I used to sing for you. There are countless memories etched in my brain of lying in bed with you, quietly singing your favorite song. I can picture it so clearly; the way my fingers would twirl through your hair, and how you would ask me to “Sing it once more, please.” It is such a familiar and unmistakable memory, if I close my eyes tight enough, I can almost feel you next to me. Almost.
I realize saying “we were different” makes me sound like nothing more than a stereotypical teenage girl. But I truly believe we were. Maybe not always in a good way, in fact, usually in horribly bad ways, but still it remains; we were different.
I remember how often you’d slam my front door and I’d collapse on the other side of it, crying uncontrollably. I remember how I used to go out of my way to say or do things that would send you over the edge, bonus points if you never forgave me. I remember how our fights would spiral out of control, and we would scream for hours on end at each other. I remember you trying to remember to only punch walls, and I remember the sound the bathroom lock made when you didn’t.
We fed off the violence and the tears. It got to the point where you and I were keeping score of our sick game: You p**sed me off and now I’m going to make you suffer until you’ve paid for it. But the thing that was so poisonous about you and me was deeper than bruised cheeks and scratched arms. We needed each other. No matter how hard the hits or how painful the words, we always came running back into each other’s arms. Of course you’d left me so many times it became the natural way to end an argument, but I knew by tomorrow you would call and we would swear it would never happen again. Even though we always knew it was a lie.
In our defense, sometimes it was easy to believe. But that’s because it wasn’t always yelling and crying and hitting each other. Sometimes it was flowers and movies. Sometimes it was balloons on the mailbox. Sometimes it was a five page hand written letter delivered at 2 a.m. because it just couldn’t wait until morning. We could spend days doing nothing at all but enjoying each other’s company. These were our “good times”, but when we were happy things were never just good, they were incredible. Every conversation ended with “I love you,” instead of a threat to leave for good.
As much as I would like to forget, I remember when things started to change. I knew very little about your condition or the medication you had to take for it because you didn’t want me to. You thought it made you a freak, but I never saw it that way. It began with slight comments, hinting that you shouldn’t need to take medicine to be “normal”. That eventually escalated to you refusing to take it. You showed me the trash can where you spit the pills out after your mother watched you “take” them. I remember telling you that maybe it wasn’t a good idea. I also remember regretting it instantly.
The change was rapid; our “good times” almost completely disappeared. We rarely spoke and I never knew where you were, who you were with, or what you were doing. And then one day, a day that began like any other, it was all over. Our rollercoaster of a relationship had finally come to an end, and I was far from being strong enough to let you go. Despite weeks of begging and promises thing will absolutely change, life without you has been my reality for five months now.
You kept your word to never speak to me again. It’s sad, because your face is beginning to fade from my memory. I don’t remember the exact color your eyes were or the funny curve of your nose. Most everyone has agreed we are both better off now. Im not so sure. Everywhere I look there are still reminders of you, and when I choose to acknowledge them, the pain is worse than anything else you ever did.
“It just goes to show you: You can put nine thousand miles between you and another person. You can make a vow to never speak his name. You can surgically remove him from your life. And still, he’ll haunt you.”