A History of Love, Loss, And Desperation

 

It all started with Fran.

Fran was a schoolmate of mine from when I was eleven. My life changed a lot when I got to be eleven. My parents got divorced, my sister had recently been born (hence I had this sudden new physical presence in my life), and I was switched classes in school just two weeks in the beginning of the new trimester. As unstable as my life undeniably was, I felt stable as the calmest of the seas.

And I started to like Fran. Because all of the previous pieces of profound life alteration were just not enough. I always liked it hard.

He might as well have been the less good-looking guy I’ve ever been into. He was so unattractive, even for a twelve-year old. He was short (or I was taller), not particularly fit, his face far from being symmetrical. And yet I liked him so much he was the first guy I ever confessed it to.

I remember exactly how I felt. I am irresistible. Nothing can possibly go wrong. By no means can he say anything different from “of course” once I have the courage to ask him out.

He lived just across the street from my school, meaning it only took him one minute to reach his main door. I had only one minute to stalk him, pitch him, convince him any outdoor activity carried out with me would be absolutely adorable. The time of his life.

Back then I had a personal project to start a radio show on a local. And it’s true: I loved his voice. It was really low for a twelve-year old and I could’ve been listening to it talking about, meh, whatever. Sperm whales, bees, medieval history, his dog. So one day when leaving I run into him and got him while walking down the stairs, presented him with what I thought was the best idea ever and hoped for the best.

“It would be nice to have you in. It would be nice to do something together.”

He looked back at me, his eyes filled with something that was not surprise, but loath. He said: “I do not think so, but let me think about it”.

We never talked, ever again.

 

On Love.
On Love.

 

It all followed with Antonio.

I met him in a school trip to Southern France. He and I went to different schools, but his mum was a teacher of mine and got him and his brother to our trip. He was gorgeous: curly blonde hair, honey eyes, freckles. An angel put on Earth just to be sure you’re going to be fine in your first solo trip abroad.

He sat with me for thirteen hours. He asked everything about me. He liked ME. And he chased me for a week.

Yet I did not even kiss him. I was afraid, terrified to hell.

When we got back to our city I learned that we were neighbors. He literally lived across the street. I could see his apartment from my living room window.

I became so obsessed with gaining him back, amending the error, retrieving his admiration towards myself, that I spent literally hours out, waiting for him to come out. Even my mum realized I had a crush on someone, given the amount of time I spent in our balcony.

So I got a cassette and recorded a song I really liked by a composer I’ve already talked about. The song was called “Te Quiero Igual” (mistranslated it would be: “I Love You, No Matter What”). And I gave it to him.

We never talked, ever again.

He actually never even said “thank you” to me.

 

On Loss.
On Loss.

 

It all reached out with Chema. I did everything I could to draw his attention to me. Absolutely everything I could have possibly imagined. For a period of almost three years, my life was literally a huge plot titled Chasing Chema.

In my third year of college, he texted me during the Christmas break. He wanted to see me, we met, we took a walk. He tried to kiss me and got so offended when I said “no, I went all over you for years, you never took it; now I don’t like you anymore”.

I can confess it now: I felt like a Goddess. The power was, in the end, mine. His pride was for me to be taken and just by simply saying “fuck off”.

 

I suffered two other great rejections before leaving that atrocious place in which I had the luck of being born.

Jose, in Junior. We were schoolmates, we sat together. He was so shy, in this really beautiful shyness only guys can show. I felt we shared something, I felt as confident as the first time I talked to Fran about my radio show. Nothing could go possibly wrong.

He said no. And I lost him as a friend.

And Pablo, in Senior. He was so cute it fucking hurt my eyes. We had never talked. He attended the same school as I but to the classroom next door to mine. I just saw him during breaks. I loved him in a purely platonic way. I wrote him a really beautiful letter. And he was kind enough to say “no” with style.

Actually, I now wish that everyone in my afterlife would have had that level of style.

 

At 17, I left that monstrous city in the pursuit of happiness, a better self, the greatest friendships I’d ever have, and knowledge.

College changed my life, myself, and everything. Plus, sex got into the equation. And nothing got to be the same.

Only now, when 27, have I been able to realize sex just overcomplicates everything.

 

On Desperation.
On Desperation.

 

For when sex did not exist, you just could not stare at your body and see the stain. You were pure. Untouched, unbent, unbroken.

You could just see yourself in the mirror and think “I am going to be fine”.

But feeling sorry for having fallen in love is one of the worst sensations one may possibly experience. It’s damaging something so beautiful as devotion. When that happens, you have to see yourself in a body that you feel, suddenly, completely overturned. You have to breathe within a border that you sense to have been profoundly violated. As if all the love you could give, and everything you could plausibly offer would amount to nothing. As if you were a whore.

That did not used to happen. That just never happened. Back then, in high school, you just cried a few hours. You got into your room and played your music so loud your mum could not see her favorite soap opera and hated the guts out of you. You shouted. You worked it out. You went for the next.

Yet having shared your intimacy with someone that has just used it as if it were cheap toilet paper is the absolute all-time worst level of crap. You watch your arm and you see shit. You feel your legs while walking and they feel like mud. You look at your feet and they burn out of despair. Out of an inner desperation, a question arises and it turns to be so basic that the answer just simply cuts you with the strength of ten blades: “how could’ve I been so stupid”.

That opens a window of time in which you cannot love yourself. No matter the new haircut you get, how many cups of coffee your friends pour for you, all of your historical self-consciousness. It all goes away, and suddenly nothing else seems worthy to you. You don’t give a fuck.

Yesterday I read something that triggered this whole entry. This desperately obvious, unpublicized, ridiculous entry. “There’s a certain grace to having your heart broken.”

There is, no doubt.

I just need a few more days to start feeling it.

 

 

 

 

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