Another in a long line

She truly loved me, and, looking back, she did just about anything I asked, which, in the end, benefited neither of us.

I can’t recall when it started, but it flickered in high school. She asked me to a dance. I wore suspenders with no sport coat, was coated in hair spray, and didn’t want to be there. She looked overwhelmed, but beautiful. I met her dad, he hated me, and, as it turned out, he had good reason. It was the only dance I ever enjoyed.

Fast forward to college. I was a Sophomore and my “girlfriend” (we will call her the Devil) was studying abroad. This girl went to school hours from me, but we stayed in touch, often driving to each other on the weekends. We had something. She turned me on, drove me crazy, made me feel stupid, yet strong. She was outwardly confident, but horribly insecure, I needed to be loved. We had fun, and lots of it. It wasn’t serious, but it was exciting. The Devil was happily ignorant.

Then he died. I was in a daze, but called her from the hospital – it was 6am, I have no recollection of the conversation – but it was the beginning of the end.

She was home in hours, stayed with me, alone, in the room where he slept, and, to be honest, masterfully distracted me from myself. The next week was a blur, but I know I spent it with her. She was a rock.

What I did over the next few months was nothing short of appalling.

I needed a sense of control; I needed something to make sense, so I latched on and fed off of her. She loved me, and would have done anything; I loved nothing, but needed her being. I let it linger, sapping her energy, gulping down her kindness, without so much as a thank you in return. I gave just enough to provide hope, but not enough to relinquish control. It was a game. I couldn’t understand how she could want me -- I didn’t sleep, smoked nonstop, and stopped eating -- and made her prove it to me on an hourly basis. She smiled, threw compliments, gave me her body and listened to me cry, often cradling me, a grown man, promising her eternal presence. I didn’t let her keep that promise.

I pushed her harder than I knew I could. I loved the energy, the destructive power was my purpose -- she didn’t stand a chance.

As planned, the Devil returned, and I dropped her as if she had been a momentary fling. She threatened to tell, I cried, she disappeared.

I never told her, and never admitted it to myself, but I loved her. She was my best friend, my lover, and my support system. Yet, I trampled her. I needed to feel strong, to be in control. I succeeded.

I saw her this year, I tried to talk, she walked away. I emailed her this week, just to say I was sorry, she has yet to respond. I understand, I wouldn’t. They say we should have no regrets, I have many. But of all the cruel, sick things I have done in my short life, this was my masterpiece, and all I have to show for my greatest triumph is the emptiness caused by the loss of the first person who cared enough about me to sacrifice her own sanity and well being for my greater good. What a waste of a great personal attribute.

For what it is worth, I told the Devil, she was, not surprisingly, upset. It felt good, for it was the first “right” thing I had done in some time.