First love is a double-edged sword. The duller, safer side is comprised of innocence, faith, and possibility. The sharper side (the one that cuts) is all dangerous naiveté, ignorance, and recklessness. It is typical for us to fall deeply in love for the first time during our teenage years, a time already tumultuous enough. We are ruled by hormones, temporarily insane. We believe that we are all-knowing, invincible. We aren’t. (I wasn’t.)
I fell deeply, unabashedly, crazily in love for the first time when I was 15. I was under the influence of a magical elixir, completely spellbound by my paramour. My elicit lover just happened to be eight years my senior and in a somewhat supervisory role. I thought I understood the dangers, but threw caution to the wind. My parents, at various points, had their suspicions aroused, yet I mislead them in order to free myself from their reign. If I had just listened. Only now that I am raising children of my own am I able to relate to the desperation and anxiety they must have felt. Had I been more transparent with my folks, perhaps things would have ended differently. Then again, I might not have become the woman I am today. That’s the thing about regret: it doesn’t do any good. Better to stay in the game then become the Monday morning quarterback.
I met The Waterdancer for the first time when I was still in grade school. There was a gaggle of young mothers gathered together to admire him, and admirable he was. I had never before (and have not since) laid my eyes on such a spectacularly beautiful specimen. Adonis couldn’t hold a candle to this idol of physical perfection. I was immediately entranced.
Years went by before I saw him again. This time I was 13 years old, caught in the awkward phase of being a child transitioning into womanhood. When he came into my line of vision I literally lost my breath. (I hear myself saying that and roll my own eyes at how trite it sounds, but it couldn’t be more true.) It was as if some part of my soul recognized its counterpart and was drawn in, metal to a magnet.
What started out as friendship grew deeper over the years. At first he served as a sort of surrogate brother to me, listening, advising, teasing. He treated me as if I were an adult and honored my intellect and attitude. He recognized my old soul and ability to relate to him despite the difference in our years. He told me I was beautiful, not in the creepy way it sounds, but rather in a respectful manner that betrayed deeper affection. We spent hours together talking and laughing, then wrote letters back and forth in the interim. We both felt understood.
By the time I was 15, I was no longer living in limbo between kid and adult. I was a full-fledged woman, with the curves and the sass to prove it. There was a marked change in our relationship, as if we had crossed an invisible threshold over which we could not retrace our steps. I recognized in his eyes that his desire for me no longer existed solely in the realm of friendship. Our time together increased and the sexual tension built. He finally addressed it, explaining that, despite our feelings, we could not cross the line from friendship to romance. If only I had been born earlier, if only society were less judgmental, if only… I tried to understand. I knew it was more a risk for him than it was for me. But my heart had other plans and, ultimately, so did his.
Those were among the very best days, weeks, and months of my life. Anyone who has ever dealt with unrequited love can surely understand. But all good things must come to an end, and the end in this case was a fiery inferno. By the time it was done, my heart was burnt to a crisp. It seems he had come to his senses and had recognized that carrying on a relationship with a girl eight years his junior was ill-advised. The problem was that he came to this realization after said girl had fallen hopelessly in love with him. The manner in which he chose to end the relationship left much to be desired, to say the least. It took me nearly six years to recover, and even then it wasn’t a full recovery. I spent hours of my daily life obsessing over the demise of our love, searching for answers and blaming myself entirely. I couldn’t think of what I had done wrong, but clearly it had been something. It is exceptionally difficult for me to deal with unresolved conflict of any sort, much less the kind that tattoos my conscience with an eternal note of sadness.
I saw him for the last time when I was in college. He treated me, once again, with contempt. It is only now that I understand how his anger was misdirected and self-inflicted. The person with whom he was most angry was himself. I was just an innocent bystander who took on the brunt of his self-hatred. Despite everything, I wish him well. I hope he found happiness. More than anything, I hope that if I ever see him again I will treat him with kindness. That’s the thing about time: it truly does heal all wounds.
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