to fall for. And there was N. He was a good friend, completely platonic, but I loved him deeply. I loved him the way I thought I would have loved my brother if I’d had one. I remember being amazed at how intense the feeling was, very powerful fourteen-year-old emotional stuff. I was terribly depressed at fourteen. I was doing the whole poetry-writing-loner thing, and thought that thinking about death was cool. N was at least as messed up as I was, and a good friend at a time that I didn’t really have any friends, not real ones anyway.

Age 16. The drama begins.

  1. Insane crush on a boy who later in this story turns out to be gay, but drives me nuts with mixed messages. He’s also completely messed up, and I have to “save him”, because that’s my thing, although he is, sadly, beyond saving.
  2. First boyfriend. Kisses me on a field trip (my first kiss, hurray!) and dumps me the next day, but then changes his mind (asshole), confesses his everlasting love for me  and we go out for two years. And have sex, yes. Very bad inexperienced teenage sex which we think is really good.
  3. Confusion. Various platonic male friends, whom I spend tons of time with and am attracted to, or they are attracted to me, or both, causing me to feel guilty that I could have a boyfriend and be attracted to other people. Do I need to mention that without exception they are all completely messed up or in trouble and need some sort of saving? Are you seeing a pattern here?

Age 18. Never trust anyone.

This one blows. This is the chapter about Y. One of those notorious platonic friends I had, maybe my most intense high school relationship. We are as intimate as is only possible in high school, when you still believe that it’s a good thing to share all your secrets with someone else, and you have absolutely zero filters, and you have never really been betrayed before so you allow yourself to be as trusting as you’ll ever be. He was as sad and serious and cynical as a boy that age could be, and guess what? Yes. I was going to save him.

Three years of friendship, followed by one night of passion (well, two) and then came the screening of phone calls and the big SCREW YOU, never to be seen again. OUCH.

Age 19. What is it with me a gay guys?

He was the saddest of them all. I thought his sadness made him pretty. I wanted to, well, save him.

Later that year. The Internet.

I’m bored, and the Internet’s this new cool thing. So I date a ton of guys, most of whom turn out to be creepy or weird, but one of them is lovely and I end up married to him, and twelve years later pregnant with his baby, and thirteen years later dealing with his leaving, because – get this – he is unhappy.


Now, I do have some academic background in literature, so I know that there is this thing called a motif, that takes form of little seemingly unimportant details,  that ultimately turn out to tie the entire story together and deliver some sort of message.

Looking back now at my “Love Life, an Introduction” I think almost any Freshman Lit student could easily point out the recurring motif of this unfortunate little story.

Now, I will say this. I’m not sorry for any of it. I’m sad for a lot of it, but I’m not sorry it happened, I have no regrets. This shit, unfortunately, had to happen, in order for me to become who I am today: A strong, happy, accomplished woman, a mother, who is completely turned off by sadness, who is not looking for anyone to save, but only for companionship and love.

I know for sure that the next chapter of this saga is going to be completely different.  And it can begin with an incredible 6 month old little boy, whom I love endlessly and unconditionally, and who loves me in return, who is not sad at all, but rather happy, excited about life, ready to live every moment to the fullest, and I get to be a part of his life.


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