When I was a little girl, I dreamed of a huge, elaborate wedding- and, like many other little girls in the world, I acted out this giant wedding with my friends. I had a dress up chest stuffed full of white, fluffy dresses, fancy shoes and plastic jewelry that ended up breaking long before being thrown away. We would each take turns playing the bride, while the others played the groom or wedding party. At this age, none of us knew anything about weddings, except that there's a white dress, a few flowers, a bridesmaid or two and- of course, the most important person- the love of your life, the groom. He's always imagined as the prince of a far away land; a clean, handsome, well-dressed young man who treated you like the Disney princess you knew in your heart to be. But what happens when the man of your dreams is no where near regal?
Matthew came into my life about five years ago, but we didn't start "talking" until the summer I turned eighteen. We met at church camp and immediately bonded over our mutual love of Disney. About half-way through the week we discovered that we lived in the same town. Fast forward 3 years to August 2014, during which he invited me over to his parents' to watch movies. I had recently been dumped, hard- recent enough that it still stung a little, but enough time had passed for me to re-realize my feelings towards Matt. We had been on one date earlier in the summer, but it had been super awkward and I spent the entire date fidgeting and avoiding his hand like the plague. This time around, I let him play with my hands- and kiss me at the end of the night.
We start dating. All was well until January 6, 2015. We had been dating 5 months to the day, and we were going out to celebrate. He came over to pick me up... but instead of going to dinner, I went to bed. Single. Four days pass and we decide to call it our first fight, kiss and make up. And so begins the vicious cycle.
For the next year or so, we swing almost violently between alone and in love. We didn't address problems. We didn't stop and think. We just let go at the smallest reflection of trouble in the river of time. Matt is a passionate person- as am I. The two of us don't exactly make "picture perfect". We also are both bipolar, and often our cycles of manic and depression sync up, wrecking havoc on our already-fragile relationship. When we fought, we held nothing back- spitting fire and aiming below the belt with every blow. When we loved, we loved- passionate fire lit our eyes and licked at our heels. We were hard and bold and loud and fast and so far from temperate it burned.
But things changed. He changed.
Matt started drinking. Heavily. It got to the point at which I had to take him to the emergency room at 6 in the morning only to have him diagnosed with Alcoholic Gastritis, which is typically found in hardened alcoholics who've been at it for years. Basically, his stomach was deteriorating.
With the drinking came the threats. With the threats came the flightiness. With the flightiness, came the deceptiveness. With the deception came the lies. With the lies came Her.
She was his best friend. She was a flirt. She was beautiful, and had known him since seventh grade. She was his first love. And She stole him from me. Clever bitch, too. She knew her cards and played them well. And man, was her poker face solid.
February of this year, I had had enough. I was tired of walking on eggshells, of being treated like garbage. I called Matthew, and had him come over. Then I set him down and told him everything I was tired of. We got into a screaming match. He told me to kill myself. I told him he already did it for me. I slammed the door after him. It felt good at the time.
When She found out about this blowout, she congratulated me on my bravery. "I've been telling him for months that you're too good for him, and that he treats you like shit," She'd say to me. She'd put on the mask, pretend we were friends, act like we both knew better than to go for him. And then she stabbed me square in the back. I wake up one morning to a text from each of them, both saying they were in love with the other, and that I should be grateful she took him off my hands. Unfortunately for me, I was still in love with Matthew.
Try as I might, I couldn't get my heart to stop aching for him. I remember one night, in a desperate attempt to forget, I drank so much liquor I couldn't tell you my own name- let alone his- which was exactly what I thought I needed.
I've since given up on marriage for the most part. Is it his fault? In part, yes. But I'm also holding on the the last little ember. Maybe, someday, my prince will come along. Who knows? It may even end up being the same man who burned me so many times over the past few years. People change, and I'm a firm believer in that. Matthew and I are testing the waters again, going strong since May. I'm cautiously hopeful.
