The Checkpoints That We Crossed to a Point of No Return

On the road lies a series of “reality checkpoints” that knocks us off our dreams and fantasies. They serve to clear our minds so we can better make decisions about our lives and futures.

We started seeing each other last summer. Right now, rain poured heavily; the chill of damp midnight air verified my realization that summer was over — and most likely so, our juvenile relationship.

I was sobbing yesterday. I couldn’t talk to him because I wasn’t going to be the “crying girl over the phone” again. It was a display of too much vulnerability.

In the last four months, I’d been coming over to his hometown about fifty-five miles from where I lived. We smoked, we fucked, we played in the sand, we enjoyed some sunshine when there was any, and we talked about a future that was remotely distant.

The previously unimaginable moment now came. It was all breaking down, just like the shelf that I built this morning. The slabs that I used had been soaked in the rain for several days and I was being stupid.

Tracing back

It was a beautiful, April morning. We met the day before and he invited me to try another spot in his home break. I gladly obliged because my current location yielded mushy waves, not good for practice. I met his friends, we enjoyed a good three-hour session, and I sat on the back of a pickup truck. He pushed my board for me to catch waves since I still couldn’t paddle very well.

We talked about ourselves in between the coming of waves. We smiled. We laughed. He was just a month and a day older than me. Our similar interests — smoking and surfing — rolled up like a blunt that got us high.

It was a pretty day like the three surfboards tied to the back of his friend’s car. I didn’t expect that he would become my “boyfriend” and that I was going to be “in a relationship” soon after this day.

Like, in one week.

Morning sex

His boner was grinding me from behind. I was sleepy and wasn’t in the mood. He touched me and I pushed his hand away.

“Please, stop.”

He continued smothering me. His fingers slid beneath the fabric of my underwear and rubbed my vulva. I didn’t want it, but I also knew that he wasn’t going to stop. This man was going to have his way around my body.

I had lived and shared a bed with another man for two years; I understood that they wouldn’t take “no” for an answer sometimes, or they simply thought I was “being uptight”. Unless I perhaps slapped them in the face or walked out of the room, that might be the only time that they’d take my “no” seriously.

I lied on my back and spread my legs. I didn’t bother trying to have an orgasm.

Solutions, not problems

“Of course we have arguments,” I said when I was asked if we ever had fights.

I laughed a little because we had arguments about petty things. What I truly admired was how he approached these matters.

My boyfriend would say, “Talk about solutions, not problems.”

Confidence was one of the things that I initially liked about him. He never thought twice about sweeping me away and taking me to some beautiful spot I had never been in. The second time I visited since we met, he waited for a few hours just to come pick me up.

He confessed his “love for me” when we were on a short trek to a falls. He said it rather casually. I couldn’t remember the exact conversation anymore, but I believe I was thanking him for touring me around.

“Of course, I love you a lot,” he wrapped an arm around me.

“How can it be possible to fall in love someone within a week?”

The cynical me asked.

“Why not?”

That night, I made a decision to let this man kiss me thoroughly. I kissed him. We fucked in my friend’s hut. It wasn’t great sex, but it wasn’t disappointing either.

The next morning, we started exchanging “I love you’s.”

“I’m Broke.”

Money is the root of all evil, they say. I believe that it’s also the root of many breakups. The guy I said I lived with? I broke up with him for many reasons, and one of those was splitting rent.

The last time I came over, I found myself financially responsible for everything. The breakfast that we ate? I bought it. The gasoline refill? It was on me. The smokes? All mine, and he had the nerve to be the one taking the first and last hits from the pipe.

One morning, I called and heard back his complaints about not having money in his pocket. His parents weren’t there to provide food. I couldn’t answer, partially because I was high, and also because I didn’t know what to say.

It is enticing to imagine a place where the surf never goes off peak and the sun doesn’t stop shining. More enticing it is to the mind to imagine interesting conversations that never ended, pockets that never run out of cash.

Am I supposed to send money for you to pay for your food?

I said I felt sorry for him. He said we could talk later; he was going to find some gig in another area.

I didn’t call him back.

The future end of things

Some two weeks later, he was still broke, abandoned by a fraud who was supposed to start a small business with him. I even designed and had a banner printed for them. The boredom and plainness of their beach town — currently with no waves, no tourism due to the weather, lack of job prospects (which I didn’t fully believe) — was taking a toll.

“I’m considering going back to my old job.”

“In Palawan?”

“Yes, but I have to ask my mother first, and if that’s okay with you.”

“It’s your life, you make your own decisions about it.”

“Okay, let’s just talk later.”

We didn’t talk again. I was filled with an overwhelming sadness.

Communication breakdown

It’s been more than a month since I received a text message or a phone call from him. His cellular network was “acting up”. I was expected to call now and then — but I disliked dialing numbers. I wouldn’t pay for his network either (one of the things he asked before), so we resorted to free instant messaging.

Sometimes I ask myself if it had been my entire fault. Had I not established clear boundaries? Had I not been careful to interpret and decipher between “falling in love” and simply “fucking and having fun”?

Currently, my last message was marked as “read”. Maybe there was just nothing to say or to reply back. Maybe not all exchanges are in fact communication.

“We haven’t chatted about anything fun like we used to,” I bluntly said some days ago.

“I’m on birth control.”

I brought up the issue that he was technically raping me sometimes, but of course I didn’t use the word “rape”.

“Are you afraid that I might knock you up?” he argued, in denial of the denial of his aggressive manhood.

He went on to tell me how much he loved me, and I facepalmed at how much he missed the point. I went on to explain that I just “didn’t want to do it” sometimes.

“Sorry” was all he could muster.

I sought the advice and interpretation of my elder cousin and she said, “He’s embarrassed.”

Back to the chills of 3 am air

I decided to spend the weekend to myself. There was maintenance work to be done in my apartment (mostly cleaning) and it felt like I needed to sort out parts of my life.

I was being pulled in all directions and I couldn’t keep up anymore. Even when I was high, I couldn’t escape the fact that things beyond my control were just happening. The relationship I’m in was breaking down, or at least, I couldn’t keep it up anymore.

It has been four months since that warm, sunny day in his beach town. In that brief period of time, I dreamed, restored my faith in good things, and truly believed that I was in love with a person who reciprocated my feelings.

However, like the passing of summer, or any other season, life happens — and one can only guess how stark the contrast of the next season will be compared to the previous one.

Sometimes I ask myself if it had been my entire fault. Had I not established clear boundaries? Had I not been careful to interpret and decipher between “falling in love” and simply “fucking and having fun”? Had I not been in too many similar, yet varied circumstances, to finally get it right and not end up crying over the phone?

Looking back, sorting things out through writing, I evidently rushed into something that was supposed to be taken slowly and surely. Blame the summer for it was scorching hot and it felt like days of bliss were never to end! To party and love freely like there was no tomorrow is synonymous to summer!

But let’s say we took more time and met in a different time and place: wouldn’t these checkpoints eventually appear in our relationship? Wouldn’t money, sex, and communication problems eventually come forward in the life of any couple, one form or another?

It is enticing to imagine a place where the surf never goes off peak and the sun doesn’t stop shining. More enticing it is to the mind to imagine interesting conversations that never ended, pockets that never run out of cash. If we could afford it, maybe we now owned a piece of land and built a hut where we could live together, forever, and have great sex that never gets old.

However, on the road lies a series of “reality checkpoints” that knocks us off our dreams and fantasies. They serve to clear our minds so we can better make decisions about our lives and futures. Through these checkpoints, we better understand our partners (at least make a better impression of) and assess the situational context our relationships are in.

In crossing these checkpoints, we can either move forward stronger, or get epiphanies that feel like punches to the gut. In my story, it has been about bleak days and struggling to carry forward a forced conversation over the phone. I’m not sure where my relationship goes from here, but I’m pretty sure that we’ve crossed checkpoints to the point of no return; it will never be the same.