An American Gril's Guide to Falling In Love
I have to write a memoir for my Advanced Composition class.
I chose to write about my relationships with me.
I figured it was appropriate for my current situation.
Ive decided to post it as I write it.
I want feedback.
Part One: Heartbreak
In three years a baby can learn to speak well enough to hold a conversation. The average person puts 45,000 miles on their car in three years. You could write a full memoir, get it published, and be on the best sellers list in three years. Or, if you’re me, you can lose yourself completely in just three years.
When someone you thought you loved leaves you, it seems like a part of you is walking away with him. He left my house, the house I had left three years ago to live with him, and it felt as thought I was walking away with him. When I ran to the kitchen window, I watched him walking away, thinking “Please just turn around.” I honestly thought I could will him to look back. I spent three years unable to will him to do anything, yet I somehow thought I could will him to just turn around. When his car door slammed and he drove away, my chest felt as though he had slammed it in the door.
A bed is never as cold and lonely as that first night alone.
A week is never as long as that first week alone.
Bobby and I met when I was 15. He and my best friend were casually seeing one another, and I was set up with his best friend. Our rendezvous occurred every summer, during the last week of June. His house was a block away from the largest festival in the area, and became a hub for social activity. The drives to his house with Sarah were filled with such anticipation of young summer lust. Nothing serious ever came of Bobby and Sarah’s relationship, but every year, the last week in June, we sat on the curb of his house and watched the fireworks that welcomed summer. I have been to those fireworks every year for the past 5 The first couple of years, I watched them with Bernie, the boy I was set up with. The next year, I watched them next to Sarah. The fact that I was in a relationship with my high school sweetheart prevented me from the arms of Bernie, but I couldn’t miss the fireworks. Like I was afraid summer wouldn’t fully start until I saw them. Like my life wouldn’t be the same if I missed them.
For the past 3 years, I have watched the fireworks in Bobby’s arms. They were brighter, louder, more beautiful in his arms. I somehow believed that those fireworks were a metaphor for our relationship. I thought he loved me with the same colorful fire that lit up the summer sky. But, like the fireworks, the beauty of our love eventually fizzled out, leaving nothing but smoke and spectators hoping for more. The finale is never as exciting as you want it to be.
It seems as though all of my relationships with men have been one giant metaphor. They start out in intense fire, and slowly die out until what exist isn't even recognizable to the love once felt. My situation appears less and less uncommon with the passing years. I am learning that love between man and women rarely last forever. Instead, it ends in a heartbreak that seems to overwhelm the love our hearts once knew. But maybe it isn't about the love. Maybe it's about the growing up, the moving on, the learning about ourselves. Maybe heartbreak is just God's way of telling us there is life after love. The word "heartbreak" signifies it can be mended; otherwise, we'd call it heartdeath.
I chose to write about my relationships with me.
I figured it was appropriate for my current situation.
Ive decided to post it as I write it.
I want feedback.
Part One: Heartbreak
In three years a baby can learn to speak well enough to hold a conversation. The average person puts 45,000 miles on their car in three years. You could write a full memoir, get it published, and be on the best sellers list in three years. Or, if you’re me, you can lose yourself completely in just three years.
When someone you thought you loved leaves you, it seems like a part of you is walking away with him. He left my house, the house I had left three years ago to live with him, and it felt as thought I was walking away with him. When I ran to the kitchen window, I watched him walking away, thinking “Please just turn around.” I honestly thought I could will him to look back. I spent three years unable to will him to do anything, yet I somehow thought I could will him to just turn around. When his car door slammed and he drove away, my chest felt as though he had slammed it in the door.
A bed is never as cold and lonely as that first night alone.
A week is never as long as that first week alone.
Bobby and I met when I was 15. He and my best friend were casually seeing one another, and I was set up with his best friend. Our rendezvous occurred every summer, during the last week of June. His house was a block away from the largest festival in the area, and became a hub for social activity. The drives to his house with Sarah were filled with such anticipation of young summer lust. Nothing serious ever came of Bobby and Sarah’s relationship, but every year, the last week in June, we sat on the curb of his house and watched the fireworks that welcomed summer. I have been to those fireworks every year for the past 5 The first couple of years, I watched them with Bernie, the boy I was set up with. The next year, I watched them next to Sarah. The fact that I was in a relationship with my high school sweetheart prevented me from the arms of Bernie, but I couldn’t miss the fireworks. Like I was afraid summer wouldn’t fully start until I saw them. Like my life wouldn’t be the same if I missed them.
For the past 3 years, I have watched the fireworks in Bobby’s arms. They were brighter, louder, more beautiful in his arms. I somehow believed that those fireworks were a metaphor for our relationship. I thought he loved me with the same colorful fire that lit up the summer sky. But, like the fireworks, the beauty of our love eventually fizzled out, leaving nothing but smoke and spectators hoping for more. The finale is never as exciting as you want it to be.
It seems as though all of my relationships with men have been one giant metaphor. They start out in intense fire, and slowly die out until what exist isn't even recognizable to the love once felt. My situation appears less and less uncommon with the passing years. I am learning that love between man and women rarely last forever. Instead, it ends in a heartbreak that seems to overwhelm the love our hearts once knew. But maybe it isn't about the love. Maybe it's about the growing up, the moving on, the learning about ourselves. Maybe heartbreak is just God's way of telling us there is life after love. The word "heartbreak" signifies it can be mended; otherwise, we'd call it heartdeath.