Derrick.

You guyssssss, I screwed up. I could tell you it’s because I’ve been tired and that would be true. Actually, that’s likely why it occurred. However, I feel like a correction is in order. Only those closest to me would know that Bobby was shithead #3 and not #1, but that’s sort of irrelevant. I mean it is, and it isn’t. That said, I feel like we are friends and I owe you the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me sunshine.

I have a long sordid history with the opposite sex, but in terms of the three that really lit up my college years, Bobby was the last in the line of those gems. Numero tres. The first gentleman to bless my life with his presence was Derrick. Again, a little name change action to protect the not-so-innocent.

Derrick had so many lovely traits. He was a smoker who occasionally decided not to shower. Also, lazy as fuck. I recognize that you might be wondering why I was drawn to him. This is an important element, no? A teacher told me not so long ago that you have to make people understand the adoration before you get them on board with the loathing. If there is just disgust and skin crawling, one might wonder what the fuck is wrong with you.

I mean, there was something wrong with me. Not wrong. Dysfunctional. Broken. Needy. I played that role to a T. I was the reigning champion of fixer-uppers. The queen of a much splintered kingdom.

I met Derrick on our dorm room floor through our friend Amanda. He had this quick wit partnered with an annoyingly charming laugh. He made everyone feel at ease almost instantly. Oh, and he played the piano. Not just amateur shit either. Like real deal piano playing. He wasn’t the smartest guy in the world but his personality sort of made up for that, or so I thought at the time.

He struck a chord with me and we found a friendship and then we sort of became more. Sort of because it was on the down low, of course. Quiet.

Babe, it’s not cuz I’m like embarrassed or something like that. Like obviously that’s not it. I think you’re awesome. It’s just that things get complicated when too many people are in your business, right? Like who needs that?

Right. Of course.

We were sitting on a toilet when we had that conversation. A fucking toilet. How revolting. Not the toilet part per se as I have always been particularly anal about cleaning. Insane, really. It’s more the thing where I knew in the deepest parts of me that he didn’t love me. Not at all. Not the way he loved Amanda. I saw the way he looked at her. Adoration. Admiration. He wanted to marry Amanda. He wanted to buy a colonial in Connecticut or Maryland (where he’s from) and have two beautiful babies and a golden retriever with Amanda. He wanted to bring her breakfast in bed on her birthday and their anniversary. He imagined family ski trips and game nights with friends. I knew he did. I saw it in the way that his hands subconsciously reached towards her, like sunflowers seeking the warmth.

We walked to get ice cream a day or so before and he was holding my left hand with his right and reaching for her with his left. Stubby fingers with ragged cuticles suspended in mid-air. I slowed my pace, glanced at him. He must have felt my gaze on the side of his bearded face because he slowly turned to look at me. His face was so stupid. I mean really. He was handsome, of course. Frat boy who shops at J. Crew, kind of handsome. His only suit is from Brooks Brothers, kind of handsome. Dirty green eyes and a broad, perfect smile. Piles of floppy, thick chestnut hair.

Can I help you? He asked with a fuck you smile.

No. I whispered, as I thought of all the things I really wanted to say.

Why don’t you just fuck her Derrick? Why don’t you just leave me? Why do we have to continue this charade? Why do you continue to do this to me, with me?

He tugged on my hand at that moment.

Pick it up, pokey.

I did. As I always did. Stayed quiet. Battled in my own head. Walked faster.

Just like that, I was sitting on his lap on my toilet in my teeny tiny dorm bathroom. Everything was bleached to the point of hospital grade sterilization but there was still an appearance of deep seated grime. Scum that had accumulated for so many years that there was no purging it. I focused on one particularly filthy looking tile, the spider cracks across the mirror, his frayed toothbrush in the ceramic jar my sister made me. The fluorescent lighting did nothing to dim his objective beauty. Me? Different story. I felt exposed. Extra eyebrow hairs I forgot to pluck. A zit that had been inexpertly covered. A halo of frizz surrounding my face. I leaned forward to kiss him, feeling the hard plastic buckle slightly underneath us.

I hated myself.

I did.

That’s the hard truth. He loved someone else and I wanted him to love me and I hated myself. I thought that my love, given unabashedly and unconditionally, would move his mind and his heart. He would see all that I had to offer. He would understand that Amanda would never see him that way or want him like that, and then, I would win.

Win what, though? Second rate and last best affection? Who the fuck told me that was a good idea? Me. I told me that.

Do I take back what I said yesterday about Bobby? Nah. You’ll see how each of these three men (and many others) led to a spectacular unraveling. You will bear witness how these relationships each threw kindling down in the form of crumpled paper and mangled twigs and then it was I who doused all of it in gasoline and lit the match.

There is no finger pointing to be seen here outside of the digit aimed back at me. I allowed all of this. I convinced myself I deserved no better and so I settled the likes of which I can hardly believe today, at 40. And yet, I can. I feel my betrayal in all the ways in which I fear connecting to others.

Do you see now? How it continued? How it started? How I participated?

Not yet? Okay. Soon.

Soon.

Have a good weekend.

X

L.