The Boy Who Broke My Heart More Times Than I Can Count

There was a boy. THE boy.

I was 15 years old when I met him and can still see a perfect image of him walking down the steps of my friend’s row home. I can still see the tan jeff cap he wore. I can still see that smile that took my breath way.

It truly was like a scene out of a movie. A cheesy song plays in my mind when I recall it.

I also remember the moment I found out he liked me. My best friend was on the phone with his best friend and assured me she wasn’t talking about me when she said, “Oh no no, he’s her BIGGEST fantasy.”

Turns out she was talking about me. What proceeded was a jumping, scream fest heard around the world as we celebrated the fact that he wanted to “hook up” with me. (Back then, at 15, “hook up” meant make out. We didn’t have sex till much much later.)

So that evening, on the stoop of my friend’s house, I made out with the biggest crush I even had, to date.

When we closed our eyes it was daylight. When we opened our eyes what felt like hours later, the night had fallen.

And thus commenced a 10 year lust affair that pummeled my heart like one of those whack-a-mole games. Over and over again.

This boy was what one may call a “player.” At least he always was to me.

Each time we got together it never lasted for more than a few weeks. And as many times as I tried to get more from him, he slipped through my fingers with the finesse of a magician.

We shared many firsts together. In fact, he was my first for everything but. And I suspect I was his first too. Neither of us knew what we were doing. It was enthralling and rather bewildering.

I remember the first time I held his penis in my hands. It just kept moving around like a fire hose. I didn’t know how to contain it.

By the time I was 18 I thought I had him out of my system. I had an actual boyfriend, I went to college, I met many new boys.

But at twenty we found our way back to each other. That time we had sex. On the floor of my bedroom. Just hours before I was singing Like a Virgin at karaoke. Oh the irony.

Then when I was 23 he became a major catalyst in my life. So much so that I wonder if all the years of my infatuation with him was to bring us to that moment.

It was this boy and my love for him that ripped me out of my 3.5 year, emotionally abusive relationship.

We both were dating others but started something up again. It was very low key and I resisted it as much as I could but the pull was too strong. And it was just what I needed.

From there once I got out we would talk almost every day. He told me he was crazy about me. I thought it was finally going to happen.

It didn’t. He was still with his girlfriend. He was playing the same old games.

He wanted me when he couldn’t truly have me. When it was safe for him to do so.  His interested never last for long once any real possibility presented itself.

After months of being what I termed as his “supplemental girlfriend” he ended it. He was single. And he never told me.

I found out from someone else. Just like all those times I found out he stopped liking me when someone informed me he was making out with a new girl.

And when he neglected to support me when I need him the most, the day I moved out and finally left my horrid relationship, I was done. I finally stood up for myself and said goodbye.

Sure we saw each other but that was the end of our lust affair.

So why am I sharing this? It all happened years and years ago.

But here’s the thing. I recently discovered I still have healing to do.

In fact, while I have done lots of work healing and clearing my other relationships, relationships that actually lasted and where the person actually cared for me and loved me, I have never done any healing around this.

Because it was never actually anything. It was crush. It was lust. It was infatuation.

But what I am realizing is that just because it wasn’t anything “real” doesn’t mean it didn’t have a major impact on my life.

So much so that I’ve realized that when I am crazy about a person, I’m talking BIG time crush, that I automatically go into protection mode.

There is a piece of history inside of me that expects men I adore to treat me just like that boy did. It’s palpable. Because that was the groove carved into my heart and my neural pathways for so so long.

You guys know how much work I have done on myself. But there is always more. And sometimes that shit is sneaky.

And yes, part of me feels a bit foolish accepting the fact that I have to heal from a relationship that started when I was 15. Especially with all the love I have in my life now.

But the heart needs what it needs. And who am I to argue with that?

So I’m going to heal. I’m going to forgive. Both him and myself.

Because that’s how healers heal.

I know this will resonate with a lot of you. If you want to share your story with me I’d love to hear. Writing about it can be incredible therapeutic.

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