The History of Boys: Part 1

20 Apr

I have a lot of writing from my past I wanted to share. I wanted to share because I wanted any one who has ever been hurt and struggled to read this and know they are not alone. I wanted to share these pieces of my heart. I’m proud of this writing and it helped to put it down during the struggle. This is my diary. This is my history of boys.

PART 1

Driving with the windows down, a cigarette between my fingers, and music seeping out from the speakers was the best therapy I could think of.

I found it difficult to drive holding the cigarette in my left hand since usually when I smoke the cancer sticks my parents would pull my spine out of my body for smoking, I do it with my right. I had no idea how I had gotten to this point. Or why I was smoking? I think the tingles the nicotine sent through my body reminded me that I was somehow still alive. I thought that in four years I wouldn’t remember what brought me to this night. How wonderful that moment would be. But until then, I was driving up and around my neighborhood, refusing to go home mostly because they kept playing a song I loved on the radio. It was also partially because I was thinking and this was the best way to keep my mind going. Driving up and down the dark and empty streets of Essex was the best therapy I had ever given myself.

It wasn’t hard to find these streets empty, especially after 11pm. I had been driving home with every intention of going in quietly and sitting down and watching something on television. It was that moment that I discovered my freedom with this car and the cigarette and the radio was everything I could ever want or need. The windows blew the cool summer air in my face as I was struggling to grip the cigarette in my fingers and keep my car from having a suspicious smell I knew my mother would discover immediately. She has the nose of a bloodhound. I suppose that is what made it dangerous in a way. Not to mention pollution of my lungs.

Somehow I couldn’t remember how I got here. I could barely remember where I was driving home from. It was something about my heart hurting once again. Or maybe it wasn’t? Maybe it was my heart was yearning for something and I was going gong-ho straight at it and questioning it once again. Great. Awesome. Now I was smoking and attempting to drive the speed limit on a completely empty road and avoiding my warm safe bed because I could scream and cry and belt out badly written love songs in my childhood home.
This was before the second fall of my life. This was before my heart was completely torn apart. This was when I was still a small town girl with her heart broken for the first time. Cheated on, disgraced, abandoned. This was after I experienced freshmen year of college and by experienced, I mean experienced. This was when I thought I was starting over. But I was really just going back to the beginning. An extremely altered dark and brooding beginning.

I am the girl who is always in love with her best friend. The brunette who is unnoticed by the boy she spends every day with. The feisty girl who sits and watches as the object of her affection goes for the blonde bubbly girl who barely notices his existence. The witty, sarcastic punk who listens as he vents his frustrations about his girlfriend who doesn’t seem to have time for him. I sit and watch as his face falls when she does something hurtful and, soon after, try not to show my own grimace when she calls and he lights up like a Christmas tree. I observe how she can do no wrong in his eyes. How I am not even in his line of sight.

I’ve made efforts. Dressed up, piled on the makeup, poured on the perfume. I’ve been funny and sensitive. I’ve listened and given advice. Advice I wish was wrong but somehow it always works. Somehow she is always there in ways I am not. I’ve tried to admit the feelings to him but it never comes out the right way. It’s usually followed by laughter and a sentence that concludes with “You’re such a great friend.”

I’m a repeat offender. There was one that lasted years. Most of the adolescence. Strangely enough, it was a tarot card reading that showed me the truth. (I said I had tried everything) The cards read that I put him on a pedestal. He was my muse but he wasn’t what I wanted. I stepped back and watched him and realized they were right. He was someone I cared for deeply but in the end, I’m not sure being with him would have made a difference. Jealousy still reigned over the closeness we had but I never mentioned my feelings after the first rejection.

I suppose you can’t change certain addictions. I guess I’m addicted to being that girl. Many talented actress have played me in many films. However, at the end of them, I always get the guy. He realizes his best friend is beautiful and wonderful and everything he ever wanted, he just wasn’t looking hard enough. Almost all the time I am the brunette, she the blonde. Molly Ringwald is queen of playing me. John Hughes basically wrote my biography. Most of the 1980’s feature films had me in them. The 1990’s didn’t hurt either. Joey Potter is a slightly taller, smarter and tomboyish version but true to life. And always he discovers that the diamond earrings were really meant for me.

I don’t think I will ever get that John Hughes ending. There is no Jake Ryan coming for me in his red convertible.

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