Haunted

Is there anybody alive out there?

Some days are worse than others. Some days I don’t think of you at all. I’m grateful for those.

Some days, like today, the memory of you and what you did to me brings me down like a ship’s anchor. I walked through this day zombified, confused, almost-but-not-quite-on autopilot, hoping it would dissipate.

But today is not one of those days. Today, you haunt me. And you haven’t stopped.

It started with “Radio Nowhere.” Your favorite Bruce Springsteen song.

I don’t know why I still remember that fact. I wish I could forget it. I’m sure I never will. That’s just a writer thing, I guess. Remembering all of the little things any “normal” person would’ve long forgotten by now. The memories I’m sure you don’t hold onto are all the ones I’m certain I still have.

My mind wandered to those years of thoughts about what could be, what was, and what I wanted. The good times we shared. The times I thought I loved you and the time I thought you actually might have cared about me. (It’s singular on purpose.)

I snap myself back to reality, and launch into the memory of what you did to me. The bad time. The time I don’t think you realize what you did. What your name to all my friends has forever been changed to.

I cringe, aching with the reminder of how those water droplets felt as they splashed off your chest and onto my back. The smell of your Irish Spring body wash still stings my nose–years later. I can smell it right now. Just the right amount of soft, but masculine. Not overpowering. My skin smelled of it for hours afterward, as I walked home, not entirely sure of what had just happened.

I still hate admitting that I liked that soap, especially as I tried to scrub all of the shame and self-hatred from my skin. Some days, I can still feel it all. The shame, the self-hatred, the soap itself as it slid from the bottle, bubbled beneath my fingertips, and slid across my skin.

But slowly, ever so slowly, I remember how I liked you. The thoughts of your sly smile, your ice blue eyes, the way you were the first boy to ever really pay attention to me. The first one to ever treat me like I was worthy of romantic love and affection. I should’ve learned early on (and long ago) that you weren’t really the romantic love and affection type. I should’ve learned early on that I would never truly believe I was worthy of that. And even years later, married and all, I will never truly believe it.

And yet, I find myself here, behind a keyboard, remembering just who you were and how I cared for you. How foolish I’d been, letting you in with something as simple as a Facebook message and a simple guitar rendition of “Crash Into Me.” (I still can’t listen to that song without remembering that warm September night–almost seven years after it happened.)

Once I thought I’d gotten past this, back to the actual reality of life at my desk and the assignments I faced, it came back. Something else happened.

I saw a photo, of you and the girl you’re currently with. I still can’t decide how I feel about this–and you’ve been with her over a year now.

I’ve written about it before, how I wonder about the way you treat her, whether or not you actually say you love her in the way I wish you loved me so long ago, and exactly how she managed to be the one to break you of your habit of heartbreaking and stomping and general tomfoolery as it pertains to women and their affections or feelings. (I know there were women before me who you’d scorned and destroyed.)

I somehow can’t decide if I pity her or envy her; neither feeling being particularly desirable. How I wonder if she knows what you’d been like before her. If she knows about the hearts you broke, the women you irreparably damaged. If she knows about me. The words we shared. The play fights we had.

I wonder if you used  the same trick on her you used on me. The “Crash Into Me” rendition that got you to be the first man (outside of my childhood best friend) to see me topless.

You haunt me still. And I hate admitting it.

I’m at a point in my life where I know I shouldn’t still be thinking about you. I’m at a point in my life where you shouldn’t matter, where I shouldn’t feel anything about you anymore and yet here I am, writing another stupid essay about a stupid boy (a BOY!) who never thought of me as anything more than a piece of ass.

As a writer, I suppose you’re always just a little bit haunted by the ghosts of your past. And I hope that some day, with enough ink spilled and keys pressed, you’ll finally let me rest.

 


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Bedtime Blogging

Today has been a hard day. It’s been a day full of struggles, frustrations, and tears.

Today also had a bright spot. Today I had coffee with my girlfriend…which to most people would be normal, but for me is one of the happiest things. It’s easy to take the little things for granted. Coffee, snuggles, kisses. But when I have those with her, it’s the best. It’s always the highlight of my day.

It’s nice to be able to say “I’ll see you tomorrow.” For a while we would only see each other on the weekends. Which, wasn’t bad. But it never seemed to be enough. Days with her seem like minutes. Our second date was a whole weekend long, and our first was nearly eight hours.

Even on bad days like today, when I come home to find the dog ransacked my room and I broke down and cried, my “giant frog” is there.

And for that (and fuzzy blankets) I am grateful.

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“You haven’t got one good reason for being alone.”

I spend a lot of my time comparing myself to other people. It’s probably one of my more tragic flaws. Generally the people I compare myself to are fictional, which makes it even harder to live up to those expectations.

Today’s fictional comparison is Bobby from the Sondheim musical Company. Originally titled Threes, [the] plot revolves around Bobby (a single man unable to commit fully to a steady relationship, let alone marriage), the five married couples who are his best friends, and his three girlfriends…”

Company has been one of my favorite musicals since I went through my first Sondheim binge my senior year of high school. This one has always stuck with me. As I find myself getting older (laugh, because as you know I’m only 22), I find myself relating more and more to Bobby, the lovable, uncommitted pushover protagonist.

Unmarried and 35, he finds himself surrounded by his married friends, dating different women. His friends and potential dates are always prodding him to get married or being envious of his bachelor, uncommitted status. Even with that thirteen year age difference, I find myself feeling similar. My friends are in happy relationships, with lovers and friend groups of their own. I’m happy for them, truly. I can’t help but want something like that for myself. After all, isn’t that the next logical step after having a career and a place to live?

“What I am is like this park here…out of place.”

I don’t belong, and maybe it’s just being in a new city and not having the things I’m used to–like a group of friends and my family close by. But it’s definitely lonely.

“Somebody, need me too much. Somebody, know me too well. Somebody, pull me up short and put me through hell and give me support for being alive.”

Just A Hundred Words (July 22)

This week, I have found a new prompt from Velvet Verbosity. The task is to write a one-hundred word story each week. I love challenges–and I’m definitely looking forward to taking this one on. Each week, a new word is chosen and stories must center around that. This week’s word is “faded.” (I may have gone a little past one hundred words on this one–but I really liked where it went…it’ll take some practice for me to get it right.)

…It’s been nearly three years since her heart has been broken. You would think that the feelings she had would’ve dissipated by now. But as she walked across that smoke-filled bar in search of her third Jack and Coke of the evening, all the feelings came back—as if she’d drank them with that whiskey.
“Eric…?” she called timidly into a small group of people that were smoking cigars like it was their job.
“Sara, wh—what a surprise to see you here,” he gasped.
You could’ve knocked them both over with a feather. The only way to describe it was “serendipitous.” The one thing that was faded were his old blue jeans…

Late Nights

Sometimes there are nights where you can’t sleep–where you’re awake with nothing beside you but the thoughts in your head. Tonight is one of those nights. I find myself here, in my pajamas, struggling to string words together. 

And then there are ideas that stick with you, a little ten-word-story that goes a little something like this: “I’m homesick for arms that don’t want to hold me.”

It replays over and over and over in my mind. I’ve been homesick for those arms for as long as I can remember–since the last time you held me. I’ve dreamt of them often. 

And now that I feel myself slipping into the slumber I’ve desired for hours, I know that they’ll be right there in my dreams again tonight.

Nice Guy Syndrome

I have discovered as of late that I feel like a little bit of a “nice guy.” According to the ever-helpful Urban Dictionary*, a “nice guy” is classified as “the person every girl will compare their would-be boyfriends to, for they possess every trait a woman desires. However, for whatever reason, women avoid them like the plague.”

I try to be kind, honest, and sincere with every woman I talk to. Sometimes, so much to a fault. I “catch feelings” relatively easily and the only thing I want for anyone is to be happy. I’ve had it happen time and time again, where I confess feelings and get the “I’m flattered, but I just don’t feel the same way” spiel, and many “nice guys” can get offended by this.

But not this one. This “nice guy” is happy for them. I know that it’s hard to say those things, because I’ve also seen that side. I understand. I also know that a quality I tend to be attracted to is being able to know what you deserve and going after it. If I’m not exactly up to what your specifications are in a mate, well then I’m perfectly happy to be a friend and help you find what you’re looking for.

I used to get offended, feel sorry for myself, but in being a girl I’d go for, I know that I deserve better than that. I’m just glad those women that are in my life know what they want. It makes me happy that they want me in their lives.

But don’t worry–I don’t wear fedoras. I’m not that kind of “nice guy.”

*The definition taken is definition number 4.

An Open Letter to My Crush

Thank you for being there to listen to the stupid anecdotes of my days. Thank you for answering my texts and appreciating the fact that I like to say good morning. Thank you for enjoying the same things I do and being able to laugh at my stupid jokes. Thank you for being understanding and supportive of my new adventures. Thank you for being someone that I can count on to always make me smile. Thank you for being one of the biggest things I look forward to every day.

Most of all, thank you for being you.

Love,

Jessica