I’ve decided to release some of my journal writings that I have been sitting on for a while.
Why, you ask? Why would I want you to read these tales I’ve scrawled away in secret?
Because I want you to understand that I get it.
I understand pain, and I understand what you are going and growing through. I also understand that pain and shame fester when hidden, and it’s in our best interest to air it out and allow it some room to be seen and healed.
Recently I have been experiencing a lot of healing and mending in the area of relationships, and only posting the joy and happiness I currently am experiencing feels one sided and inauthentic, mainly because of how much of a nightmare I dealt with previously to get here!
So, without further adieu, and for the sake of practicing what I preach – I present to you a series of journals that lead me from despair to elation, feeling hopeless and as if I would never find a good man to getting to find him and get engaged to him in a period of 3 months. Crazy, I know. But life is really funny that way.
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January 1, 2014 – Orosi, Costa Rica
Raped, pillaged, torn apart. My limbs never knew a loving man. I dreamt of him time and time again, always waiting to see if he would reveal himself in the next man I met… the next nameless face walking down the street, in the restaurant, at a party…
I tried them all on for size.
Nope, not him. He has bad breath.
No, not him.
He smokes too much weed.
Nope not them… they are workaholics.
And NO, not him! He is a cheater!
Constantly sifting, sorting, categorizing, and nitpicking consumes me. Sizing men up to see who would be fit to walk me down the aisle when “the time is right”. My head spins in circles as I think of how much time I’ve spent and invested in this sifting process. The worst part is, despite my best efforts, I still don’t believe I’ll ever have the kind of authentic deep romantic love I am looking for.
I’ve done work on this stuff… You know, “be the person you are looking for” type shit. The whole “it’s not about finding the right one, it’s about BEING the right one” garbage. I’ve read the books, attended webinars, listened to the experts, and been sifting for a long time it seems like. The thing I’m looking for exists, I know it does! I’ve seen it with my own two eyes! The beautiful loving fairytale romance of my dreams! I’ve had tiny sample taste tests of it in my 21 years of living. Moments when you look into each other’s eyes and they tell you they’ll love you forever (and you believed them)… handholding that warmed more than just your hands… liplocks that send you into orbit, way past the stratosphere.
See, I am a romantic. A big, sappy yet cynical, romantic. I fall fast and hard, and once I start slipping, there is no stopping me. I am a goner, a fool running off a cliff and hoping to have her fall broken by a knight in shining armour standing on a white fluffy cloud down below. That’s the problem with being a dreamer. My dreams are so compelling and beautiful, that I always come up empty handed in reality… Because no one is as perfect as my prince charming. I remember the first boyfriend I had. I was convinced I’d be with him forever (and I’ve believed that about every single one ever since. Goes to show you how slow to learn I am sometimes, ha ha). He dazzled me with his adorable face, his guitar playing skills, his beatnik hippy charm, his cuddly disposition and his knack for displays of affection. The problem was (and I’m convinced there always is a problem) he had a nasty pot smoking habit that often took him away from reality. And me.
We were together for two months or so, and in the last month… it felt like my whole concept of the world was torn apart and had me simultaneously knocked upside the head. First, he went off to Mexico for 2 weeks with his family. Being the sweet guy he was, he brought me back a cute stitched and stuffed fabric cat that he bought for 50 cents from a village boy. But fun travels aside, he was different when he came back. He was wanting to spend an exorbitant amount of time with his best female friend named Ariel who I always felt I was competing with for his attention, and there was also the fact that I never saw him sober anymore. I would come over, he would light up, and then we would make out in his room. His parents always left us alone. I really wish they hadn’t.
January’s frost rolled in, and my heart was heavy. My grandmother was on the decline, and she really only had a few days to live. Needing some consoling, I sought refuge in his arms. No one was home at his house, and I was vulnerable. He offered me some of his parent’s weed to take the edge off since that was the only real coping strategy he could think of. We went off to his room to listen to music and look at his psychedelic posters.
Being inebriated causes people to make rash decisions, and there I was, about to make one of the worst one of my life at that point. Articles of clothing were strewn on the floor, and there I was… my virginal body laying there, and a distinctly frozen and terrified feeling flooding over me as I opened myself to him, bracing for impact upon his sharp thrusts. He finished on my stomach and thought it was funny.
I walked around with my secret for days.
Catholic guilt seeped out my pores as I was at church for my grandma’s funeral… Grief-stricken in more ways than one. I didn’t know what to do about it, but I did tell my best friend, though. She called me a few days afterwards and told me that she heard through the grapevine that he wasn’t being true to me, and in that moment, my heart splintered off in a thousand directions, causing me to become wrathful, prickly, hardened, and cynical.
“Can one actually be a victim of love?” I ask myself. I made my sister’s boyfriend drive me to the cheater’s house late that evening. I slammed the jeep door shut, and hustled up to the house while fumbling with my coat zipper. “Fuck it.” Cheaters mom answered the door. “Is he here? I need to speak with him.” “No, he’s actually finishing up his night GED classes at the community college. Come in, though, he should be home in about 45 minutes.”
Those were the longest 45 minutes of my life.
I sat at the kitchen table with his grandmother, talking about everything except the important facts I kept on the back of my tongue, lest I was wrong. She told me about her vacation, drinking margaritas on the beach, and the fact that his parents weren’t happy with each other. I smiled and nodded.
He came home, and when I looked at him, shooting pains overtook me as I realized that he was not the gleaming prince I believed him to be. He fell from grace, and it was a major moment of disillusionment for me.
One thing he did right was to admit to everything, and not try to hide it. I gave him a piece of my mind and made him cry. He tried to tell me he was high and she wanted it, and he couldn’t say no, but he was sorry. He cried. I offered no sympathy.
I left that room vindicated and single, while scattered pieces of me remained there. I still remember his red bedsheets, the way his room smelled of incense, and the hue the full moon gave his room while I waited for my ride.
From that point forward, love became a battlefield. A constant set of obstacles for myself and the other to jump through and over. I was a warrior, seared with scars and brutal wounds, and I was to be damned if I would let anyone hurt me ever again. Music like Gregory and The Hawk – “Boats and Birds” echoed through my broken heart as I wallowed in songs about good women being abused and thrown away by rotten men. I really identified with it. Metric and Anna Nalick’s songs spoke volumes to my shattered teenage self-esteem and my apparently disposable sex organs. Embittered and numbed of my girlish charms, I continued on my quest to find the man of my dreams… but this time, I proceeded with my metaphorical shotgun, pitchfork, and torch.
– End part 1