First Breakup
At the age of seventeen I am not the person that I’ll be for the rest of my life. In many ways I’m far from it. What’s important to me right now will change, my views on things will change, and my ethics and morals will finally accept the grey space that exists apart from the unrealistic black-and-white dichotomy. At the age of seventeen, though, I’m not at that point.
I think we’ve already broken up. We were on a break for a week, that much is for certain. We might’ve gotten back together and realized things weren’t the same. Or, we might’ve just never absolved the break. To be honest, the status of the relationship is so confusing that in the future I will lose the thread of it all. I just know that I’ll look back on this conversation we’re having online and remember trying to be civil despite feeling bitter.
One of us (it’s probably me) asks if the other wants to hang out some time. She says she has a J she was going to split with a mutual friend of ours and I could join. I ask her what a J is. She tells me it means “joint”. I haven’t smoked weed before and since I haven’t had enough life experience to properly inform my opinions about these things — in other words, since I barely have a personality yet — I’m staunchly against getting high. I say something passive aggressive and scathing. The semi-regular smoker I will become in a year would laugh at me.
She takes note of my bitchiness and changes topic. She tells me she has a bit of a confession to make. She says that during the week we were on break she slept with her drummer friend. The friend that made me a little jealous.
In the future I’ll recognize that it’s not a problem. We were, after all, on a break. My own abstinence wasn’t the noble quest I’ll paint it to be in my head. If I didn’t hate myself and was actually capable of flirting with other people, I probably would have slept with someone during the break, too. Or, at the very least I would recognize that it’s a nonissue.
In the moment I blow up.
I fly into a blind rage I’ve never experienced before. I type out many hurtful things I’ve never typed out before. I accuse her and insult her and then turn off my computer. She calls. I send it to voicemail. She calls again. I pick up and give her no chance to speak. I say more hurtful things. I have no tact; I call her a whore.
Regretfully, that is not the worst thing I say to her. In the future I will want to come back to the person I am now and shake the shit out of me, pre-emptively stopping myself from spewing the fucking ugly and distasteful garbage I find myself directing at her. I will be deeply embarrassed for this phone call in the future. Right now I’m just mad. I hang up .
My mom asks me who was on the phone and what’s wrong. I tell her who and that all she needs to know is I want nothing to do with that person anymore. My mom looks worried. She tells me I shouldn’t be so quick to get so mad at the girl. I assure her that I am more than justified. For the next two years I will assure everyone that I have every right to be mad at this girl. For the next two years I will avoid her at all costs because I’m a petty piece of shit.
At the age of seventeen I have a lot to learn.
Way It Was is a writing project and ongoing attempt to work through a lot of relationship related shit. Find out more about it here.
