I think I have one of the best memories of anyone I know, and I think this is my curse. I remember 9th grade gym class becoming friends with Mary. I remember bonding with my sorority sisters learning the Hannah Montana dance, "Pop it, Lock it, Polk-a-Dot it," I remember laying down on my friend's fraternity floor because I was certain I was allergic to fruit punch (I had an ulcer, and it was the alcohol that made me feel this way...Who has ulcers when they are in college?).
I've typed this post up at least 10 times recounting what I referred to for three years as a "whatever you call it." I have typed to get back at him (Taylor Swift style), to explain how I think I feel (which changes every other week) and to tell my side of the story (but I'm not sure if there are sides). But every time I typed it out, I stored the post away because some things are a little too private for even the Internet. (The rest of my horrific relations are not.)
I spent 3-4 years wishing and hoping, and just like the song says, that didn't get me into his arms (in this case, arms is heart). And now, when I finally decide that perhaps I am better than all of this, that maybe I deserve better, that my mother spoke the truth when she called me “special,” my stinking memory reminds me that it is in pristine condition and is not forgetting anything about “whatever you call it,” no matter how hard I wish it away.
I remember meeting him, getting to know him, liking him, being disappointed by him, first kiss, last kiss, holding his hand, crying over mixed messages and telling myself the entire thing was normal (it wasn't normal), but I mostly just remember smiling whenever he deemed it an appropriate time to contact me (because isn't that what all girls want, attention from the one person we can't get off our minds?). I remember all of this and every conversation in between. And even though I can remember what it feels like when I rolled up in my roommate’s bed sobbing about it (or the time at the gym I convinced someone that the wetness on my face was not tears, I just sweat a lot in the face), it doesn't compare to the moments that made me happy, so my memory downplays the times I went to bed asking the famous question, "What's wrong with me?" and it emphasizes every smile and laugh.
So this is my question. I think this is the question many girls my age ask. If I know thinking about this and replaying three years in my head is no good and I want to leave this behind, why can't I move past it and let go? Because this is surely holding me back in my search for my NJB.
Can I get some "Amens" from my fellow ladies?