Fireflies dance in and out of the porch light on an endless summer night that feels like yesterday, even though yesterday was Christmas. Memories are funny like that; I can remember what never was more than most of my recent history. Like carolers at my door serenading in the season…really happened. Or that dance in the moonlight with the perfect man…never was. There’s so much to have in this life and yet I want to dream up more, create something else, something better than reality can offer. I can and do make the dreams. I manufacture a reality. Those that I choose not to share, I keep in my journal. Because imagining a perfect dream is oftentimes much sweeter than it could be in life. Perfect memories are most often those of the land of never was than the actual past.

What is wonderful is that each day is an opportunity to live closer to that dream. To imagine something better and possibly try something new that changes your life is a worthy purpose. I’m not sure if tomorrow will be like yesterday’s Christmas morning or if next week I’ll be dreaming of a better today. What I know and what I remember are unimportant because what will be is always changing. Where I am today does not determine where I can go tomorrow. I can build on an old foundation or start anew on a fresh plot of land. I am fortunate to have my imagination to guide my thoughts, many of us give it up long before we really need it.

I am a flirt. I have tendency to flirt with every man in the room. This makes for some great stories, wild adventures, and the assurance that my glass is never empty.  At first this sounds like a fairly excellent plan. However, when one is occupying their time seducing the room and not any one individual, two things occur. No single man feels special and therefore none pursue me because each assumes I am interested in the other. The second factor is that no man is given the opportunity to seduce me. In fact, it is the antithesis to all potential future dating. What I do is harmless and entertaining and yet it brings only temporary satisfaction and typically results in failed emotional connections.

If all men in the room are seduced equally they each assume they are nothing remarkable or special and do not pursue. If they believe they actually have a chance they put forth effort. This can be entertaining. But inevitably they cancel each other out. I cannot devote all of my time to a single person when attempting to seduce an entire room. What is wonderful is that this arrangement is satisfactory both to myself and the men involved. In worst case scenario no one involved is misled or harmed by this tame interaction.

Each man gets to a point of endearing closeness, but inevitably we have not reached real intimacy. As all the men in the room have been buying drinks, dancing, and putting their best show on, I am guaranteed to have a great night. I am also guaranteed to not be tempted to go home with any of them. I have given none of them the opportunity to woo me specifically and have led none of them to believe that have been seduced by them specifically. Therefore my attachment is to the attention and the show, not to the individual. They are not given the emotional commitment of a long conversation but rather enjoy lighthearted party banter. This can be exciting and enjoyable for both myself and the men involved. However it is not conducive to producing an adult relationship.

If everyone is kept at a comfortable distance no one truly gets to know each other. This was developed as a basic act of self-preservation on my part. It assures that I am always wanted more and never known well enough to be hurt. To learn this dance has taken years of precision, development, and obviously trial and error. I have been hurt in fact many of my past relationships consisted of little else. Typically this happens because the personality I portray and the individual that I really am are two very different people.

I am able to be the life of the party and turned on, so to speak, when there is an opportunity or need. In my day to day life I enjoy spending my time quiet, relaxed, and actually would rather go to dinner and a movie than a fundraising event. At parties and dinners I prefer my date to take the lead. I enjoy making sassy commentary to the person next to me but want the spotlight on the people I am with rather than myself. This makes dating difficult because typically the people who are drawn to the party persona want me to be that focal point. These men want me to pursue them and want to be taken care of in the relationship.

I go through a number of long and drawn out break-ups because I can and do interchange between the two personalities. Once the party is over and I am comfortable being my quieter self. A person who enjoys a boisterous and outgoing woman is usually less attracted to me as a mild mannered and more conservative woman. This is not a fantastic revelation. What can be hurtful is that I am not the wild and boisterous person they were initially drawn towards. I am also dissatisfied because I want that person to switch gears and take the lead so I can relax and quietly observe. Unfortunately, this change comes as a surprise and many men are not the foil I need.

I can see how it is disconcerting to begin dating a person believing them to be one way and having to discover they are someone else entirely. It is my fault. I can’t hold these men accountable because I introduced them to the party persona and kept them at a safe distance. However, upon reaching the level of intimacy where I begin to open up and reveal my true self they are confused. Now they are having the exact opposite feeling. They thought they knew and understood who and what I was like, only to discover that the intimacy they had acquired over our courtship is suddenly a lie. I am not the person they had grown accustomed to spending time with and liked very much.

My Auntie’s rules of dating should have taught me about this issue long ago. She argues that standards for the relationship are set in the first three to five dates, if not the first or second. If he takes you out for McDonalds and you accept a second date, he knows he doesn’t need to take you nice places or buy you gifts. You are a cheap date. If he takes you out for lobster and you accept a second date, he knows you expect to be treated well. If you have sex on the first date, he knows you’re easy. Potentially future dates are just bootie-calls. These are fairly fluid but as I am 25 and single I think it’s fair to say that I have tried all three and basically if you date a man, odds are it can devolve into just sex regardless of where you start. It can also grow into something more if and when you are ready to be open and honest with who you truly are in all settings. I’m working on that every day.

What I have learned in the year that has passed since I wrote this piece is that being both halves is important. Being the life of the party and the quiet Sunday afternoon girl are important because both are me. I am not just one or the other. And anyone who expects me to behave as anything less than the multifaceted crystal that I am is not worth the effort. If I have to explain why I am the way I am more than how I got to be who I am, it’s not going to work. The other important lesson I’ve taken away is that being chatty and a flirt is fun, in a way it’s the speed dating of the party circuit. I’ve tried a few random conversations with most of the people I meet. I’ve shared opinions and they’ve shared their thoughts. I have already learned what a first or second date is meant to teach me, if I’d like a third or fourth. It makes sense to test the waters and spend time with many different men because only then can you hone your tastes and figure out what you really want. It has helped me find what men don’t work for me and which men really do. That and it sure as hell beats sleeping with them all.

My early twenties were a depressing and dark time in my life. I thought it important to never let your friends know you have a problem. My juvenile fear was that their pity would be more than I could bear. I was more concerned with them thinking I couldn’t handle my situation than the fact that I was hiding my misery from the only people who could or would help me.

I was terrified of being loved and helped. Trapped in an emotionally abusive relationship I thought I wanted what I had. I thought that because I had something it was something special. I worked every day to justify that unhealthy relationship. I was convincing myself that working through it means forgiving a man everything and asking for nothing in return. I thought I couldn’t leave because I didn’t have any fight left. I was completely exhausted by being the relationship and couldn’t put forth the energy to fight out of it. I allowed myself to be controlled and beaten down because I thought that was love. And I wanted to be in love more than anything.

Had I only allowed my friends to be there for me, I could have saved myself  four years of hiding in a cocoon of covers all day long. The tears and self-imposed exile could have been avoided. I have learned from my mistakes and firmly resolve to let people in, even when my news isn’t great. My only hope is that no young person feels the way I felt from 19 to 23. If the only voices telling you that this is a good relationship are yours and his, consider the value of talking to others. If it is a friend, if it is a sibling, parent, or a complete stranger, it is someone. When you have to create a way to make the story sound good or make that person sound nice so others will like them, chances are you’re not convincing the person you’re telling. You’re convincing yourself.

Life is many casual moments that become a history and build a life. There are formal events and inspirational stories but overwhelmingly the short stories of our days are full of folly, adventure, intrigue and simple bliss. I’ve been thinking a lot about David Foster Wallace’s ‘This is Water’ speech from the 2005 graduation ceremony at Kenyon College. His point was that there are very few things that we control in life but we do control our own thoughts.

We have the opportunity to learn from our experiences and grow with them. To grow our own personal selves independently from those around us we need space and time. This week I’ve wrapped myself in my work, in my romantic relationship and involved myself in the events and lives of my friends. These are all good things. However, I am a believer in the simple messages of God, signs or fate; whatever you believe in or want to call it. Anyway, in one week I have had two homeless men speak to me.

The first was crossing the street on my way out of the office and to my car. He yelled something at the man two people ahead of me. He yelled another statement at the woman in front of me. And as I cringed and waited for some come to Jesus statement or to be told I was a whore by a stranger I was surprised. The man got in my face and yelled, “This is Wednesday!” I laughed the rest of the way to my car.

The second comment came two days later from a man holding a cardboard sign, waiting at the stoplight for a handout. As I held my umbrella with both hands and tried to cross quickly to avoid puddles, the man said, “Looks like it might rain.” As it was already raining, I said, “You’re right. Have a good weekend.” He returned the sentiment and I spent the rest of the walk smiling.

I was thinking about how simple these ‘revelations’ were and yet in a way, they were profound. They spoke to me on two levels. First, they were both casual statements on the obvious and based on well known facts. Second, they were a reminder that the simple things in life are often the things we take most for granted and forget to appreciate.

This is Wednesday; I only have two days left in the business week. This is Wednesday I have volleyball tonight and I can appreciate that. This is Wednesday, the work day is over and I can fill the rest of my day in any way I see fit. This is Wednesday.

“Looks like it might rain.” Yes it does. It’s cloudy and my feet are wet so chances are it might continue to rain. Looks like it might rain, I should wear a jacket. Looks like it might rain, especially when it is indeed raining. Looks like it might rain.

These two homeless men provided simple testaments to the factual existence of certain realities in day to day living. These passing conversations are what I thought about this week. These men I do not know and most likely will never see again. They both changed the way I looked at the world if only for an evening or two. They reminded me that I do indeed have the power to think about whatever I want. I have the power to enjoy my day, even when I’m stuck in a dead end job I hate. I have the power to smile and laugh because even though there is a lot to do in the evenings, I don’t have to do it all. I have the power to live each simple moment to the fullest and with a calm appreciation for what is and what may be.

After all, it’s Wednesday and it looks like it might rain.

Jack’s  need to always be organized and responsible was the driving force that made me want to possess him. I coveted his eyes, his hands, his lips on mine, and the rest of his body. He was a constant distraction all summer. There was so little I could do to stop thinking of Jack, talking about Jack. What began as summer love quickly devolved into an ongoing obsession.

As though my mind were not my own, all that was me melted into a selfless pleasing shell. My only desire was to touch him, to amuse him in some way so he’d love me. I wanted Jack to love me most, love me best, and make me the center of his universe. I wanted his world to revolve around me. I wanted him to need me the way I did him. In a jealousy driven obsession, I lost myself in emotion thinking it was love.

The obsession with Jack concealed the fear I felt of loosing him. I wanted Jack to know the pain that was my world when he was not around. I justified my obsession with unequivocally leading questions, “Does that make him my one?” Never considering if the needs I wanted to meet for him, were needs that he was able or unable, willing or unwilling to meet for me. I sought anything to keep me from thinking about the shallow one-sided nature of our relationship. I almost made the insurmountable leap to, “He could be my one for always.” He just might have been if not for inevitable growth that happens as a young woman ages. In a way, I never thought I wasn’t right for Jack but on some level I always knew he wasn’t right for me.

Silence exists in a vacuum. There can be no other source. For I have heard the sound of silence and the fury that lies therein. There is no quiet peaceful time. Chances to be alone with your thoughts, yes. Attempts at relaxation, yes. But honest, truly honest silence does not exist. If it did though would it be that eerie fear that consumes you when you go in for a cat scan, or the warm vibrations that enter your being when you take a hot bath? I wonder if silence is scary or comforting, warm and mushy or hard like cold steel.

In a way silence is a lot like God. We have faith that it, she, he exists. Yet no one has God’s phone number. There’s prayer, some might argue, but isn’t that what happens when we are sitting in supposed silence? Asking the Lord for advice, filling even our most quiet and vulnerable moments with the ramblings of our train of thought. What if prayer is simply an inner monologue we never heard before, because of all of the noise?

If prayer exists in silence and silence doesn’t exist, does God exist? Obviously not physically, but spiritually? Is God silence? If God is silence is Satan noise? If so are only the deaf and dumb to be saved from the internal eternal noise of hell? Is noise poisonous? Well it must be if we are constantly seeking silence to free ourselves from its clutches. Is anger noise? Is peace silence? Is God noise and the Devil’s temptation silence? If God exists in noise and so much of noise is angry, is God angry? Or is God the sound of silence? Those little moments when we take the time to hear the things we’ve missed. Like the sound of the wind blowing, waves waving, the sun shining, hearts beating, even ourselves breathing. Then certainly all these things must also be God. Thus God is everything and every thing is God.

Independence feels like a long process but it is also a sudden realization when you know that you have it. Knowing something is right and doing the right thing are two very different things. Knowing what you have to do and having the courage to do it are two very different things. It’s that moment when you recognize you’re not asking someone else to do for you; you are doing things for yourself. It happens when make the first call to your doctor’s office. The first major purchase with your own money has an almost liberating feeling. It’s a personal bank account. When you spend the money you’ve earned on toilet paper and garbage bags. It’s taking on the responsibility of caring for yourself and walking away when it’s easier to fight. Knowing when your parents make a mistake, anyone but you can correct them. It is the realization that calling every day is more for Mom’s benefit than for yours. Knowing when you really need something, Dad doesn’t have it but he still sends it. It’s the understanding that you will always mean more to your younger siblings than you can imagine. It’s remembering Grandma’s birthday all on your own and calling her. It’s paying your own way, just because. And most of all it is the realization that you are never fully independent. You will always need someone’s help.

There’s a little bit of innocence in every act of militance. The basis for this interpretation is that it takes innocence to believe that there is good in other people. The passion that instigates and ignites this action is driven if not compelled by hope. Faith that things can change; the world, this relationship, this state of affairs and most basically people can improve.

Regardless of the materialistic or violent tendencies expressed by innovative leaders, their basic guidance stems from the innocent belief in a common good and in humanity’s ability to adapt. Revolution is based in shared hope, which makes others willing to take up your cause and fight by your side. That is why even when there is death, oppression and failed military coups the number revolutionaries keeps growing. True revolutionaries press on until they are able to express their need or are crushed by it. Learning and diversifying until they meet that goal, hope lives on and is shared. People who are moved to act believe in a change with such determination that they are willing to make sacrifices to see that need met.

The simple act of revolution one any level; personal, national or international, implies that there is a belief by one or many people that something better is possible. Regardless of what that change is or who is protesting, the common understanding is that there is room for progress. It is established that for some people the status quo is not working and that there may be a solution. People are willing to fight in order to alter their way of life or to preserve their worldview. The answer is out there and as an activist you are determined to share it.

Revolutionaries fight for no other reason than the hope that this solution, this action, this time will work. Militant action is based in the innocent belief that change is possible. It also demands the audacity to assume that you are the bearer of this answer. That although there may be positive aspects to the leader, group or government you oppose the solution you have found trumps all. Believing that as the bearer of this wisdom it is your duty to seize this moment in history and make the necessary room for your idea to grow, by any means necessary. All of these factors combine in the mind of the revolutionary. Militant action, though extreme, is based in the passionate belief that what you are doing is for good and the right reasons. After all, what is more innocent than hope?

In movies all the crazy girls look the part. If they don’t go to asylums, they lament about how they don’t have pills or a gun to end it all. In real life, the crazy girls are walking among us. They march into work every morning and home at night through the same door, girls that cry every day in the shower and over medicate to get through the day. They take their values from cable and movies. Learning how to be sexy, romantic and a good person from Hollywood icons they’ll never be skinny enough to emulate. Nice girls with good jobs out of college, boyfriends that want to get married and families that think they’re the dependable ones.

And really that’s what keeps them from killing themselves, the fact that there are people out there depending on them. I used to like that sort of thought, that I was reliable, that I had something to offer, something to contribute. There’s not much in life, random experiences and growing older seem to be the constants. I accept the inevitability of those things. However, I think it’s the things in life that are supposed to make us happiest that bring us to our darkest hours. I may be dating the most wonderful man in the world. He’s blonde, blue eyed, comes from a nice family and loves me.  He wants to take care of me and make a life, a very Doris Day Rock Hudson movie sort of life. He does make me happy and all he can to keep me sane. It scares him when I lay in the fetal position in the shower. He doesn’t understand inner agony in a person that looks normal. And why would he? Real life doesn’t look like the movies.

I do look normal. I’m what men would call attractive and women would call busty. I have a very girl next door thing going on, without really trying. It’s how I’ve made it this far with no one noticing I’m crazy. I’m not the sort of girl that talks about death or about being scared. I’m the kind that knows how much the new pants at Banana Republic are and really wants the new Kate Spade shoulder bag. I am one of the faceless female masses you see crawling like parasites all over suburbia. I drive a cute little car, carry a Coach purse and have a handsome boyfriend. I tote them all around like accessories, probably because they mean nothing to me. They’re all part of the show.

The boyfriend is a basic Ken doll made to fit this predictable plot. Unfortunately, he lies. He cheats sometimes but only when he thinks I won’t catch him. The worst part is I’m not worried that he’ll have sex with someone new. That I could deal with. I mean, one night stand, drunken mistake, I can take that. And he doesn’t do that, he carries on complete relationships with multiple women simultaneously. Allow me to clarify; we’re not Mormon, I’ve never been on Ricki Lake and I have a master’s degree. So we’re not religious zealots, white trash or stupid…well at least I’m not, but I did fall for this guy so that’s not saying much. What amazes me more than anything is how he managed to keep all the stories straight and he got greedy, stopped paying attention. That was when he got caught. To be honest, I am not under the delusion that he learned anything from this experience. I’m willing to bet he will continue to do this for the rest of his life. The last time I saw him he was living in Florida, I came to visit. I knew something wasn’t right, but I ignored it as any nice girlfriend does.

I get there, the sex is fine. I’m one of those girls that easily garners the attention of the cutest guy in the bar and then gives him a fake number, but lets the man she dates pump mercilessly on her thighs like some sort of rabid dog until he’s finished. Every time I hope it will get better and every time I get bored 5 minutes in and start yelling and moaning so he’ll finish off faster. Fuck him for not being a mind reader!

Florida’s beautiful. The first couple days are fine. I’m going to the beach while he’s in class. He brings lunch back. We eat. I take a nap, or go back to reading by the pool. We relax after dinner, maybe go for a swim, walk by the water, so shimmery and transparent, and then we have sex, take a shower and go to bed.

Or rather, I go to bed, he watches tv.  Either way something’s wrong and I’m not ok with it. His phone rings at two in the morning. It’s clearly a girlfriend call. He hides the phone in a drawer. I’m wide awake all night and nauseous. I can’t move. I can barely breathe. It’s like there’s a pile of bricks on my chest and I can’t get enough air in. But I can’t inhale too deeply or he’ll know I’m awake. So I’m choking on my own oxygen. My heart is racing and I’m laying in bed next to a man that I know is cheating on me. All night I’m thinking. I imagine the things he’s said to this woman, the ways he’s touched her and then I remember two calls that my mind miraculously cataloged just for a night like this.

The first call was early on a Saturday morning. My phone rang on the train. I thought it strange that he was up so early. I picked up, heard a woman’s voice laughing and him…but then the train shifted and the phone hung up.  I called back later, we fought. He said it must have been the tv. I remember not believing him.

Later that winter, I called, he didn’t answer. With the cockiness of girl whose never been cheated on, I informed my friend that he was just watching tv. I called again and he picked up. Only he didn’t say hello. It was just him speaking in his boyfriend voice to a woman who was laughing. This girl must really be having a fucking good time with my boyfriend. I get pissed and pretend this is the first time, more for my friend’s benefit than my own. When he returned the 24 missed calls the next morning, his explanation was that it must have been the tv or him talking to the dog. He used his concerned voice, talking me off the ledge. I apologized for overreacting even though I knew he was lying. He thought he was getting away with it, I thought he was a condescending bastard. I’m crazy, not an idiot.

I am staying in a posh hotel room in God’s waiting room, overlooking the ocean. And I’m thinking about all the ways I know my boyfriend is cheating on me. I think for a long while about how I would feel if I just let it go. If I just never found out, could I be happy and keep pretending? Would I be alright if I just went along with the lies and didn’t upset him? Always suspecting him would wear me down. I had to know and I couldn’t ask him. He was a liar. Previous statutes had already been set.

A person can’t live like that, they shouldn’t have to, so at 6AM he went to the bathroom. I said, “Baby, are you all right?” I really just needed to know how close he was to opening the door. The drawer was open, the message light blinking. A woman I had never met who knew my boyfriend intimately enough to call him repeatedly after midnight had shattered my perfect movie-life. I thought of all the times I had done the same, called for hours and just assumed he was asleep.  I always pictured him lying in bed, dreaming of me on sandy beach in paradise. I was in paradise with him, and it was complete hell.

Here I was making some other girl feel as disgusting as I felt. Telling him how much I loved him, letting him manhandle me and buying him nice dinners when he was lying. I felt like such an idiot.

It made sense why I was always the one pushing for sex even though I was definitely never the one to enjoy it. He was having sex regularly. He didn’t need me to swoop into town and give him an orgasm. She was lying on his bed, spooning his dog and waiting for him to come home. There I was feeling like a queen. I had room service. I had him all to myself. When really all I had was his vacation. I was dumb enough to believe I was surprising him. While the girl he held hands with, made dinner for and cuddled on the couch was at home in their apartment. I was nothing. I was wasting my time. I was still so in love with him, it choked me.

I waited for his breathing to become a rhythmic motion again. I got up. Grabbed the phone, went into the bathroom, locked the door, turned on the faucet and scrolled through his call list.  There wasn’t one other girl. His last two calls were to two different girls.  I called the first one. It was 7 in the morning, she was up. We started talking. We laughed like friends and this was some prank that had been played on us. She wouldn’t tell me if they had had sex or not. She was much more forthcoming when I assured her it was only because he had given me Chlamydia a year before and wanted to let her know she might want to be checked. She had already had it, at the same time. I had a small victory when she revealed that she was 30 and I mentioned I was 22. At least I was young and stupid.

She called him a player and I called him a cheater. She asked if I had met his parents. I told her we spent Christmas together. She thought that was funny since she had gotten his number from his mother. Then he started calling for me. He was banging on the door. I told her we should fuck up his life like he did ours and call his parents to let them know he was a horrible person. I gave her my number. We hung up as he threatened to break the door down. I opened the bathroom door, jubilant. Lording my moral superiority above him I asked how he could do this to me?

In a sick way I felt better, vindicated. I had trusted my feminine intuition and I had been right. This Stephanie girl thought he moved down there to be closer to her. They had lived together, before he met me supposedly. From what she said, they were still dating through the first Christmas he and I spent together. The first 6 months of our relationship were a complete lie. I didn’t even cry. I yelled. He started grabbing my things and told me to leave. My phone rang and he said, “oh it’s your little friend Stephanie!” and answered it. While he was yelling at her, I grabbed his phone and called the second girl. She was still asleep when I said, “Hi this is Adam’s girlfriend, who is this?”

She said, “I’m Adam’s girlfriend.” And then he ripped the phone out of my hand and hung up on her. He was screaming at me to get out. I said I would, he was a fucking cheater and I could never trust him again. As I packed, he yelled. I was shaking and folding clothes, disgusted I had spent so much time trying to look beautiful for a man that was clearly using me.  He yelled about my not being around. Blamed it on being lonely. I pushed him further with snide comments and crude remarks.

He shoved me on the bed. I wanted him to hit me. I was willing him to, because at least that was tangible. I could feel it if he hit me. Whereas the blind rage and breathlessness my emotions were evoking was not enough. I needed to feel him hurt me and he didn’t. He just walked away. I thought, “Pussy.” and got up again.  I asked if he was driving me to the airport. I was manipulating him. I wanted to see the apartment and the life he promised me and gave to someone else. I didn’t really care but I couldn’t afford to fly home a day early and I couldn’t afford a cab ride just to sit at the airport alone. I gave him a guilt trip.

I talked about my expectations and how let down I felt. He talked about my being untrustworthy and argued that I needed to get out.  I asked why I wasn’t good enough, why didn’t he love me? I was packing my swimsuit asking him why he had done this and his eyes started welling with tears. A song lyric came to my mind, “Cupid works for the devil be suspicious if he cries” …but I hugged him anyway. I pulled his hands away from his face and I started crying. He was breathing on my neck and I was cradling him like a child. I held him and loved him despite the fact that he had done this to himself. I followed the script, I stayed faithful and played my part. Yet after he ripped my heart out while it’s still beating, ‘I love you, I love you, I love you,’ I comforted him.

I stood in the dark bathroom with the sun streaming off the water outside and I held HIM! I loved him, despite the other women. As he sobbed he said, “You were never supposed to see this. It wasn’t supposed to be this way for you.” And like when we were fighting, I held the power.  I could have walked out but I helped him pack up the car and we drove to his apartment. He said, “I love you” as we left the hotel room. I said, “I love you too.” For the first time, I wasn’t sure if I meant it.

We got in the car and we didn’t touch. I stared out the window wondering how this had happened to me. This was not my life. I was not the sort of person this sort of thing happened to, I wasn’t glamorous. Though I have many delusions of grandeur, I am not a person with a turbulent and volatile existence. This was real, this was my life and I didn’t understand it.

It was noon and he had been driving for an hour when he reached over and started rubbing my knee. He began telling me about how he knew he wasn’t good enough for me and that I deserved so much better. He made such a compelling argument that I believed him. I sat there and thought about it for the first time. He was right, I could do better. I deserved better. I am a strong and independent woman. I had made it through the torrents of hellish fury to come out on this side. I am made of stronger things.

Yet I wanted to be the girl he loved. I wanted to be loved the way he was loving at that moment. He was naked and raw. He started explaining how he wanted to marry me and make a life for us. I rubbed his arm but stared through my sunglasses straight ahead. I didn’t know what to do, so I forgave him. I wanted to be the girl that could break him like this and then put him back together, better than he was before. I wanted to feel that rush of control. I was the tough lover he could melt into. I held his face in my hands and healed his wounds. I was the only one who could make him better and that power was intoxicating.

He lied to me the rest of the day and I let him because if I knew anymore truths I’d be sick. I could only take small doses of honesty for the rest of our relationship. Too much truth would break my heart and give me a panic attack. In one morning I had had all the truth I could take. He needed to lie some more to take me back to the blissful ignorance that was my daily life. The place where I could go on living for a while, forgetting all the things I knew in my heart. Playing the role of a happy couple and pretending things were fine.

I never trusted him again but I couldn’t let him go. Because I wanted to control him, I never wanted anyone to give him what I couldn’t. I wanted to be certain he would never know true happiness if I couldn’t give it to him. I held on to punish him.

When we got to the apartment he apologized profusely and we had sex on the living room floor. He was banging my head into the wall and it felt good to find something predictable. With each thrust I thought, he’s looking out the window, he’s watching for her to come back while he’s inside me. For the first time in my life I was certain a man was making love to me and thinking about someone else.  When he was done, I just pulled my jeans back on. I didn’t feel better. I was thinking it might be the last time I had sex for a while, I ought to do it while I still could. Then he put in a movie and fell asleep watching it. Stephanie sent me texts.

One about where we were. Another about how sorry she was and how she didn’t think he had a girlfriend. One about a time she had seen him out with another girl holding hands.  How they had sex while she was home. She wanted to know what I was doing and what I planned. I said I didn’t know. I wanted to meet her. Even though I got the distinct feeling that she was testing me. After I had been through hell, she thought she would be the one to have him in the end. Who knows, maybe she does. Either way I spent the rest of the movie in a panicked and cold state, which is hard to do during spring time in Florida.  I was shaking and catatonic when he woke up. He was scared as he tried to hold me up and make me walk. I had so much emotion in me there was no way to let it out and I couldn’t feel anymore. There was too much to feel inside of me. I needed it out. It felt wrong, like someone else, like a character in a movie. But I couldn’t escape, I was trapped.

I made him wash the sheets she had slept in, I wanted to burn the bed, but I didn’t.  He begged me to calm down, told me of his never ending and apologetic love. If I wanted, we’d go to Vegas and get married immediately. He wanted me to stay, he cried and I caved. I switched my flights so I could be with him a week longer. We spent the night going through songs that we would play at our wedding. We talked about marriage at every meal. Him asking me to marry him. Me blocking him with generic statements about not being ready and not having enough money. He didn’t believe it, but he needed some lies to get through the day too.

We danced in the dining room. He sang to me and we laughed. I slept on the drive back to the hotel with his hand constantly holding mine or resting on my knee. He wouldn’t let me go. Even though I knew leaving him was the only rational thing I could do, together we fought reality. We pretended that it was right and good, that we belonged together. When we got back to the hotel I held the dog while he carried everything up to the room. Like chivalry could save the broken mess we had become. Our lives were a shambles. Yet we played house a little longer.

I stayed with him a whole year after that and when we fought I tried not to bring it up. Even though the doubt never went away, I thought we were in love. It was closer to obsession. When we finally broke up I cried and I said the horrible things again. I didn’t hold back. Like torrents of rain every thought, memory and broken promise flooded out of my mouth. It actually ended, quite simply though, because of a lie.

I was visiting his parents on a pretty spring day. We were watching their new pool being installed. Sitting on the back porch, I was playing with his nephew and helping his dad install a porch awning, when his mom says, “So is Adam’s hot tub a two person or a five person?”

I said, “As far as I know he doesn’t have a hot tub.”

“Yes he does, he was telling us all about it. Why would he say that to you?”

“Because, your son’s an idiot.”

“Julia, get me the phone from the kitchen.” I do. “Dial his number. And you’re not here so you be quiet.” His father shifts uncomfortably as I dial and hand the phone to her.

“Hi honey, how are you? Daddy and I were just talking and wanted to know if your new hot tub is a two person or a five person…five person! Oh, Julia’s here, I’ll let you talk to her.”

He’s awkward on the phone. I excuse myself and walk into the dining room. I say, “Why did you do it? I asked you not to lie.” He laughed and acted like it wasn’t a big deal. I broke up with him. He hung up on me. I cried in the kitchen as his parents tried to console me. They agreed that lying is the worst thing a person can do and that he was wrong. His father told me that I could do better and deserved better than that. I cried some more, hugged them both and drove away. His mother said she was sure we’d work it out; we’d be back together someday.

It will be a year in May since we broke up. We never got back together. He still calls sometimes to tell me he loves me and how he wants to marry me. I don’t believe him and I hate knowing that there’s some other girl faithfully by his side. I don’t doubt that she is as adoring as I once was. That he’s doing the very same thing to her as we speak. I tell him about new relationships but still have not found someone that I feel for like I did for him. But then I don’t believe there’s anyone I could ever love like that again. After all, he was my first love.

I started dating someone new, who fits what I’m looking for and what my family is hoping for me. I called to tell my mom about him. She said, “We’ve been praying for this.” It’s sad to realize but hearing her support of my moving on really confirms that my choice was the right one. It’s hard not to feel for him and there are still nights we’ll talk from midnight till dawn but it’s not a secret. I don’t do long distance anymore. Maybe I’ve grown or learned something. All I know is that his mother was wrong. We’ll never be together again. But she was also right, I do deserve better.

It’s funny that the people I feel I truly learned from in this relationship were his parents. I was crazy to stay and crazy to believe I could live dishonestly. I may be tormented, twisted and wrong but that doesn’t mean the life I live has to feel that way. The love I have to give is worth something. After all, even this cookie cutter girl is looking for something substantial and unique. Basically, I don’t want the movie I want something honest and real.

In a perfect world you would understand your own feelings. You would always know what and who you want to be and how to get there. You would know what people wanted and how to make them want you. Maybe in this Utopia everyone would just understand and appreciate their differences. But this is not a perfect world and I seem to have fewer days where I understand what I want and need than not. We’re not perfect. We have not led perfectly honest and wholesome lives. Why do we feed on the misfortune of others? It is as if as a species we crave malfunction and drama when many of us could just look into our own homes and see our personal soap operas unfold. But instead, we project the negative energy outward.

I hate when that happens. I hate when perfectly good days are ruined by insecurity, false hope or a lack of trust. I don’t know why people do the things they do. I have seen, so many times, the destructive and horrible things people can do to one another. I have been hurt by people who have called themselves my friends. Unfortunately, I foolishly believed that other people felt as I did, live as I do and attempt first to do no harm. Sadly, people do not seek to commit kind acts unto others or generously live. Many of the individuals that I have met or spent time with over the past two years have very little ethical or moral fiber. Searching for the next temporary high, they do whatever it takes to feel good for a moment. They do not consider the pain they are causing or the impact of their actions.

There is more negativity surrounding the choices and decisions that people make and yet I am guilty of the same behavior. I don’t understand myself and most certainly don’t understand other people. I don’t know what I want, I don’t know where I’m going and yet I attempt to paint others into organized boxes of friend or foe, kind or cruel and trusting or trustworthy. It’s never easy to determine what your calling in life ought to be, it is far simpler to look out and judge those you do not know or attack them for their flaws. I would like to be a person who is able to see and appreciate the grey areas. Who does not constantly strive for perfection in herself or in others. Who sees what good and bad all people are capable of doing and does not live in fear that there will be more of the second. It is a tricky balance between guarding one’s inner sanctum and self while also being open to life’s experiences and the relationships we share with other people.