The past is in the past

Giving your heart to another person is hard enough. Finding out you gave it to the wrong person... well, it’s like breaking your heart all over again. Maybe worse. Tears tear your heart to pieces, and you keep your heart on lockdown, fearing the pain of another heartbreak. Your heart aches for anothers’ love, anothers’ touch and yet it quivers in fear.

When I was 15 years old, I met Bill, whose name has been changed for the sake of this story. He was 20, and I was wary. But he was so kind. Funny. He was sweet and he called me every night. I grew to like him very much. I thought he was absolutely handsome and adorable and convinced myself that 5 years wasn’t a big deal, I was mature enough anyways. But I suppose the fact that this story exists goes to show that I wasn’t.

After weeks of talking, Bill told me that he loved me. I had been in a bad relationship before, but I believed I was smarter because of that. I felt stronger, more prepared to be in a relationship. I was still wary, so it took me a while to tell him that I love him. Nearly three weeks later, I said it back. Yeah, 5 weeks into the relationship and we were “in love”. Boy, how I wish I had never said it back.

I met with him at the park after school, but only twice. I took my friend, Harvey (whose name has also been changed) with me. I was so thrilled each time, I remember kissing him. How his icy blue eyes looked sweetly into my light brown pair. The feeling of the bushy dark brown beard and his smile. Its’ not something I want to remember, but do you ever really forget the first person you fell in love with? The most bitter sweet memory I could possibly have was eskimo kisses on a dreary, rainy day, cold yet I felt warm. I remember his hugs, his cologne. The way he felt in my arms. His kiss on my forehead.

Ugh.

Shortly afterwards, he began to ignore me. For weeks on end. I messaged him daily, he saw it daily. He never responded. I cried night and day. I was such a fool, I had fallen in love, and believed he loved me too. Of course not. How could anyone love me? I was no prize. A 7/10 at best, an average, lame girl. I hated myself. I hated my idiocy. I blamed myself, never him.

And after weeks of crying, once I had just started moving on, he messaged me. 11 pm. Asking for.... well, nude pictures. I was so excited and happy to hear from him, I obliged, like the dummy I was. He apologized and told me he loved me, he was just going through a rough time, he was depressed. Hey, I get it. I‘ve been affected by major depressive disorder since the age of 11. I immediately forgave him.

And because I loved him so, I let it happen again. And again. I let him stand me up, accepting his sorry excuses for why he couldnt see me three times in a row. I cried, I waited. I convinced myself that was just how he coped. Besides, he loved me, right? He listened to me cry on the phone when I found out my dad was doing drugs, he was my best friend, my shoulder to cry on, my buddy.

Until one time he ignored me, and I decided to check on his facebook. Look, a girl gets a little crazy. Especially when the man is posting online while ignoring you, about how he wants to meet up and talk with people, but never me.

He had shared something about “Every guy has that one girl they’ll never get over.” and he had commented “Yup. But it’s impossible to talk to her now.”

Now hold the phone, I wasn’t impossible to talk to, I was right there. I decided I wasn’t going to be played like a fiddle while this guy mooned over his ex. I was sick of giving everything I had for him to just use me when he was bored.

My parents found out I was talking to a 20 year old guy, because he hit me up for sex. We had never done it, and to this day I’m a virgin, but I had planned on losing my virginity to him because I loved him and believed he loved me. How naive. They blocked him, but he hit me up on snapchat. I had been through a lot that summer, my dad had overdosed, my mom and I were fighting a lot, another guy was trying to get me to be his girlfriend, I didn’t like him, he kept trying to guilt trip me into it. I couldn’t see my sisters or dad, my mom didn‘t really see me much, she began to hate my grandmother, who I lived with, because I chose to live with her. I think I grew up more that summer than I did in my entire life.

I told Bill that no, I didn’t want him. I deserved someone who loved me wholly and truly. Not some...some fuckboy. He tried for a long time, until I blocked him because I met my new boyfriend.

Its’ now nearly two years since I met Bill. I write this not in mourning, but in remembrance. I don’t regret Bill. And I don’t regret the outcome of the situation. I know the difference between “love” and love now. I know what it means to be loved, what it means to be the only girl a boy loves. And I know what it means to be used, a toy that one easily gets bored of. Love is wholesome and pure. Love doesn’t hurt. Disappointment hurts. People hurt. Their actions hurt, but love is beautiful. And Bill, you can go screw yourself.