When Stacy and I were kids we used to make games. Like board games. I can’t remember actually playing these games, just the making of them. They were quite elaborate as I recall. In our pre and early teens they were curious boy/girl games designed to heat things up with those Barnettville boys. Funny to think of this tonight as I watch BB7 and think, “I could make-up a more exciting competition.”
I think I was 15 the first time I got my heart broke. It was the beginning of the March Break, that Friday night. He parked at the edge of the drive-way, didn’t drive all the way in. Ford LTD. But I don’t think it was the four-door burgundy one with the white front rocker panel (or is it a fender on the front end?) The LTD before that one. Two-door. I came out on the step to greet him, trailing friends, thought we were going out. Happy to be on holiday from school. Looking forward to the weekend. He fucking blind-sided me with this break-up bullshit. On my step lit up by Dad’s big-ass “not stealing anything out of the back of my truck” security light. I could see her silhouette in the car. Sitting in the middle, beside him.
Yeah, definitely, that’s the first time it happened, that terrible ache in your throat, pain in your chest, punch in the gut that just knocks the life out of you. Where you just explode into big fat tears and wracking sobs. You know what I mean, it just kills you. Your heart actually hurts. He was nervous kind of. I don’t know that he knew what to expect of me. I was a bit of a loose cannon. He was too afraid to come alone and do it, likely figured if I was gonna come out swinging she’d take the heat.
But I hadn’t seen it coming. I couldn’t react in any way. I had just been slain for the first time. This was new. With every fibre of my being I fought to maintain composure. The only thing worse than what he was doing to me would be allowing him to see how badly it hurt. It’s times like that when a crazy calm comes over me. Even to this day, it’s the same deal. I go still, jump behind the wall in my mind and stay there. Distance myself mentally from the situation. Silent. Emotionless. I’ve been called heartless, cold, and worse things, but it’s how I cope until I can get a moment to myself to digest.
The first time happened on my parents’ step under the spotlight with an audience. I didn’t cry. I didn’t say much. I didn’t hit anyone or throw the ring back in his face or anything. I just slipped it off my finger and into his palm, smiled, wished him well and went inside. As soon as I turned my back on him the tears came hard. I ran to my bedroom, slammed the door and threw myself against it, a pile on the floor. There is something beyond the ugly cry. It is blindness, electrocution, stabbing and fire all at once. You can’t sustain this state for more than five minutes without inducing death. I filled my room to the ceiling with anguish, then I got up, fixed my face and went out with my friends to pretend I didn’t really care anyway by getting drunk and fucking somebody else.
By the end of the week-long March Break she dumped him and I took him back. He never broke my heart again.
Drinking: nothing, gonna get some tea, maybe vanilla rooibos
Listening To: If He Should Break Your Heart, Journey
Hair: where’s the effing dye?