Awkward. I was awkward, growing up. I was the new kid, over and over again. I made no long-term friends. I became attached to movement, not places. I lacked fashion because I couldn’t afford it. I stood out, but in no way that I could be proud of. Solace was found when my nose was in a comic book, headphones blaring. Solace was found when I was out of the line of sight. It was found when there was nobody around to stare at me, to make me feel out of place. I got use to it, though. To me, it was normal. It was life.
We stopped moving as I finished puberty. I went through it at an early age. As if I weren’t awkward enough…
We settled in Tucson. Life seemed almost status quo. Mom was married, drugs and alcohol weren’t causing the havoc that it used to, we were a family and were going to stay put.
First day of school, middle school. I’m tall, nervous, and have two-toned hair. I’m at the bus stop and can feel the eyes of everyone there on me. I’m coming to terms with the idea of this being the same shit; odd man out, friendless, lonely. I was mistaken, I’d later learn.
Within a few days at Utterback Middle School, It was apparent to me that I had reached a turning point, so to speak. I had already been approached by the cool kids from every click and told that I should hang out with them, that they thought I was pretty cool. Really. Literally. They had never seen someone with two-tone hair. I could barely respond. I didn’t know what to say.
Another group of students had been approaching me; girls. Older girls with breasts and conviction. They were blunt about their reasons for speaking to me. I must have blossomed. I dated over 15 girls that year. I was in 7th grade. Prior, I hadn’t done more than nervously kiss a girl. I fled soon after such a kiss. Things had changed. Girls from my grade exchanged whispers as they watched me get molested, essentially, right in front of them on the bus home from school. She was blonde and clever. She was developed, for an eighth-grader. She held my hand as we walked from the bus-stop to her apartment. Her mother worked until the evening. She taught me much.
Eighth grade was a little different. I slowed down with the two-week relationships that involved making out, mostly, and talks on the phone while under the kitchen table until my mother screamed for me to get to bed. I made a couple of good friends. I spent much time with them. None of these friends were the cool kids that had approached me the year before. They were more like me. We played video games, watched the X-Men cartoon, and discussed the most recent karate movies. When I moved to Michigan to get to know my father, I realized how much they meant to me. I had no choice, though. I needed to have a father before I became a man.
Freshman year. I played football, made jokes, adjusted to being my father’s son. The student body consisted of privileged, trendy teens who, like the kids from my youth, looked at me with sideways eyes. They had known one another since grade school. They drove BMWs. They went to football games at the nearby MSU and knew the player’s names. I was awkward, again.
I fell in love, though. Her name was Karen and her eyes were almost entirely without pigment. She was patient and cultured. We held hands while walking down the hallways of the school and the sideways eyes changed shape because the awkward, unfashionable kid was going steady with a stunning senior. We dated for a year and a half or so and eventually left when it was apparent that I was still a boy. She evolved, but I didn’t. Everything was below the waist with me and I couldn’t possibly identify with her when she was in college and I was merely excited to almost have my license. She was the beginning, though. The beginning of me seeking love, above everything else.
I had long-term relationships with older girls/women, mostly. A couple of exceptions, of course. I was engaged twice. One foiled by the change in me after the army, the other because I didn’t trust my lover and eventually became such a prick that she had no choice but to become a full-fledged lesbian, again. I took no breaks, though. I was never single. I’d become intrigued, then acquainted, then involved. I was faithful half the time. I hadn’t learned a thing about myself in years but was pressing ahead, full steam.
I finally put a halt to it. I broke up with a great girl, moved into my own place, and delved into myself. I made progress. I got to know myself. I determined what was important to me and began to put things in motion, as much as I could. During this time, people who wanted to fuck me came out of the woodwork. One was crazy, one was married, one had a kid and lived in another state. I regretted the sex with the first two. The third was fine, though. We kept it casual. She’s a friend, now. I also dated a woman from the south. She was interesting, beautiful, level-headed. Things didn’t work out and we ended things on a sour note. I had a mostly sexual relationship with a woman from work. She’s great, really. I can’t say that there’s anything I don’t like about her. Sadly, she has kids, so I wasn’t willing to pursue anything further. I’ve grown up a lot in the last six months, but am not ready for kids. Then came the recent…
I had known her for the better part of a year. The crush developed in no time, but I didn’t let on to it right away. Part of it was respect. I hadn’t even met her, but was so impressed by her character that I respected her to the point where I was even a little intimidated. I could tell, though, that she wasn’t interested in me. Instead of pressing the subject or attempting to be charming, I let it go. I remained friendly with her and chatted whenever we ended up online at the same time.
During an evening of slight inebriation, I confessed via text-message that I fancied her. She reciprocated and I was dumbfounded. I certainly hadn’t expected it and was thrilled about the news. I had recently gone through much soul-searching and figured that it wouldn’t hurt to explore this.
We were silly. Love-stricken, gushy, enthusiastic. We chatted for half the day and spoke on the phone for hours during the night. We analyzed each other and sent emails back and forth, containing pictures, songs, confessions.
Things went well and we felt it best to meet in person. I flew to California, fiddling with my headphones and trying my best not to smile too hard. I arrived. After the nervous, first who knows how long, we kissed. I could have died. We ate, watched movies, talked about nothing. She showed me the city, her school. I breathed in her hair while falling asleep. I awoke, wrapped around her. For some reason, I was ok with giving her my everything. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t afraid of it. I was at ease and knew that, regardless of what was involved, I was ready to open myself up. I felt strength enough to handle whatever came my way. I was zen.
As quickly as it came, it left. Merely hours after hearing her tell me that she loved me, she had a change of heart. It was out of nowhere, it seemed. That, or she had been lying to me. I don’t know, I don’t care.
I’ve been dealing with this, now, for about a day. I’ve felt it a few times before. I feel helpless.
During lunch with my father, I caught him looking at my hand. There was a band-aid on it. ‘Girl problems,’ I told him, loosely. When asked to elaborate, I gave him the quick version, doing my best to portray the I don’t give a shit attitude, and mentioned that I had taken a swing at my fridge. His beautiful, muddy eyes stayed on mine. He was reading between the lines and I felt my chest swell. My bottom lip jumped and I told him that I’d cry if he kept looking at me like that. Tears came and I wiped them away as soon as his attention was diverted by the owner of the sandwich shop who was asking how the meal was.
I’ve done my best to stay distracted today, but it’s been no use. I’m throwing angry songs here and there into the sad-song playlist. I set AIM to invisible, but could see her name on the list. Thinking about how quickly I had been discarded, I deleted her name. I did the same with my webpage, myspace, cell phone, etc. I want to do it with the email, but there are great songs and pictures in there that make me feel something when I’m in the mood for a good cry.
Honestly, I give up on love. I fucked it up so many times. I felt ready, this time. I held nothing back and was abruptly dropped and I really don’t think that I’m willing to go through it all again. It just seems so futile. The odds seem to be against love.
I don’t know why I’ve posted all of this. I was trying my best to sleep and couldn’t get my head to just turn off. I guess I’m venting. I’m exhausted. I feel defeated. I’m going to bed.
