You have my heart so don't hurt me

This week's Girl Talk Thursday topic is heart break.  I've been fortunate enough to only have my heart knocked around seriously a couple of times.  There was the time in the early days when Chebbar and I "were on a break" (with less disastrous results than Ross and Rachel, thank Ceiling Cat): because this is the first time I think I've truly been in love, his breaking up with me damn-near did me in (remind to write about that sometime - totally not trying to be vague).  However, I think I'll talk about my first heart break.

I met Jeff at work at Retail Hell when I was 19.  He was a year younger than me, a skateboarder, and a partier.  He was shy and quiet, but popular (particularly with the ladies).  He had gone to a different school, so we didn't have any friends in common.  I was instantly drawn to him; the attraction seemed mutual.  Unfortunately, at the time I met him, he had a girlfriend, and as I mentioned yesterday, cheating (from either side) just doesn't fly with  me.  So we flirted innocently and I suffered in silence.

Our "relationship" grew to a point that likely was inappropriate: he would call me after he got home from a party, just to let someone know he got home okay; we would talk into the wee hours of the morning about all manner of things, including *ahem* personal things that likely shouldn't be discussed when one of you has a significant other; he would call me to complain when his girlfriend was pissing him off.  We grew extremely close.

And then one day he was single.

Except I wasn't.  And then one day I was single.  Except he wasn't.  Lather, rinse, repeat for FAR longer than it should have.  All the while, our inappropriate "relationship" continued, generally without the knowledge of our significant others (which, at the time, seemed relatively innocent; it wasn't until years later that I learned about emotional cheating).

One New Year's Eve, we were BOTH miraculously single at the same time; we flirted with each other openly and shamelessly all night.  As the clock struck midnight, his brother (who, up until this point, I assumed didn't like me) pushed us together and we shared our first (and last) kiss.  I floated home that night.

I was jarred back to reality the next day when he first played dumb about the whole thing, and then claimed to be "too drunk" to remember.  Ouch.

Our weird, dysfunctional "relationship" continued for four years.  During that time, he hooked up with a complete bitch that literally no one liked because she was such a pill.  He'd call me up to complain about her incessantly, turning a deaf ear to my queries about why he'd stay with her.  Eventually, they broke up.  I thought this was my chance!

Wrong.

He started dating some other chick.  For eight months.  Before getting back together with Harpy Bitch.  In an act of sheer brilliance, I decided to date his best friend in an attempt to make him SEE what an awesome girlfriend I was.

Yeah.  Didn't work.

Instead, Harpy Bitch thought I was her new BFF! and Jeff, his buddy, and I entered into a pact to keep our (Jeff and I) "relationship" a secret from Harpy Bitch (seriously, bitch was so crazy that she used to threaten not only the girl Jeff dated while THEY WEREN'T TOGETHER, but also ALLLLL the girls he dated BEFORE HE EVEN MET HER!).  It was awkward and awful and his best friend was a douche bag with a screw loose, so he didn't last long.

Because I was still something of a bar star (*snort*), I had planned a big party for my 22nd birthday.  Being the magnanimous person that I am (*double-snort*), I invited Jeff AND Harpy Bitch.  Two days before the big day, Jeff showed up at my house.  I was sitting outside spraying a pair of new running shoes with protectant (god, I'm lame *sigh*); I was SO glad to see him.  Well, until he opened his mouth.

Haltingly, he told me that he didn't think that Harpy Bitch would be able to make it; needless to say, I wasn't too disappointed.  He then went on to say something about how the loud music "wouldn't be good" for her.  Puzzled, I asked him what he meant.  He answered by patting his stomach.  To this day, I'm not sure if I honestly didn't make the connection, or if I was in denial.  I remember cocking my head to the right and sarcastically asking "because she doesn't feel good?"  He corrected me, telling me that she was pregnant.  And that he thought he was going to ask her to marry him.

I was livid and sick and beside myself all at once.  I actually picked up one of my runners and hucked it at his head (lucky for him, I throw like a REALLY BAD girl).  He stood there, ashen, apologizing over and over until I screamed at him to leave.

I was inconsolable.  I went out that Saturday a woman on a mission.  It was the closest I ever came to picking up a one-night stand (instead, I met a guy - Ian - that I ended up "dating" for five months and sleeping with once: I call him the longest one-night stand in history - remind me to tell you THAT story, too).

Jeff tried to call a couple of times; I wouldn't talk to him.  Because I knew how deep my feelings ran, how strong our bond was, and how he'd continue the status quo even though he was going to be a married family man, I knew that the only way to recover was to cut him out of my life completely.  So I did.

It fucking hurt.  Every time I'd hear that song or smell that cologne or find his fucking jacket in the trunk of my damned car, it was like someone simultaneously sucked the air out my lungs, punched me in the stomach, and ripped my heart from my chest.  (Cliché, non?)  But I soldiered on, distracting myself with weekends at the bar and heavy make-out sessions with Ian.

I was muddling along just fine until June 20th.  His birthday.  My phone rang, but there was no number on the caller ID; I didn't think anything of it because back then cell numbers never registered, and I was expecting a call from Ian.  Of course, I sounded suitably happy to hear from Ian when I answered.  The connection was bad, so it cut in and out a few times before I could hear his voice properly.  It took me about three seconds to realize that it was Jeff.  Not Ian.  Before I could even think about it, I heard myself say "Oh.  It's YOU." in the most disgusted voice I've ever heard come out of my mouth.  He stammered, said a shaky yeah, then lost the signal.

I was HOPING he wouldn't call back.  He did.  He told me he missed me.  He told me he was miserable.  He said all kinds of things, to which I would woodenly reply with "uh-huh."  When he realized he wasn't getting anywhere, he asked if I would take his new pager number - a new number because Harpy Bitch had figured out the password to both his old pager and his voice mail: she didn't know about this one.  I felt SO dirty.

I wrote it down, not promising anything.  When I got off the phone, I sat staring at his number for a full five minutes.  Eventually I realized that if I didn't get rid of his number, calling him was inevitable; calling him would inevitably lead to being sucked back in; and being sucked back in would lead to both getting my hopes up again and having them smashed to smithereens again.  So, I tore it up into tiny pieces and flushed them down the toilet so I wouldn't be tempted to try to tape them together in a fit of weakness.  (I have this weird thing with phone numbers and generally can remember them after seeing/dialing them a couple of times: I have NO idea how I failed to log that one into the memory bank after staring at it for so long, but this is one of the very few instances in my life where I'm GLAD I failed.)

I didn't hear from him again after that.  Harpy Bitch came through my check out at Retail Hell while glowingly pregnant (he had long since quit: we only worked together for about a year) and insisted I give her a call! so we could get together! (yeah, NO); I'd see them in the mall from time to time, but I always made sure to be "looking" in the opposite direction; I heard about him from mutual friends: they got married; had a son; had another son; her rampant slut ways returned and she cheated on him; they divorced; he was rumoured to be selling drugs.

All that being said, it took me FIVE YEARS to fully, completely, once-and-for-all get over him.  Gah, how embarrassing!  And pathetic.  But unrequited loves are so easy to put on a pedestal: you have no clue what his quirks are, his bad habits, what an asshole he is if he gets up too early, etc.  I honestly thought I was over him before that, but I had a dream one night not long after moving into the apartment in which we "talked" and I simply told him goodbye and walked away from him.  I woke up the next morning feeling like a new person with an enormous weight lifted from her shoulders - for once, I actually felt DONE with the whole thing.