So, later last night, I ran across the prequel to the journal entries I started transcribing last night; I think I can date these things better now. Last night’s entry was actually from sometime around the middle of my sophomore year of college, so probably late 1996 or early 1997. The one that follows chronologically appears to be from the spring of 1998. I was not a very dedicated diarist, apparently only feeling the need to record my PAIN and HEARTACHE for posterity when things were going badly between me and ol’ John (or rather, when they were going exactly as theatrically badly as I could have wished). I’ll post the “prequel” next, which will lay a little bit more groundwork for the horrors to come.
See, I had enjoyed a long and happy relationship in high school that lasted about three years. My boyfriend was a great guy — he treated me like a beautiful and special princess snowflake, brought me flowers, and suffered through ballet performances. We went everywhere together and wrote each other schmoopy notes and had long telephone conversations (“Are you asleep?” “No, are you?”) when we weren’t together (which was pretty much when we were either in class or I was in a ballet rehearsal). Of course we fought occasionally about stupid teenager-y things, but he was cute and athletic and the whole thing was hearts and rainbows and, eventually, a good bit of fumbling and awkward, but ultimately sweet… physical experimentation. His parents travelled a good bit and his older brother was away at college, so we had the house to ourselves a lot. Also, he had a pool.
The other thing is that I was a pretty solitary kid in a lot of ways. If I wasn’t over at my boyfriend’s house engaging in… physical experimentation… I was either at school or at a ballet class, or I was reading. Oh, I had friends and we hung out some, but I was a voracious reader. I graduated from high school having consumed a steady diet of the likes of Gone With the Wind, Anya Seton, L.M. Montgomery and Elizabeth Peters.
In other words, I had no idea how a real relationship worked. There wasn’t any particular Event that broke High School Boy and I up, unless you count Life and College and the fact that we were really only kids playing at being grown up. But the relative idyllic perfection of that relationship left me completely emotionally unprepared for messier quasi-adult relationships. I hadn’t experienced any angst yet! I didn’t know I was supposed to! After all, I had been A Girlfriend for years, I had that deal down cold. I would just have to pick a likely prospect — and why shouldn’t they all like me? I was great!
So that was pretty much my emotional landscape by the time “John” and the other college guys joined the picture. And for the most part, I wasn’t terribly off the mark; if they weren’t actually falling at my feet and pledging undying devotion, it wasn’t particularly hard for me to get a date. John — John was the enigma. His recalcitrant refusal to prostrate himself obediently before the altar of my Girlfriendish perfection, despite all that we seemed to have in common and what appeared to be a clear sort of affection and friendship between us, utterly confounded me and, at the same time, entranced me. Finally, this was something deep and true — it must have been, because that was the natural progression of all the romantic stories I had read; of course the hero and heroine encountered obstacles, but those obstacles would only ultimately prove how right they were for each other. He wasn’t unattainable, he was just unenlightened. I refused all evidence to the contrary; I was utterly miserable at times, and realize now that I enjoyed all the misery and drama for all it was worth. He was an irresistible challenge, the heroin to my romance-addicted little heart. I was Scarlett O’Hara, and John was my Ashley Hamilton.
