Love #1
My first love was an older man, a trend I've pretty much stuck with. I met him the beginning of my senior year (yes, high school is when it started, but it went until I was 20, so I'm counting it). I was 17 and he was 25. I realize now how yucky that is, but then it just seemed like the coolest thing ever. He was a surfer, with long blonde hair and a compact but powerful body. He had his own apartment, and he was way into me. He wasn't technically my first, but I had only had sex once, two years before and hated it, so it was a big deal when we did it for the first time. Once the initial pain was out of the way, it was wonderful. We were together a lot, almost everyday, and I fell hard for him. He did for me as well, and returned all the affection I gave him. Turned out that he couldn't get much work here (he was a carpet installer), but his parents, who lived in Oregon, said that they knew of many people he could work for. So, about two months before I graduated, he moved away. I was devastated. Truly, truly almost comatose with heartbreak. I decided that I was going to move up to be with him and that nothing was going to keep us apart.
My dad was not happy about this. My dad has always had one idea about what I would do with my life, and that was go to college and become some kind of businesswoman superpower. Never gonna happen, but whatever. He was pissed that I was going to throw it all away for a guy, and promptly went on the warpath. He cancelled my senior trip, and told me if I moved he wouldn't pay for college. I said fine. Then, he tried to get me to go to a college in Oregon, but still five hours away from where my boyfriend lived. I looked at the college, and actually had a great weekend there, but still just wanted to be with him. I never said I was smart about love.
So, through much parental anguish and stubborn teenager-with-a-mission bullshit, I succeeded in moving up there. My dad actually drove me there, and tried his hardest not to beat the crap out of my boyfriend. He also sold my car, and told me repeatedly what a mistake I was making and that he was never going to pay for my college. That of course just steeled my resolve to do whatever I had to do for love. I pretty much just sat on my ass for that summer, gaining weight and trying to figure out how to live on my own. We lived with his parents for a couple of months, until he and I were able to save up some money, and then we moved to the little town over from them into a cool old trailer on a lot of land. We bought some old clunker, and he fixed it up and it ran great. Things were good for a couple of months. But then, of course, he changed.
I got a job at Pizza Hut, and he was working off and on. We also had one of his friends living with us, who just happened to be a lazy piece of drug addicted shit, so that was fun too. Not. My dad gave me a TV for my 18th birthday, so with the leftover furniture from his parents garage, we had an interesting broke kids kind of house. We used to go play Mortal Combat at the little mini mart down the road, and drink a lot of boxed wine. But he started getting really weird. He wouldn't come home or be where he was supposed to be. Then, when he did come home, he'd be less than sober and start in on me. Calling me a slut, and a lot of other horrible names, and accusing me of sleeping with every male I'd ever laid eyes on. I didn't know what to think about all of it, because it was so foreign. No one had ever talked to me like that, and I of course wasn't doing anything but loving him and working hard to pay the bills. Now, of course, I know that he was doing that because he was cheating on me and needing to deflect suspicion by putting it all on me. The verbal abuse started to really wear me down, and I was depressed and sad a lot of the time. All I could hear when I was trying to smile at my customers were his horrible words ringing in my ears. Then (see this coming?) he started with the physical stuff. First just slamming doors in my face, then pushing past me, then pushing me, then throwing me up against walls and hitting me where no one would see the bruises. It was horrible, but at the same time it was like it wasn't happening to me. I felt like I was disconnected from my own life. One night, it was all lovey and wonderful and sweet, and the next it was coming home at 3 am drunk and screaming and hitting and choking and throwing me around.
This went on for almost two years, with varying degrees of violence and verbal abuse. I met people who would hang out with me for a while and figure out what was going on and try to help me get out. I just couldn't though. I don't know why. My dad renegged on the not paying for college thing, and I started to go to the local community college. I was very happy, and did really well with a full load and working full time. I had good grades, and felt like I was in my own life again. When I was at school and work, that is. At home, it was the same. I never knew what I would come home too, and I started to look like one of those dogs that has been beaten and yelled at a lot: Big, watchful eyes, slinking through the hallway, flinching if he moved a certain way or said something weird or had that look in his eye. I had a fairly good job at the time, but a new boss came on the scene who I did not get along with. One day, after a particularly horrible night of fighting with him and being up half the night trying not to get the shit beat out of me, she pulled some crap on me and I just snapped. I've never quit a job without a full two weeks notice, but that day I walked out in the middle of the busiest shift of the week. Then about a week later, I literally woke up in the morning and said "that's it, I'm done." I called my dad that morning and told him I needed to come home right now. He was there in two days, and he took me home.
This is when I learned that love could hurt like nothing else, and that I needed to be careful of who I gave my love to. And I also learned that some men can be absolute and total asshats.
My dad was not happy about this. My dad has always had one idea about what I would do with my life, and that was go to college and become some kind of businesswoman superpower. Never gonna happen, but whatever. He was pissed that I was going to throw it all away for a guy, and promptly went on the warpath. He cancelled my senior trip, and told me if I moved he wouldn't pay for college. I said fine. Then, he tried to get me to go to a college in Oregon, but still five hours away from where my boyfriend lived. I looked at the college, and actually had a great weekend there, but still just wanted to be with him. I never said I was smart about love.
So, through much parental anguish and stubborn teenager-with-a-mission bullshit, I succeeded in moving up there. My dad actually drove me there, and tried his hardest not to beat the crap out of my boyfriend. He also sold my car, and told me repeatedly what a mistake I was making and that he was never going to pay for my college. That of course just steeled my resolve to do whatever I had to do for love. I pretty much just sat on my ass for that summer, gaining weight and trying to figure out how to live on my own. We lived with his parents for a couple of months, until he and I were able to save up some money, and then we moved to the little town over from them into a cool old trailer on a lot of land. We bought some old clunker, and he fixed it up and it ran great. Things were good for a couple of months. But then, of course, he changed.
I got a job at Pizza Hut, and he was working off and on. We also had one of his friends living with us, who just happened to be a lazy piece of drug addicted shit, so that was fun too. Not. My dad gave me a TV for my 18th birthday, so with the leftover furniture from his parents garage, we had an interesting broke kids kind of house. We used to go play Mortal Combat at the little mini mart down the road, and drink a lot of boxed wine. But he started getting really weird. He wouldn't come home or be where he was supposed to be. Then, when he did come home, he'd be less than sober and start in on me. Calling me a slut, and a lot of other horrible names, and accusing me of sleeping with every male I'd ever laid eyes on. I didn't know what to think about all of it, because it was so foreign. No one had ever talked to me like that, and I of course wasn't doing anything but loving him and working hard to pay the bills. Now, of course, I know that he was doing that because he was cheating on me and needing to deflect suspicion by putting it all on me. The verbal abuse started to really wear me down, and I was depressed and sad a lot of the time. All I could hear when I was trying to smile at my customers were his horrible words ringing in my ears. Then (see this coming?) he started with the physical stuff. First just slamming doors in my face, then pushing past me, then pushing me, then throwing me up against walls and hitting me where no one would see the bruises. It was horrible, but at the same time it was like it wasn't happening to me. I felt like I was disconnected from my own life. One night, it was all lovey and wonderful and sweet, and the next it was coming home at 3 am drunk and screaming and hitting and choking and throwing me around.
This went on for almost two years, with varying degrees of violence and verbal abuse. I met people who would hang out with me for a while and figure out what was going on and try to help me get out. I just couldn't though. I don't know why. My dad renegged on the not paying for college thing, and I started to go to the local community college. I was very happy, and did really well with a full load and working full time. I had good grades, and felt like I was in my own life again. When I was at school and work, that is. At home, it was the same. I never knew what I would come home too, and I started to look like one of those dogs that has been beaten and yelled at a lot: Big, watchful eyes, slinking through the hallway, flinching if he moved a certain way or said something weird or had that look in his eye. I had a fairly good job at the time, but a new boss came on the scene who I did not get along with. One day, after a particularly horrible night of fighting with him and being up half the night trying not to get the shit beat out of me, she pulled some crap on me and I just snapped. I've never quit a job without a full two weeks notice, but that day I walked out in the middle of the busiest shift of the week. Then about a week later, I literally woke up in the morning and said "that's it, I'm done." I called my dad that morning and told him I needed to come home right now. He was there in two days, and he took me home.
This is when I learned that love could hurt like nothing else, and that I needed to be careful of who I gave my love to. And I also learned that some men can be absolute and total asshats.
posted by j @ 6:47 PM
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