up until now
I was asked one time by one person to do a relationship tell all. It inspired me to write and reflect, so I did. This series contains only two of my relationships. I plan to add the third, most recent and impactful, in a short amount of time. I hope you enjoy my vulnerability.
The one that got away
I never saw myself as miraculously beautiful or wonderful but I sure desired for someone else to — as we all do,
especially in our younger years.
I had spent most of my life yearning.
From William in first grade. to Cameron in fifth grade- I bullied him mercilessly because he was better at times tables than me. I also nervously tugged on his legs when he was on the monkey bars at recess, jokingly trying to hurt him, but not seriously! He took it serious though, and didn’t talk to me for the rest of the year.
Who remembers the names of their crushes at 5, 10? I’ve come to terms with the fact I am just not normal, in a bad way.
In some ways I think I was born a romantic. I was dropped onto earth and immediately began developing crushes, mild obsessions with people who I swore would never like me. That was half of the allure anyways - the misplaced value assigned to people - only due to the perceived inability to get them.
It would be later than I realized most of my romantic misfortune was not because I was ugly or too weird, but because I was so dedicated to my pride that I rejected any man before he could reject me. Pushing them away out of fear and a hope they’d play the game back. I think that game works when you are miraculously beautiful though, but not when you’re just average.
I would chase people and feel disappointed by those who chased me - although few - it wasn’t exciting. I was immature in that way.
I met my first real boyfriend - at a summer camp in Oregon when i was 19.
I had some small, microscopic, ridiculous relationships from age 15 and beyond. They weren’t worth noting. The only thing I take from those times is that I probably watched too many movies about love, and I was naturally more dramatic than anyone around me, it seemed.
Which felt a bit awkward. Because of course - at those ages - being “cool about it all” was the mask we all wanted to wear.
He was tall. 6’4, ginger hair, slate eyes.
I had really enjoyed my time at camp.
I was a baker, I really thought this job sounded cute but it ended up being the longest, most isolated, labor intensive job there. And pure punishment for a social yapper like me.
I didn’t talk to him except for one time.
There were many guys there. And I could see myself having a crush on all of them, perhaps I did. I also got the most attention I ever had in my entire life there. Not to say these men all liked me, I’m not that delusional. I think they liked making fun of me, I was entirely reactionary.
Indeed - I was definitely the sassiest, most sarcastic woman in the room — I think it doesn’t play out well in religious settings because sarcasm is frowned upon.
Quiet, humble, sweet women are highly praised.
And while I was working for weeks, starting at 5am, making french twist bread, handmade cinnamon rolls and dinner buns for 1,000 guests - COMPLETELY VOLUNTEER BY THE WAY, - that alone does not make me a servantly woman. A gentle meek heart does. But I don’t have even a bit of that, nor did it really bother me.
I think some of the guys there were great. I mean - in the sense that they recieved my sarcasm well. which relieved me. They knew it was a joke, and at times kept pushing at me despite how hard i would push back, with a smile and laugh — it was fun. The best kind of flirting is teasing with a smile.
I almost felt my walls broken down, like they understood me. I was on the brink of softness that I wished I could show more people.
I’m sure if I got to know them, I could find other great things about them, but at this point in time, the most miraculous thing was for one of my jabbing jokes to land on the right person. — Despite the cautiously religious crowd, these people seemed cut out for it. Thank god.
He was quiet though. Our paths couldn’t cross much due to the nature of our jobs. But I liked that he was quiet.
I tend to equate quiet to mystery, and mystery to this idea that there’s something to be unlocked. It’s sometimes true, sometimes not.
SOMETIMES, you work hard to look beyond the walls they have, and find nothing. They’re just effing boring, to be honest.
I’m learning life is all illusion.
Our first real conversation was the day we left camp. We sat in the back of a car, carpooling together to the city. I can’t remember all the details, it wasn’t remarkable; but when I returned to North Carolina, I had an itch to speak to him. To win him over, to know him better.
We dated for a year. Long distance. Didn’t matter. I felt I had a different life in oregon, it was wonderful and new.
This was the first time I experienced love. WELLL - The kind that loves you back.
I had loved a lot of people, people who knew and ignored me, and many who didn’t.
Every time I went to the airport he would cry. I had no idea men cried like this — but I felt it was truly beautiful, and that I must hold some special power over him to make him feel so sad that I was leaving.
In a way, it also felt ridiculous. I would return again and again. What’s there to cry about? At times I felt bad that I didn’t cry with him. Part of me wanted to think he was pathetic, but it was endearing, awakening, and arguably incredibly masculine. Not pathetic at all. Maybe I was pathetic for feeling so numb as I left.
After all, It was a thrilling adventure, living two lives on different coasts.
—
I was washing my dishes at my Aunt’s house. I lived with her in college for some time.
“I don’t know what to say Erin, maybe he’s the one that got away, we all have one.”
I say maybe. On the inside I am stirred up with hope that he will come back, but I know how insane and pathetic I would sound if I said it out loud.
I couldn’t reckon with the choices I had made that ended the relationship.
Another man on campus had started to intensely pursue me, aggressively almost. Showing up to my work, placing himself near me in an almost stalker-y way. He was manipulative and convincing. I was very confused about my feelings when I broke up with The One Who Got Away. I never had to deal with two men liking me at once. It felt more rare and less magical than seeing a shooting star. I never imagined this would happen to me. I could never quite understand where I fell in the social ranking, and that bothered me to pieces.
I would watch those girls, you know — the ones who everyone liked, and obsess over every detail. WHY THEM? What about them? At 14, I was so delirious and fed up with not understanding my place in this world — I would stitch together a photo of her next to me. Just to compare every little detail.
Aaaaahh, I see. My arms are kind of long, like too long. Oh I see, her torso proportions are different. My proportions make me a little bit quirky, and my build is more petite. My hair is too curly, not straight enough. I need to buy these Victoria’s Secret yoga pants and perfume. Knowing good and well my over-protective parents would never let me. I would save those 30-day-get-abs graphics on Pinterest and give up after day 5, seeing no results, obviously. This obsession was so toxic. But I know many women go through this. We are so sadly made to envy each other, what a sad waste of time and energy. I think it led me to make many regretful decisions.
Every night I worked on a scrapbook, artfully crafting every page of our story visually. Photo strips, paintings, playlists, it was all very imaginative. It would’ve been the most thoughtful gift if I hadn’t given it all up.
I always thought I would mail it to him, he’d pick it up and see how seriously I take him now. We’d try again, starting our lives again in Oregon.
I never sent it.
Thankfully my cousins stopped me.
I was in mourning and replaced my senses with a familiar obsessiveness from high school. Where i would place a man on a pedestal secretly, think of ways for us to be together and then forget it all together.
It took me 10 months to move forward. I was young so I didn’t feel a rush to stop my anguish and longing. Every day was torture. I was intentional to feel it, as I deserved the pain.
It was June maybe, a warm month for sure. I rushed to my room — my phone ringing.
I finally got him on the phone, one last time.
He mentioned a photo I posted in Greece. I was standing, with braids, on the beach, my hands timidly covering my stomach. He noted he would never date a woman who posted photos like that - IN A BIKINI -
I laughed. I remember thinking at the time of meeting him, he wasn’t godly enough. He didn’t have strong faith. But suddenly here he was, slut shaming me for posting a photo from my vacation - that was far from promiscuous.
I had just studied abroad in France, I was golden and healthy, glowing and happy, but this call was shocking — it left me speechless and pale— I just didn’t expect that to be his final straw.
The trance broke that day, I woke up renewed and wondering why he hadn’t spoken to me sooner. If I had heard his attitude, I could’ve been over this a lot faster.
Insane how my mind can create such fiction about people. I’m always glad to hear the sobering truth.
He married almost a year after. I saw her name is Summer. She was really beautiful. And I think he truly deserved her. She seemed very meek and godly.
I - while on my spiritual journey still - knew I could never possess the meekness of these women who just aimlessly believe. In a way I admired their faith. Unbreakable. But also, secretly thought they might be a little dull, a little too agreeable.
I wished they WOULD question their faith.
But then again, I know nothing. People are dynamic. I was assuming far too much. In the end, I was truly at peace with it.
I was 21, impossibly young to be married. But in my community, people were being married off right as they graduated. At 21, i was an old maid, i guess.
He was not “the one who got away,” but for 20 year old me, thats how the story went.
Wow. I love time passing. It reveals so much.
Even in the moment, you may think “I cannot survive this”, and later you laugh.
How could I not?
— Mr “ You can’t get lucky twice”
I had assimilated seamlessly to life in the mountains of North Carolina.
Only the coolest people went to college here, I thought.
The cool girls, the ones who snowboard, and hike, and aren’t afraid of bugs, and can camp outside cheerfully, never complaining despite wanting to on the inside. I was learning slowly that no group, culture, or environment is immune to social masks. I was pretty committed to the bit though.
Carhartt beanies and jackets, hair in braids. I was a climber, a girl who wasn’t afraid to bait a hook and take the fish in my bare hands.
Growing up I really wanted to impress my dad. Looking back, he was quiet. He really never said more than a few words at a time. But he was warm.
My dad loved college football, so I loved college football.
My dad loved to fish, so I loved to fish.
I always wanted to be close to my parents, and my mother was really occupied with her work as an engineer, so my dad felt more accessible. Even though he didn’t say much, I could tell he was elated that I wanted to join him on the boat, would scream for his favorite team, and hung up the football team poster in my pink, flowery room. Like a badge of honor - I’m different - I’m dynamic - I’m both/and.
They didn’t praise me often, or express their pride in me. We lived in a dollhouse on some land, isolated — not a neighborhood. I was eager to socialize with kids my age, walking down a busy road to the nearest neighborhood where my best friend lived. My sister was older, not concerned with me at all, and I was used to it, so I didn’t mind. Siblings usually can’t stand each other, they hoard their friends and lock you out of the room. That’s just life.
I thanked their way of raising me for my independence and self sufficient attitude.
I felt capable. I felt better than the other girls — the ones who squealed when a moth flew near their face, the ones who couldn’t be outside for more than a day because they felt so gross they could die. They were such losers to me, honestly.
Turns out men don’t really care. They like when a girl needs help, they like the cute, helpless look on their face. It provides a means for them to care for them, to feel needed.
And in the end, I would just be a sore loser anyway, a jaded pick-me.
I was yes - undeniably - rough around the edges.
Hoping that the men who want delicate butterflies would move out of my sight fast enough so I could see the ones who want to spunky, self-grown, independent me. Please, someone?
I wish I knew back then, that my life wasn’t supposed to be an ongoing competition with women to prove I was the better one. Most of these women were normal. They didn’t see me as a threat, so they carried a certain peace about them. I think that’s what made them attractive. There must’ve been something unsettling about me, as if the metaphorical - protective knife I had hidden behind my back wasn’t all that hidden.
I wish I hadn’t viewed women this way, but it felt so engrained within me.
This is all hindsight though. Perhaps my competitiveness was camouflaged wonderfully back then. After all, I wasn’t cold. At least, not yet.
—
You can’t get lucky twice.
I had a man who cried over me every time I left, how rare is that?
Then I added him on Facebook, how archival, even for 2018. As a woman, I was a pursuer. I felt this gave men a break sometimes. Not that they needed it, and not that anyone cares. I just liked being brave in that way. Besides — men really can’t get a clue.
I had enjoyed the fact that the men I spent time with were chosen by me. No man that pursued me ever really made the cut. I liked the power and comfort of choosing who gets to be close to me in that way. And that men who wanted me first, must be weird, or lame.
Something has got to be incredibly wrong with them to want to pursue me.
He was very tall, which I was fond of thanks to “The One Who Got Away.” His hair was past his shoulders, brown, with dark brown eyes. He wore only outdoor labels, and blundstones.
He came over and we made apple pies, one October day.
I lived in a really cute, old, glorified shed. From the outside it was a cottage, with a magical vine draped across the porch, nestled around trees, a river in the back, and a sizable yard. Sizable enough to sit on a blanket on a sunny day and dream about nothing.
I loved this house, even though I was the third roommate, squished inside the add-on room in the back, the size of a parking spot, walls thin as plywood, on a twin bed with slanted floors — A curtain separating me from the washing machine. I felt really lucky to live here, in this fairy house, in this fairy town, with this mountain boy.
He was what some call a “golden retriever”. Honestly, I always felt he was kind of stupid. Easily swayed. And in a heartless way, I don’t even feel bad.
He had no direction, no notable ambition besides what mountain to hike next, what unbearable backpacking type-a fun journey was up next. In this town though, it didn’t matter. It’s not like people around us wanted to be doctors. They wanted a calm life, a life with a garden, honey bees, homemade pickles and jam and sourdough bread.
They seemed unafflicted by the world’s daunting expectations and societal pressure. Unfazed by elitism, redefining their ideas of success. Life wasn’t about making money, it was about being rich in community.
While a part of me resonated with this, how could you not — even the high achievers in big cities dream of this life — a part of me rejected it as well.
I dreamed of galleries, having art shows, hosting dinner parties on a rooftop in the city in the summer. I also dreamed of love, of glittering light through the trees on a warm day, the freedom that comes from breaking free of status, simplicity and calm. I felt conflicted, in many ways. Maybe greedy.
Mr. Golden Retriever loved me well. I thought to myself, wow -
I thought I was unlovable,
The One Who Got Away showed me I could get lucky and find a man who thinks I am amazing, a muse, cool,
Turns out, I can get lucky twice.
Maybe I am not all that bad. Maybe good, selfless love isn’t so out of reach.
—
YOU CAN TAKE THE DOG.
But you’ll have to pay.
Can you believe nearly 5 years has passed?
In the time that I met the goofy, dad joke, mountain man golden retriever, I had moved in with him into a house on a hill, with a stunning, energetic, mischievous Australian shepherd. I named him Fig.
I had also left for nearly 10 months to live abroad, in a backpack, going to a new country every month. South Africa, Zambia, Zimbabwe, Malawi,
Thailand, Vietnam, Laos, Cambodia — Long distance again, something I didnt fear, and quite enjoyed.
I had faced a lot of inner turmoil then, sleeping on floors some months, showering with a bucket, rationing water. I chose it tho, so the sacrifice felt holy. It was my last ditch effort to search for the real faith that others seemed to have, that I didnt.
By the time I was to head home, I had completely abandoned the religion I served painstakingly for most of my adult life. This was a long time coming. I felt relieved in my decision.
When I arrived back to America, early - mind you - due to covid, I wasn’t the same. The mountain town that once felt freeing, felt claustrophobic and crowded. It didn’t want me there, and I held on for longer than I should’ve.
IT WAS SO CLEAR TO ME: The warm spirits I once possessed were fading embers, I was so far removed from the slow, subdued culture. Sickened by it. Maddened by it. I wasn’t me.
It was supposed to be temporary.
It didn’t help that Mr. Golden Retriever, felt entirely opposite. This was his place, his home, his refuge. I resented him. I resented his ridiculous optimism. I resented his lack of a backbone. He always let me win. He never pushed back on me. He was spineless, and pure.
I was growing rougher and rougher with each week.
Restless.
I do not belong here, but this is the life we made.
I was nearly 26, tired of the living standards here. Tired of the mold, the houses that were breaking down, floors caving in, walls with paint dried over bugs from the summer.
I was never the picky type, the materialist, the uppity type.
But damn, maybe - just maybe - I really am.
To me, the veil has lifted. It was clear as day - I needed to leave but didn’t know how.
The final days of our relationship were quite drawn out. I had fallen out of love for quite some time now, years maybe. I was not a quitter though. I understood relationships naturally go through the motions, puppy love fades, and I wanted to show I was loyal to a person even when time passes, circumstances change —
I put in my time!!!!! I would say, as if it was a prison sentence. In a way it was. Not because he was awful, he was generously wonderful. Making dinner most nights, supporting me through my crisis, taking the dog out for long walks. It didn’t matter though, while he thrived in this place, I melted into the couch, longing for a life that felt truly meant for me, if it existed. I had lost respect for him, and to me that was everything.
—
Oh shit, hes almost here.
My cousins and I are deliriously packing up my belongings in the dead of night.
I don’t care that much about our relationship dying, admittedly.
I’m more destroyed at the thought of leaving behind my Fig, as well as his father and step mom. They loved me well, and I loved them.
He had no idea that the only reason he had a relationship with his son was because of me. I was personally very proud of this accomplishment of mine, although I never let him know. That would be weird, right?
It’s nice to know you could be a mastermind and change the course of someone’s life for the better.
We turn off all the lights in the house and listen for the gravel in the driveway crackling. I run outside in the dark, but no one is there. Secretly I hoped he would be. So I could yell at him, or make him feel bad for essentially falling in love with some septum wearing hippie before we could even officially call it quits, obliterating the respect we had left for each other, and our friendship that we created for nearly 5 years.
I couldn’t blame him though. In a way, this was betrayal to me. But also, I hadn’t loved him. Not for a while. And I knew I was setting him free by letting this go too. He deserved to be with someone who loved him, who wanted to live this quiet life, with nothing to their name but the watercolors they put on Etsy.
I will say, he became nearly unrecognizable by the end of it all. Greedy, and blaming. Rude, and void of care for me. I didn’t think I deserved that. Never once had he treated me like this in 5 years. It was a 180. Men are like that. They find someone else, and suddenly they go completely cold. Practically a corpse. I know I didn’t love him and all - but I wasn’t cruel. I still cared for him as a friend and pushed him to be better.
That didn’t mean anything now. I guess thats how the vegan woman-owned small-business cookie crumbles in this ridiculous performative mountain town. psht….
Fuck you all, seriously.
I left quickly. He had mentioned he was terrified of me. Shielding the identity of the new girl from me. I was curious of course. He had asked me a few times before the end if I would ever get a tattoo, or a septum, or shave my head. I realize now, he had met her the grungiest coffee shop in town, and she sported these things: piercings, tattoos, edge. What a weirdo - him, not her — for asking me these telling questions.
Afraid of me? I laughed. HONESTLY - fair.
In a way, my chest puffed up with pride and joy.
He thought I would stalk her, in real life, and online. Im not sure what that says about me - Ha.
He was afraid I was slash his tires, or show up unannounced. Man - that could’ve been an amazing plot for some teen drama. Instead I threw one of his cheaper plants into the yard, left a molding cookie in the closet (ok, he left it there, I just chose not to pick it up) and left this town and never came back.
Not to our home, not to my beloved first dog —Despite his fear of me and protection of her, I did find out who she was, immediately angry at the tomboy nature of her name - Alex.
What a great name, honestly. Dammit!
But besides that, my curiosity faded, which delighted me.
I never went to her page, incognito on instagram with an account staged as a muffin shop in Iowa — I didn’t lie awake thinking about her — I didn’t do any of the things he feared from me, but knowing I could make a grown man lurch in anxiety made me happy. And I think I am a little twisted for that.
All in all, its clear the resentment I carried for so long shielded me, and ushered me into my next life.
And I realized, maybe you can’t get lucky twice.
Was I even lucky once?
(to be continued ◡̈)
