The Taste on My Lips —
A Love Story
It was a Tuesday afternoon, much like any other chilly upstate New York afternoon you might find yourself placed in. This afternoon was slightly different though; my lips, cracked and bruised, had been screaming for days in the blustery cold of upstate NY. Help me they would plead. I was unsure of what to do, at twelve years of age I had no idea what to do with the situation my body was presenting to me.
I approached my mother, “Momma? I need some relief from the torture that I’m living with. Please help meeeeee.” She advised, “Aw sweetheart, I’m sorry. Momma’s gonna get you something to make your lippies feel all better.”
Little did I know, a love affair unlike any other was about to grow wings.
My mom placed a small, cylindrical object into my right hand. I thanked her and raced to my room. I unwrapped the packaging, popped off the top and was immediately hit with foreign aromas. I applied a generous heaping of soothing cream onto my war-torn lips.
It was love at first application.
Days turned into months, months into years, she was my constant pocket companion. Before walking out the door, the checklist: Wallet? ☑ Phone? ☑ Keys? ☑ Lip balm? ☑
I took her to dinner every chance I could, ensured she was close by at all my basketball games and always held her close at bedtime.
We were perfect for each other. I kept her warm and she kept me cool. She had this uncanny way of soothing me when I was feeling stressed. One, two, three passes around my mouth, a feeling of warmth took over my body every time we touched. Love songs were constantly playing in my head, I was on top of the world.
Hot and heavy doesn’t begin to describe our relationship, I couldn’t keep her off my lips. It seemed as if every night I’d wake up in the middle of the night yearning for her, we’d apply a few times, and drift away back to sleep. We began applying more, more, MORE; it didn’t matter if we were alone in my room or if we were at a crowded movie theater.
At this point, I knew I had to take it to the next level. “So I was thinking,” I muttered, “that I want you in my life forever. That’s why I want you in my front-left pocket.” At the time, my front-left pocket had been home to only the most important items in my life. My wallet began there first, then when a car came into play my keys took over the oh-so coveted real estate. I then went to college and bought a cell phone, which immediately took precedence over my keys. The cell had called my front-left pocket home for six long years, until that moment.
I was an addict, and lip balm was my heroine.
Years passed in the blink of an eye when I noticed a change in my perception. I became suspicious, looking to pick a fight whenever possible. “You’re smothering me!” I would scream. “We don’t even have our own lives anymore, we’re basically connected at the hip!” We started applying less and less, even in the chilly winter months. I pondered day in and day out, but the idea of being without her was almost too hard to bear. I had become comfortable with the idea of her, not the reality of our situation. SHE was the one who needed ME, and I started to resent her intentions.
“I don’t need you in my life.”
I began using other remedies on the side; ointment, petroleum jelly, I even had a one night stand with Neosporin (not my proudest moment). I found myself being pulled further and further away from her warm touch. From the first moment of indiscretion, I knew what had to be done.
I woke up on a rainy Saturday, sad and confused. Nightmares had plagued my slumber for weeks. She was right next to me, but I never felt so far away from her. It wasn’t easy, but it had to be done.
“Thank you for everything, it’s been an amazing journey we’ve taken. Remember that time on West Mountain when I tried to pull you out of my pocket snowboarding and I completely bailed?? We’ve made some wonderful memories, but unfortunately we won’t be making them anymore.”
Just as quickly as I picked her up, I threw her away, never to look back.
Scorching, hurting, cracking and every other type of adjective ending in -ing you can imagine was happening to me. My skin began to crawl. I woke up in the middle of the night in so much pain, screaming her name. I had become an empty, dependent shell of who I once was.
I felt insecure, in pain, broken. I can’t tell you the amount of times I almost went back to her. I found myself hanging outside of the local Walgreens and gas stations, anxiously waiting to run inside and pick see her.
After suffering through the physical and mental pain of withdrawal, I was able to start my recovery phase. Time heals all wounds, and that’s what I put my focus on. I began doing things without her again; going to the movie theater, grabbing dinner, going on hikes. At first I felt distressed, but eventually my muscle memory kicked in and I began to feel alive once more.
Sunlight began to feel warm once more. My mantra?
One day at a time…
Whenever I think back to the times we had a smile stretches across my face, much like the one I would don after she touched my lips. I know now that I don’t need her to keep my smile healthy and smooth.
Although we no longer speak, she taught me about who I am and what I’m capable of. In a large way, she made me the man I am today.
We don’t need crutches in our lives and we certainly shouldn’t settle just because it feels comfortable. No longer do my lips hide behind her presence, and I’ve never felt better.
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