boyfriends, breakups, and bitches: part the first

my life history in relationships

to start off, I was a ham as a kid. a HUGE ham. everyone loved me. and I’m not just talkin’ when I was too little to remember, either. I’m talkin’ from about the age of three to about the age of seven. and men, especially, thought I was the cutest thing ever.

I’m not even kidding. we literally have photos of my six-year-old self draped, in all seriousness DRAPED over the laps of cute men. I always had a man. in daycare, in preschool, in any place that I went to the men loved me for some unfathomable reason–and I loved it. all the male waiters at the restaurants near our apartment knew me and I talked to them and they slathered me with affection and basically whatever I asked for.

my first “boyfriend” was probably someone I don’t remember, but the first one I do remember was Foster. we were in two different classes in preschool; he was in the neighboring classroom to my own. reportedly I had another boyfriend simultaneously, who was in the classroom on the other side, and my five-year-old logic rationalized this to my mother as “they’re on different sides, so they don’t see each other, so it’s okay.” I do remember Foster. I remember coyly inching across the room during movie time whenever the teachers seated us separate, and inevitably ending up with my head on his shoulder or in his lap.

apparently I had other boyfriends between Foster and my strange stretch of boyfriendlessness from 4th to 8th grade, but I wouldn’t really know to tell about them.

the next boyfriend I remember–and believe me, I know this is quite a jump–was in the 8th grade. this one was recent enough that I shouldn’t refer to him by name, so I will simply call him “A.”

for a little background which I will explain in further depth at a later date, my parents are divorced and have been for quite some time. my mother has remarried to my current stepfather and they’ve been married for eight years or so now. my father on the other hand remarried to a woman that I abhorred  but then later divorced her, too. I live with my mother, so when she remarried, me, my mom, and my stepdad moved away from my old “hometown” (I will explain why that’s in quotes at a later date as well). after we moved I started going back to my father’s place during summer and winter breaks, and because he worked a regular job I had to attend summer camp.

at summer camp, I met a lovely (if not a little short and a little thickset) boy, and that was A. at this time I was in… what, fifth grade? sixth? something like that, and being the silly middle school children that everyone is at that age, we decided to “date.” in fact, we were encouraged to do so by our mutual friends Jared and Rachel (sorry Rachel if you ever read this, however unlikely that may be) who were also “dating” at the time. So we were two pairs, me and A, Jared and Rachel.

A and I went on one date and one date only during our period of “dating” and all we did was go and watch a movie. the movie was The Mummy: Tomb of the Dragon Emperor, which is a terrible horrible movie that I wouldn’t recommend to anyone and about which I still feel a little stupid and guilty for it tarnishing my datemovie watch list. anyways, the “relationship” didn’t go anywhere.

it wasn’t until 8th grade that we even started talking again, and beyond that had any semblance of a real relationship. it might seem silly, but both of us went through a lot in the three years between–you know how middle school is. he had been through considerably more than I, however, including being hospitalized for several weeks, which I don’t care to elaborate on.

and so we started talking again, and apparently talking to me gave him a lot of comfort during rough times. eventually we started dating, confessing our feelings for each other entirely on whim and accident, and we were a couple. this continued for one year, long distance, with absolutely no face-to-face contact during that time. he was my first real boyfriend, though some wouldn’t consider him even that due to the lack of contact. but the feeling was there.

but our year ran out, and he ended things. he told me he was afraid of cheating on me, afraid of looking at other girls, and he told me that I deserved someone who would never even consider looking at someone other than me. he told me the distance was hard on him. and so he dumped me, though he would never call it that.

the year or so that transpired after that–I guess it was my sophomore year by then?–was rough. I was lost, basically. now that I look back it seems stupid, but all I know is that those emotions affected me strongly then and I still remember the psychological marks they left. I probably would have resorted to something like cutting, but I have always been too chickenshit to take a blade to my own skin. I did seriously contemplate suicide once, and less seriously plenty of other times. poetry was my outlet, and the night I nearly did it I sat down and wrote a poem instead. I will, of course, speak more to the saving grace that is poetry some other time.

as much as I hate to end this on a depressing note, this post is getting quite long and I should probably save more of this story for the second part. not that anyone reads this, but for anyone who does: I promise that this is about where the depressing part of this tale ends, and from here on out it only gets better. ♥

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