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.
