At the advice of a friend, I went back and read some of my previous writing. Nothing from here. From way back. Before MySpace and Facebook, before high speed internet was common, before I had real challenges, before I became so jaded.
It's amazing how important and critical every single thing can be when you're sixteen. High school bullshit is the end of the world. Your world. Which happens to revolve around that one guy that never deserved your attention, let alone your whole heart. But everything is new and crazy and wonderful and terrible and exciting and scary and it all matters.so.much. You know everything, and nothing. You know exactly who you are, but you're more lost than you'll ever be. Love is a storybook. It's poetry and beauty and late night phone calls that last until morning and tearing your heart out to make sure it's still beating. It's when part of you still believes everything ends up like the movies. I'm now convinced that Disney gave us unrealistic expectations of love. And Hollywood did nothing to correct the problem, but made it so much worse.
One entry reads as follows: "Things with *name removed to protect the guilty* are definitely over. Just admitting that kills me because of everything we went through. Looking back on how I felt about him just blows my mind. Part of me keeps hoping something amazing will happen and we'll get back together, forever this time, but I know that's stupid. He's hurt me so many times. But somewhere I know that if he showed up and wanted to try again, I would. Because I love him."
The second worst part of that entry is that it occurs nine months into my new relationship that I was so desperately trying to make into something is desperately wasn't. The absolute worst part of that entry was: but I love him. He lies to me about everything, but I love him. He disappears for days without a word, but I love him. He tells me I'm not pretty, really, that my red hair and great eyes are the only things that make me special, but I love him. When the fuck did love excuse horrible?
But he said he wanted me. So I stayed. I prayed that things would change and happily ever after would one day magically appear. I allowed myself to be in an emotionally unhealthy relationship because I was scared I wasn't worth enough without him. I believed I mattered more because he wanted me. I gave that authority away, to another person, which is just flat-out appalling, and far too common.
Did I say this was before I was jaded? I meant that I could pinpoint the moment it happened. For those of you who have wondered how the hell I got this way, there's your answer. There's always one that ruins it for everyone else. In preschool it's the kid who eats all the paste. In high school, it's the kid who somehow cheats on the open book test. In work environments, it's the person that always shows up late so everyone gets watched. In love, it's the first one who breaks your heart. The shining moments of glory and sins of the first love will forever be the standard by which all others are judged.
I counted at least four times in that particular journal, which spanned about a year and a half when I had "finally figured out what love was." And I'm pretty sure each time I had no fucking clue. And I'm even more sure that even now, almost ten years later, that I still really don't. Maybe it's not a constant. Maybe it's something that changes with you, and the key is finding that person who will weather those changes and still find ways to amaze you.
