DISCLAIMER: This entry involves experiences of bullying, sexual misconduct and/or assault, and self-hate and could possibly trigger a reader who may have (or is still) struggling with any of those issues. Please be cautious.
As with all of my entries and stories, each piece of writing I post here is from my personal perspective, experience, logic, and truth. I do not, and nor will I ever claim, that I know best, or all there is to know, about any topic or experience another individual may have experience(d). These are my words, my thoughts, my feelings, my truth.
I was sixteen when I moved out of my father’s home. My mom had already left, high school was a nightmare and useless in my opinion, and I had a new love, John (not his real name). I met him through a mutual friend and he was like a gift from God (if you believe in her). He was kind, sweet, funny, trusting and trustworthy, supportive, loving, and all things good. We hit it off immediately and I know I (and I think we) believed we were destined to be together forever. I couldn’t believe he loved me and hated the fact that he lived across the city from me (we’re talking two or more busses). I wanted to keep him as close as possible, but I don’t remember how the subject came up. A conversation was had, that included his mom, and she was fine to have me move into her basement. I was so excited and relieved, I didn’t even hesitate to tell my dad. I wanted to get away from everything and everyone I knew. I was doing more than poorly in school, my reputation had been ruined and I didn’t have a friend in sight. I hated my life. And though I still didn’t know it, I hated myself.
I moved into John’s mothers home and John and I basically played house for almost two years. The basement was like our own little apartment. He was the kindest boy I’d ever met in my life, and I truly felt loved by him. When I hurt, he hurt. When I was excited for something, he got excited too. When I was sad, he was sad. And we had so much fun together. He had a great group of friends who would come over all of the time. We’d hang out, listen to music, play games, watch movies, and just enjoy each other’s company. It was like I’d stepped into an after-school special, with all the feel-good moments, with a loving mom living above us to try and keep us in line. Those are the only years I can look back on my teenage years with fondness, and I am forever grateful to John, his mother, and the rest of his family for that.
It wasn’t always easy though. I know I wasn’t an easy girlfriend. Though I’d admitted what had happened, acknowledged I was raped, I still hadn’t processed the emotions and trauma from it. I’m sure there must have been times when John (and maybe even some of his friends) thought I had a few screws loose. But they never let me feel it. If I was having a bad day, or if I’d had too much to drink and was freaking out, they sat there with me and let me freak out. They never made me feel ‘othered’ or less than, or like I wasn’t worth having as a friend, or a girlfriend in John’s case. I truly felt loved during that time. For the first time ever. John was the most amazing through it all. He clearly didn’t know what to do or how to help me, but his being there, being kind to me and loving me was enough. My sexual experiences with him were the first positive and truly loving ones. When we’d be together, I’d feel serene, complete and at peace even. It was a lovely feeling and it allowed me to explore more of myself in the comforts he provided. I often didn’t like what I found (in myself), but he was always there to tell me I was safe. I was okay. I was loved. He was always so gentle when I needed him to be, and fun when I was adventurous. I never felt awkward, unsure or unsafe when I was with him. I trusted him completely, and for the first time in my life, I was right in placing that trust. It felt good. He never hurt me.
We’d talked marriage and kids and a future together, and each time we did, I believed it would happen for us. Truth be told, to this day, it’s tough to explain what happened. There came a time when I realized, as much as I loved John, I wasn’t IN love with him. Though he provided a safe and love-filled space, though I thought he was one of the best human beings I’d ever met, I could no longer see myself with him. And it broke my heart. For months, I struggled with my newfound reality and tried to avoid it. But in the meantime, I was hurting John. I was beginning to pull away from him, finding things I’d previously loved about him annoying, and hurting his feelings with my eye-rolling, sighing, or just plain obvious annoyance. And I didn’t want to hurt him. I didn’t want to lose him. I wanted to salvage what good we could and keep him in my life, as selfish as that was. I moved out into my own apartment, hoping space would help things. Poor John was so confused, and nothing I could say or do could help things. I myself couldn’t make sense of it. How could I not be in love with this wonderful person? What was wrong with me?
Looking back now, I know it was a real instance of “it’s not you, it’s me.” Or perhaps a better analogy is to use the wise words of the marvellous RuPaul, “If you can’t love yourself, how in the hell are you gonna love somebody else?” I was so fucked up. I still hadn’t dealt with my rape in any real or healthy way. I still couldn’t make any wise or healthy choices. I was still a fucking child! Perhaps, if he and I had met when we were older. Or when I was a healthier and happier person, loving myself. Perhaps then it could’ve worked. I’d like to think so, but at the time, I wasn’t worthy of him, or his love. I don’t know that he ever understood that. He took the breakup rather badly and though I’d hoped to remain friends, it wasn’t possible at the time. It broke both of our hearts.
A year or two later, when I was once again in a shitty place, I contacted him. And as always, he was there for me. We hung out, chatted and enjoyed each other’s company. It was a safe place for me, yet again. And when the talking subsided, we watched a movie and cuddled, and that was it. I remember leaving his place and crying, still frustrated that I couldn’t be with him. I don’t think he was attached at the time, and I know I wasn’t, but I still wasn’t what he deserved, and I knew it. Even if he’d wanted me, which never came up, I didn’t want to bring myself back into his life, have him open his heart to me, only to have me break it again. It had been SO difficult to leave him that day, but it had been for the best.
We re-kindled our friendship again after I married. My husband, myself, John and his now-wife would get together for dinners, drinks, shows, and had tons of fun. I was elated to be invited to his wedding (he’d been to mine) and to share in his new adventure. But after the wedding, we lost touch. In my reality, he stopped responding to my calls, texts and messages. In fact, the last time we connected was when I found out his mother had died a couple of years ago. She and I had stayed in touch and would meet for lunches and coffee. I truly loved her. She was an amazing woman. When I’d discovered she’d died, I was heart broken. John and his mother had always been very close, so I reached out to him to give my condolences and express my love for her. We emailed back and forth a few times, slowly working toward a possible meeting to catch up. But then the pandemic hit full force and we decided to postpone until further notice. No words have been exchanged since.
Before his mother died, I shared some of my memoirs with her, including this ‘chapter’. I wanted her to understand how thankful I was to her and her son. I hoped it would let her know how wonderful I thought she was, and I wanted her to know what a positive impact she’d had on my life, even if for just a short time. She expressed a great deal of thanks for sharing it with her. She also told me how brave I was and that she’d always love me and support me no matter what. But that was John’s mom. She was an angel. I’d told her that I wanted to share this ‘chapter’ with John also, because I wanted him to understand too, but she told me the time wasn’t right. I don’t know if she was just being kind, thinking it was inappropriate, or if she planned on letting me know if ever there was a better time. But I guess, he could read it now, if he were to discover this blog somehow. Perhaps he already knows about it. I don’t know.
John, if you’re reading this. Thank you.
Stay tuned for PART SEVEN
Ⓒ April 2022. Beki Lantos. All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means without prior written permission of the author.
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