Tag Archives: personal story

Regrets

January, 2015 – I faced a pretty big fear and started a conversation with someone on whom I developed a crush over the course of our then three year friendship. It was the first real one-on-one conversation we had had in private and it was one of the most comfortable and easy conversations I had had in a long time.

January, 2017 – I still hadn’t told him how I felt and got that thrown back in my face when he became “Facebook official” with a new girl.

January, 2018 – He started the new year sharing Queen’s Somebody to Love and changing his relationship status back to “single.” I decided to give him some space to heal. Time . . . got away from me.

January, 2019 – He publicly confessed to a lifelong struggle with mental illness and shared that he was starting medication and therapy for it. He told me he’d always be there for me if I needed him. He self isolated, shutting down his social media accounts.

January, 2020 – I signed a contract to publish a book series in which he is the inspiration for one of the main characters. He doesn’t know. Maybe never will.

January, 2021 – I haven’t talked to him in two years and my heart still hurts for him every day. I worry about how he’s doing, all things considered. I worry about his health as someone who seemed to get the flu at least twice every season. I hope he’s happy. For his sake even if that means he’s happy not with me. I hope he’s still doing what he loves. I still miss his voice. I still miss his intelligence, his wisdom, and his humor.

I am still angry with myself for keeping quiet. I’m a strong person but when it comes to offering up my heart to get it broken, I am a frightened child. I’ve been betrayed, manipulated, and abused. I have been blamed for the breakdown of someone’s mental health. I have been cheated on and cheated with. When I rejected the advances of a childhood friend, I learned he was never a friend at all.

I am not harder for it. I still love with everything I have. I’m just the jerk who does it from a distance.

I know that my desire and ability to love someone is not a reason for them to love me back. And them not loving me back does not negate my feelings. I still love him. I hope I’ll see him again some day. I’m not holding my breath for it to happen but maybe I won’t run from it either.


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A Season of Gift Giving

When I was a teenager, my parents committed some horrible atrocity.

I don’t remember what it was, now, but there was a gift for some gift-giving holiday that did not meet my teenaged girl standards. Probably shoes that were the wrong color or a knock-off of some overpriced brand name thing. Anyway, I was given a gift about which I was less than thrilled and that started a law in my family.

No gifts without a wish list.

For anyone. I made a list, Mom made a list, Dad made a list. And we shopped from the list. No deviation.

Well, some deviation but as long as we shopped 90% from the list, everything was peaceful.

This is not some spoiled teen thing. Even today, if I buy something for my mother that is of my own accord, not something she specifically requested, the response is often mixed. There is some level of gratitude but there’s always some level of “why did you buy me this?” or “why did you think I wanted that?”

This applies to objects as well as even just showing up with treats. “I saw these candies I thought you might like to try.”

The thing is—and the point of this story—I make the lists, even still, but if something happens and the items requested cannot be purchased, I might get a gift card or cash instead. Which is fine, except then I have trouble buying the things that were on the list.

I don’t have an explanation for it. But, let’s look at this year’s list. I asked for charcoal pastels—charcoal, not oil; I don’t like the oil kind. If I don’t get them but get, say, a gift card to Michael’s, I will not go straight away and buy the pastels I wanted. I will put the card away until such a time when I want to make a big purchase that I wouldn’t make otherwise.

Which means the card will stay put away, indefinitely, and I’ll never get the pastels.

If someone could explain this to me—or even tell me that you can relate—I would greatly appreciate it.

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