First Loves are complicated.
I remember the first time I looked at a girl and had some interest in her.
It was a vague interest, mostly because she was cute, but I was never too interested in cuteness.
I am a man of intellect and abstraction, after all, so I wanted something more interesting than that.
I found a girl that interested me enough in the last year of middle high, a transfer student with a peculiar accent, beautiful hands, weird teeth and the most amazing conversation.
Her quirkiness had set her apart from the rest of the class. I was already apart, but a broken leg meant that during sports we were often left alone.
I learned that I was Weird, but that I wasn’t the only Weird person my age in the world.
The decisive moment, to me, was during graduation ball, with all my classmates wearing these long, pastel-colored dresses that their families had picked.
She was wearing a black, short dress.
She blew my mind, of course.
That was graduation, of course, and a shy little boy never worked the courage to talk to her again.
But of course, that wasn’t my first love: It was my first crush, and it was one that showed me that I loved the unusual.
All this talk is just to provide some context, because my first love was considerably more complicated.
We had known each other for years already. She started working as soon as she finished High School, while I continued through University. We often got together with our friends, went to the movies, hung around. Our friends moved on, but we still kept in touch. Eventually, she became my best friend in the whole world, and we shared both good and bad. We were comfortable, for the most part, as just friends, and that was fine.
But we also had some distinct differences: Our religious views, goals in life, family situations. But despite all that, there was some connection there that was very important for both of us, something that made Us distinct. I loved her, as a friend, and admired her.
But, over time, that familiar love and admiration got a new intruder: A growing awareness of her beauty, of her physicality, of her body.
And this, this…. terrified me.
This emotion drove me away from her, slowly but surely, while my mind raced to find excuses as to why I shouldn’t spend time with her: Our different religious views, our life paths and careers, and the most horrible of all, self-convincing myself that I wasn’t Good Enough For Her.
In retrospective, none of that mattered. I never cared about her religious views, and a life path is irrelevant as long as you know what you want.
The main Destructive Factor was myself, my own twisted emotions.
So I chose to lose myself in that Destruction, with the secret hope that she could look through all that and see that I was in pain, that all I wanted was to be acknowledged.
I sent her a letter, with harsh, horrible words I cannot even remember. I can only recall the feeling of becoming a Demon with the secret hope of being able to look beyond that.
She was so hurt, she couldn’t reply. She never actually replied.
I lost my best friend.
Years later, one day after watching an awesome movie with a friend, I dropped her off at her house and realized that this friend, who was a relatively minor crush, was someone I could never feel properly attracted to, and thus could not fall in love with her.
It hit me… That emotion, that combination of things, it had been love, and it had burned me.
That day, for the first time in who knows how long, I cried from realizing that I had broken my own heart in the worst possible way.
And then, I fell asleep, deep under the ocean waves, under layers and layers of misdirection, lies and negative emotion, only to protect myself, and the wounds I inflicted on myself and could not let heal, lest I forget them.
Another poor choice.
On the bright side, I am trying to make things work out in me, for once.
On the not-so-bright side, these emotions are under-developed by 10 years, every little thing still makes them hurt like hell, and they feel like they don’t “fit” with the rest of me anymore.
Got a lot of work ahead of me, I think.
And I’m scared, of being hurt even more, of losing more beautiful and important things, of getting closer.
I fee like I am 15 again, after having seen that beautiful girl say goodbye forever, and I can’t reach out to her… Only now I can reach out, stay and not make the same mistakes, not lose myself in that Destruction, and try to be honest and see where that leads me.
Borrowing the words of a wise man: So it goes.