No Closure

He made me feel special – like I was one in a million. And maybe he really thought I was, but after a while, he didn't treat me like that. He treated me like his trophy. Like a piece of meat he wanted to show to the world. He told me I HAD to wear a dress to a party at a friend's house when it was freezing outside, and in the same time span, told me that if he became a rock star, would be “obligated” to sign a fan's breasts if the situation arose. I lost the small bit of self-respect I had, and I felt like I was the “queen concubine” of the house: the #1 whore. There were lots of guys who would go over to his house to party, and girls would come over too, but I was the one who was ALWAYS there. I didn't sleep with anyone else, but it almost felt like a status symbol: being his girl. The other girls were called all kinds of things, but no one (that I know of) talked crap about me, because they would hear about it. I was the “coolest” one. It sounds weird that my pride would be so swollen while my self-respect was gone... but it was. When I got a job, I was automatically expected to pay for everyone's food with my hard-earned money, which ticked me off since he didn't have a job himself.

I didn't like what he expected me to do to him. I didn't like what he wanted me to do for him. Pretty soon, I didn't like him anymore. Even then, I stayed with him. That was the worst thing I could have done... I led him on because no matter how angry he made me, and no matter how temporarily I imagined our relationship would last, I was afraid to imagine life without him. I couldn't see myself having a future with him, though. A few times, the thought entered my mind that I may end up pregnant with his child, and immediately my mind went into battle mode, strategizing exactly how I would remove him from my child's life. His house wasn't a safe place to be. It wasn't a place for a child: there was alcohol everywhere, marijuana  bongs, drugs... the place was infested with cockroaches (and when I say infested, I mean that they were even inside the microwave time display). The house was hardly ever cleaned. It was a party house, and there was no way I was ever going to let my child into that environment, even if it meant calling the authorities to rat his family out in order to declare him and the home “unfit”.

Finally, I realized I didn't want to be with him anymore. I broke up with him, but he was like a magnet, always drawing me back to him. I realized that the only way I could get out of our pattern of lust for good would be to break all contact with him. I stopped calling, stopped coming over. I was still in love with him. It broke my heart at first... I chose not to date anyone for a year after I'd made that commitment, and throughout that year I found myself crying late at night and wondering what he was doing. Several times I held the phone in my hand, my mind screaming his number and trying to will my fingers into dialing. He called me a couple times too, crying and in desperation, missing me. I don't know how I found the strength to tell him no... it must have come from God.

Years later, after I'd gotten married and had a daughter, I kept having dreams about him. I hated it at first (who wants to be reminded of their ex?) but after about a week, I realized that maybe I needed to talk to him again. I'd broken off our relationship very immaturely (I don't know how else I could have done it at that moment, but I did regret that it happened that way) by not contacting him again. I set out to apologize to him, but he'd blocked me from the account I tried to contact him on. I tried to ask a mutual friend to send my apology for me, but he wouldn't listen to the friend. Finally I got brave and told his girlfriend that I was sorry for the way I'd ended things. I was clear to say that I am not sorry THAT we broke up, but sorry for the way I went about it. She was surprisingly respectful (though of course, not thrilled) and told me that after me, she had to pick up the pieces. I felt awful for that... but I also knew that there was probably not going to be a chance of her passing along that apology to him, especially since mention of me tended to put him in a bad mood.

Not long after that, he died in a freak accident on an ATV. I never did get to say I was sorry. I was cruel, vain, jealous, and vindictive back then... and he was one of the many who suffered for it. After he died, there was no closure. People I had loved died before him, but that was different. They loved me and they knew I loved them. This... all that was left was a gaping hole, and utter disbelief. Bitterness took root, and I found a way to be angry with him even after he was gone. Though completely illogical, my brain screamed, “HE PLANNED THIS! HE DID THIS ON PURPOSE TO SPITE ME!” For all of my efforts, I had absolutely no root of hope to hold to; no salve for my wound.

Memories came unbidden and I was reminded just how kind he had been to me at times.  He made me feel beautiful and smart when I thought I was ugly and stupid. Once, I'd been injured and he took weeks to nurse me back to health while dealing with my awful crabby attitude. It wasn't long after these shows of kindness that I broke up with him.

For all the memories,  I couldn't think of a single time I had been kind to him. Even now, I can't. 

Your Story is Important

I keep hearing that lately. "Your story is important."

Every time I hear it, I picture me pointing at myself, with a look of disbelief. "Me?"

The truth is, as much a fan as I am of my story (I love writing and it's always been my way to process my emotions), I doubt that anyone else can be inspired by it.

I mean, there are far more inspirational stories out there. Mine's kinda boring by comparison.

Being a mom of youngins adds to these feelings. No one really cares how many dirty diapers I changed today... and as a mom, I sometimes feel less important than the people with REAL meaning to their lives. The people working for charities, heading up support groups, starting businesses and thriving. Who wants to hear about a lady who thinks she's probably at least a little certifiable, and does a bunch of random crap for fun? Where is the great inspiration behind that?

In fact, that's probably why, if you'll notice, I took a break from blogging on here for a while. I got so driven by the numbers and started to use them to gauge my value. Even when there were a lot of numbers, I felt stupid when there weren't any comments. And then I realized that my story probably just doesn't matter.

What's one story when there are millions of stories to look for, right? And millions of perspectives to read. So many people are better at wording their stories than I am.

Well... I don't know what one story is against millions. But I'm not even sure that's what it's about. I think it's about the ONE person who my story MIGHT touch. The ONE person who may identify with it. The ONE person who could gain strength from knowing my weaknesses.

That's who I want to share my story with.

The other day, I took a chance and shared a snippet of my story. I started writing a document called "The Hard Parts" about the difficult parts of my journey. I shared a piece about my schizophrenic uncle, thinking no one would find it significant... but someone did. Someone happened to read it, who had dealt with the same sort of thing with her brother. She said that what I wrote had brought her to tears, and she thanked me for writing it.

That's the kind of person I want to write for.

Not the masses.

Just the one lonely soul, who, like myself, is just trying to figure out their way.

I may not be the one to show them the way... but I will travel alongside them.