Remember young love? The lightning speed with which it strikes? The soaring happiness you feel from one smile, one glance, one brief-but-oh-so-meaningful conversation (like,“Can I borrow your math notes?”)?
Remember the dizzying ups and downs, when nuance was everything? “Today he asked if he could have my pizza. What does that mean?” When his most casual glance at me was an emotional thumbs up that could decide my fate (for the day, at least), as if he was a junior high school Caesar?
Remember when he asked you to go for a walk through the halls one day after school and you went because it was a chance to be alone with him? Remember when you and he paused next to the ugly orange lockers? Remember when everything you ever wanted and needed and hoped and prayed for came true in that one blinding second when he kissed you? Remember the pure, absolute joy and rapture that washed over you? Remember thinking that you’d die because the human heart could not contain all that happiness?
I loved him desperately, with all the passion a teenage girl can muster. I loved him stubbornly, certain that we were meant to be because fairy tales always came true and happily ever after was real. I loved him blindly, because how dare you say he has faults because you’re obviously so pathetic you can’t see how wonderful and amazing and perfect he is?
He was my hero, and I wore those impossibly rose-colored glasses as if they’d been Superglued to my face. Everything he did was completely and utterly amazing. And romantic. And thrilling. And heartbreaking. And soul-shattering.
I may have called his house just to hear him answer. I may have felt my pulse race when I saw his car somewhere (or even a car that looked kind of like his). I may have said a silent prayer with my every breath and heartbeat. I may have allowed my love to drive me to do things that some might say had a distinct air of eau de stalker about them.
What I was, was a shadow; my metaphorical, metaphysical sun rose and set on him.
I loved him far longer than I should have, and so much more than he deserved. I would have given him anything he asked me for, done anything he asked of me.
When he asked me, I helped him convince my best friend to go out with him.
I was sure his happiness was the Most. Important. Thing. That I loved him enough to let him go. That someday he’d suddenly realize he’d loved me all along and come to me and we’d ride off into the sunset and live happily ever after with every sappy cliché’ that’s ever formed in the most delusional mind that ever existed and –
I know.
Barf.
Even the largest and most beautiful of statues has feet of clay. And I saw his at a Fourth of July barbecue when the whole gang met at the home that was our home all through high school. The whole group of us made a pact to all come back there on July 4, 2000 with spouses, significant others and children.
He asked the group, “Does anyone remember who I went to Hearts’ Festival with freshman year?”
I couldn’t breathe. My body went numb. My soul may have left my body for what was probably a moment that felt like a lifetime. My heart pounded, stopped, pounded again. I went cold all over for an instant. Finally, I felt my lips move.
“Me. You went to Hearts’ Festival freshman year with me.”
“Oh, yeah!” he said. “I forgot about that. Ha.”
And just like that, the scars on my (finally) healed heart began to bleed once again. I realized he was an entire section in the story of my life – multiple chapters, at least, maybe his own volume – and I wasn’t even a footnote in his.
And then, before I was done reeling from that blow, before I realized a second one was coming, he casually asked, “So are there any girls here I didn’t go out with in high school?”
In an instant, those rose-colored scales fell from my eyes, and I saw him clearly.
So totally not worth it — not then, not now, not ever.
That was the day I learned happily ever after isn’t a given, and just because you love someone doesn’t mean they’re going to love you back. Or even remember you existed. There’s a Serbo-Croatian quote that goes, “First love isn’t always best love.” I know now that the best love is loving myself – even if I’m still working on that.