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Once upon a time would be a good way to start this… but in once upon a time, there is always a happy ending. This story doesn’t have one. Yet anyways.
Growing up, my momma always told me that men were assholes, and to watch my back. She also taught me that the only person you can depend on is yourself. She encouraged me to go beyond society’s norms, to think outside the box and to color with the crayons no one else used. She was a smart woman. Never finished college; was raising two kids on her own. She worked two, sometimes three jobs, while my step-dad wouldn’t pay child support. Well, he was my ex-step-dad, really. They were divorced. But I digress. I learned a lot from my momma. She would brag about me to her friends, but she would never tell me she was proud of me, because she knew it’s what I wanted to hear. Made me work harder, it did. Always wanted momma to be proud.
I ran through the woods with the boys, played dress-up with the girls, and studied hard, always trying to be the smartest in my class. I watched my momma, and learned, and over the years, I developed a mask. On the outside, I was calm, cool, and confident. Nothing fazed me, and I was cunning, cocky, and brilliant. I always had a plan, was always getting into trouble just so I could worm my way out of it. I was a pretty smooth talker, but I wasn’t exactly a pure soul. I always ran with the wrong crowd, and from an early age, the friends I had taught me that if you couldn’t get something you want by pouting for it, or working for it, then just take it. I took it to a whole new level, taking things just because I could. I also wasn’t afraid to use violence to get my point across.
My family moved around every few years… but no matter where we went, I ruled the playground. I may have been a girl, but that didn’t mean I was weak. Oh no. I did horseback riding, football, soccer, gymnastics, tap, jazz, ballet, tumbling, I was an active kid.
Back then; I was sure of whom I was. Sure, on the inside I had my doubts and insecurities. I wanted to be loved, and praised, and recognized for my work. I had dreams, ambitions. But no one knew, because this was my secret, and was kept well hidden behind the mask. Even my closest friends weren’t privy to this information.
I never knew that when I had just reached begun teen hood though that I would meet someone who would change my life forever. Someone who I thought I’d be able to trust with everything in me, who I was as a person. And I never expected that he’d be the one to break me, the one to destroy the person I’d carefully crafted myself into. He would tear me down from the inside out, and he would take my heart with him when he was done.
If I close my eyes, I can still picture the look on my momma’s face when I told her I was in love. I can also see her look when I told her was three year older than me. My momma warned me. Said he was a man, and men are worse than boys. She and I would argue often about him. I didn’t wanna listen to her, and she didn’t wanna listen to me. Finally she told me it was my mistake, and that she hoped I knew what I was doing. I hoped so too. I never thought I could possibly be out of my league.
That boy was amazing in every way. He captivated me in ways that no one and nothing else had. With my short attention span, and my need for things to always be changing, he was perfect. We balanced each other out. It seemed that as our personalities changed day by day, as mine often did, his were right there with me, always countering mine and working with them, complimenting them. He could make me smile, make me laugh. I could cry in front of him. I could fall asleep in his arms. I couldn’t even fall asleep in my momma’s arms. That boy made me feel things I never thought I could. And I decided my momma was wrong. He wasn’t a threat. That boy was everything I dreamed of. He was a musician, lived an exciting life, a life on the edge of a very dangerous blade. He had friends that made mine look like angels, did things that made my actions seem insignificant. But he kept an eye on me, kept me in line. Told me that even though he did bad things didn’t mean I could do them too. Even as he smoke, drank, dealt and did drugs, was a master thief, and bluffed with the best of them, I was kept away from it all, able to watch, but glued to his side, his hawk like eyes ever watching, ever waiting to glare at any threat. Now, I had never needed protecting, but I allowed him to do this because oddly, I liked it. It gave me this somewhat unpleasant, yet pleasant warm, fuzzy feeling inside, like I had swallowed a bunny slipper. Or something. He taught me about controlling my emotions, masking my eyes. He taught me how to love, to trust, and to open up.
How I loved him. Really. I was young, of course, only fourteen… but I loved him more than anything, and I would have stopped at nothing to make sure nothing happened to jeopardize what we had. Because he loved me, and back then, that’s all that mattered. If I had begun with once upon a time, this would be a good place to have a happy ending, but in my life, there is no such thing as a happy ending. Things happened between that boy and I. Things that to this day, I don’t talk about. After almost two years, the pain is to real, too raw. But he knew me, oh boy did he know me, and he knew just what to say, and just what to do, to ensure that not only was I broken, but that I was shattered, and that I’d never be able to be repaired.
The pain… if I had to describe it, I’d say it felt like I was dying. Every word he said felt like a hot iron through my chest. Every action brought scalding, unwanted tears to my eyes. I wouldn’t let him know. My pride wouldn’t allow it. So I fought back. I gave just as good as I got, and the war had begun. For a year, we had a game. We would dance around each other, through barbs the way you would parry with a sword. And then with a thrust, we’d deliver a final blow, and fade into the shadows. He got the last blow, I think. The way he acted, I never could tell if I hurt him, but I would pray that I did. I would watch the stars at night, twinkling lights that in past had brought me comfort, and I would beg of anyone listening to make him feel the way I did. To make him feel as though his world had crumbled, as though his heart was bleeding, as though everything that used to make him himself, was now gone, was now mine. That he had to start over, the way I had to.
Every thing I had loved before I got mixed up in love with him, was no longer enjoyable. No matter where I went, I saw him. Maybe not in person, but in memories, but it was all the same. I couldn’t ride the horses, I couldn’t dance, I couldn’t sing… I couldn’t paint. The brush would falter, and the colors blur, my tears would fall, and the colors would dim. My voice wouldn’t come when I sang, it would crack and waver, and the words would burn into my mind vivid scenes of him, and would yank painful memories to the surface. My wounds wouldn’t heal.
I threw myself into other activities, other relationships, determined to piece myself back together. If only I knew where to start. I destroyed myself, my spirit, my soul, my body. The scars will run deep, and even as they fade with time, I’ll still see them in my mind, and still feel the harsh pain. The wounds on the inside will never go away, because only he can make them disappear. I started from scratch on myself as a person, keeping what I could and changing what I couldn’t. Words poured from my fingers as the tears poured from my eyes, and my heart bled onto paper, taking the form of words, of sentences. I would later burn what I had written, because the words were raw, full of emotion, and I couldn’t stand the thought of anyone ever seeing them.
I would not allow someone to know me the way he had.
I fell in lust through those years, grew from a girl to a teen, and now I teeter on that edge, not wishing to take the fall to the other side. Just as I was sure of myself, just as the final brick had been laid on the wall that guarded me as a person, he spoke to me again. Once a month, then week, to almost nightly, we would trade words, and I would be careful of what I said, even as I played the role of concerned friend and nursed his wounds from recent rabid girlfriends. I would find myself thinking of him during the day, loving him and missing him, and wishing that things were ok for him. I took back my hateful prayers, and prayed that he be ok, that he find whatever he sought, whether it be with me or not, and I vowed to stand by him, no matter his choices. He had helped me grow, though destroyed me in the process, and by some miracle or insanity, I still held some respect for him, and I still loved him more than a pirate loves his treasure and freedom. I tried, every now and then, to voice my feelings to him, and more often than not, he’d push me away, but sometimes, when I got him at the right moment, he’d confess that he’d still loved me, and that I had hurt him badly. But a few moments later, he’d find a way to burn me, and push me back, so that he could crawl back into his hole.
To this day I love him. When he speaks to me, I can’t put into words what I feel. Happiness, that he is there, relief that he is ok, worry about whether anything bad is going on, pleasure that he is giving me attention, love that he is simply him, loyalty should someone harm him in any way, anger that he is so blind, hate that he feels for her like that… My momma always told me that you could never feel two equally strong emotions at the same time, especially if they are opposites. But my momma never met a boy like him. He can take me through the entire emotional spectrum in the span of five seconds. Yet no matter what emotion I feel for him at the time, there is always an underlying layer of love. And it will never change.
