Thankful Thursday: Puppy Love

Outside of my family and a select group of friends who stood by me when I decided to get sober, my longest and healthiest relationship in the world is with my dog, Clementine.  She's an eight year old Rottweiler/Blue Heeler mix, and we've been together for almost seven years.  Today, I am grateful for my beastly baby and all she's taught me.

My darling Clementine, 4 years and 40 lbs ago.

She was found wandering skinny, hungry and alone in a blizzard by a family my father worked with.  They took her in and tried their best to make things work, but she was too much for their 3 bedroom home and family of 5, so they began looking at other options.  When they mentioned the possibility of getting rid of her in front of my father, he thought of me immediately.  Not only have I been an animal lover and rescuer my entire life, my birthday was coming up.   When he called and asked if I would be interested in adopting a dog, he explained that she was "a few months old", but that no one knew her exact age.  He also told me that she'd been found abandoned during the winter, and my heart melted.  I agreed to be her human before meeting her or even seeing a picture.  I had no idea how to be a dog-person (up to that point, I'd always been a cat person), but I liked the idea of having a dog, and her story broke my heart.  I knew she had to be mine.

So, four days after my birthday in April of 2008, I loaded a small kennel and a good friend into the car and set out to pick up my new baby.  When I finally arrived at my destination, I discovered that the puppy I had expected to take home was actually some sort of half dog-half puppy hybrid, not to mention the most gangly creature I'd ever laid eyes on.  She was wearing an old, faded red collar with extra holes punched in it in order to fit her properly, and she cowered when the children of the house wandered by.  She was so desperate to be please, so pitiful and tentative....It was love at first sight.

Playing copilot.  She rides better these days,

I was told that her name was "Kitty", but that she wouldn't answer to it.  I was relieved to hear that, because when I decided to adopt her, I'd already had a name picked out.  I remember scratching her ears and chin and asking if she would be my Clementine.  She may or may not have had any idea what I was talking about, but she smiled and wagged her tail.  I took that as a good sign and officially renamed her.  From that moment on, she was my little baby citrus fruit.

When everyone had said their goodbyes and it was time to load her up, I realized she definitely wouldn't fit into the kennel that I brought along.  I stashed it in the trunk and opened the back door of the car, ready to welcome Clementine to her new life.  She was so unsure as she climbed into the car.  She was hunched low to the ground with her tail between her legs, and she quickly folded herself into a tiny ball on the floor of the back seat.  There was absolutely no amount of coaxing that would get her to move onto the seats themselves, each time I tried to place her there comfortably, she would wince and whine.  Finally, I gave up, deciding that she probably knew what would make her most comfortable.  It was a boring, quiet trip home.  She didn't move a muscle or make a sound, she just laid in a sad little ball on the floor.

The first several weeks were HARD. Clementine was a difficult dog to train and a difficult creature
to contend with.  After all, she was young and full of energy.  She was in that horrible teething stage

that dog's go through when they're growing up.  She'd gone through at least 2 other owners and had no sense of who her master or pack leader was.  She had no sense of stability or home.  She was timid and emotional, as though she'd had an owner who screamed at her rather than training her.  She was also sneaky, stealthy and faster than a speeding bullet.  Within the first month, she managed to destroy over half of my wardrobe and several pieces of furniture.  She also had an incredible knack for escaping.

Despite any and all of her flaws, my love for her only got stronger as time went on.  There's nothing quite like the feeling of coming home after a long day to see your dog's eyes turn into cartoon hearts the moment they lay eyes on you.  The relationship I was in at the time, like most of my relationships up to that point, was built on a foundation of loneliness and an inability to stand on my own.  We were companions (bad ones) and that was pretty much it.  Clementine was my first experience with unconditional love.

That was also when I was in the beginning stages of working through my depression after the mental hospital.  I was going to therapy, I was taking a plethora of different medications (for a plethora of different mental health ailments), I was reading a lot of philosophy....  Basically, I was just trying to learn how to be a happy, healthy person.  That's when Clementine started to change my life.

Grown up, going gray, and too fat for her chair.

It started with getting active.  Having a dog isn't exactly the same as having a cat.  It's not a sedentary activity, especially if the dog is young.  When I realized that Clementine was chewing everything in
my life because she was bored and all hopped up on youth, I started taking her for walks regularly.  Not only did that seem to quench her thirst for  destruction, but I noticed a marked improvement in my mood after our walks.  After a week or two of consistent walks, she began to leave slack in the leash.  She stopped worrying about every passing smell and squirrel and we were able to walk the entirety of the town without me feeling like my arms were going to fall out of their sockets.  She began listening to me at home, she began coming to her name 10 times out of 10.  She started to understand how to sit, how to lay, how to roll over. I'd never been so proud of anything.  Each time she learned or accomplished something new, my heart would swell with pride.  It took her a while, but she finally accepted me as leader of the pack and as a consistent presence in her life.  I may have decided that she was my dog the day I got her, but it took Clementine a lot longer to decide that I was her person.

Eventually, the relationship I was in fell apart.  He had been seeing another woman, and even though I had suspected for some time, I was devastated.  We were living together, so we had to divide the assets and figure out who would take what to their new life.  It wasn't exactly amicable, but he knew better than to fight me on dog custody.  He moved in with his new girlfriend while Clementine and I moved back home with my parents.

It ended up being the ideal situation for the two of us.  She loved my parent's ancient Collie, and it
wasn't long before she started imitating their dog's behavior.  In less than a month, that frail, graying puffball had my dog better trained than I had in almost a year.  My parent's house also provided Clementine with a dead-end street and almost an acre of property to explore.  I was able to trust her outside without a leash or tie-out in almost no time.

Once I was able to trust her without a leash, I started taking her to parks.  We would visit parks and wild-life reserves in every county surrounding us.  I'd let her off the leash and explore while she ran and danced in circles around me, like I was her Sun and she was stuck in my orbit.


She still acts like that when I take her out, though her run has slowed to an enthusiastic trot.

Throughout the last several years, my dog has been a constant source of smiles, happiness, cuddles and companionship.  On my darkest, saddest days, when I feel low and worthless, I just look at her face and take comfort in knowing that I sure did something right with her.
The gangly little dog that I brought home from that trailer park in 2008 has swelled into a 95 lb cuddle monster with a passion for car rides, cuddles and blankets.  She is jealous and bashful and protective and fierce, but she's also gentle and self-conscious.  She helped teach me about what it means to loyal and trusting.  She helped me realize what unconditional love actually looks like.

More than anything, though, Clementine has taught me that you can solve any problem and face any obstacle as long as you have patience, compassion and a sense of humor.  I'm so grateful that I took a chance and adopted this ridiculous, emotive little beast, but I'm far more grateful to be her person.

Learning to be enough.

Have you ever gotten a compliment and had no idea how to take it?  It seems odd and a little ungrateful to just accept it, to say "Thank you" and move on, but it seems just as bad to deny it--to be bashful and coy.  It seems like the worst you can do is just agree.  If you're going to go that route, you may as well just start calling yourself Narcissus, find a nice little bit of standing water to stare into  and just commit. Whenever I receive a compliment, I get all wide-eyed and panicky, desperately searching the person sending it for something that I like about them, something to return the aesthetic appreciation they showed me.  I realize that this may come off as insincere, but it's the only way I really know of to accept a compliment.

This anecdote, now that I think about it, is surprisingly representative of why I have trouble talking to people and making friends.

See, it's not just compliments that I don't know how to deal with.  Generally speaking, I have a really difficult time with smart, nice, interesting and funny people.  I freeze up and get awkward; I fumble over words because my brain is moving at a thousand miles an hour trying to figure out something worthwhile or witty to say.  I start asking stupid questions like, "So, are you the type of person who eats breakfast?"  Basically, the minute I realize that I'm talking to an awesome person, everything goes tits up.

It's probably something that's rooted in low self-esteem, at least that's where I'd put my money if life was like a roulette board.  The thing is, I don't like myself very much. Don't get me wrong, I can see that I have good qualities--I am a good cook, a fantastic baker, I can be funny sometimes, I know a little bit about a couple things and I can type really fast--but I'm also incredibly hard on myself.  I mean, nobody can see my flaws as obviously as I see them!  I know that I can be flaky and irrational, moody and lazy.  I know that I often make excuses rather than taking action; I know that I'm not the best that I can be.  Because of that, because I'm so in touch with some of the darker, less pleasant sides of myself, I just assume that everyone else is probably MORE in touch with and put off by these traits as I am.

I am blessed in life to have some truly remarkable friends.  I know that everyone has a bit of a superiority complex about the people they love, but trust me, my friends are incredible.  They are insightful and strong and smart and funny, generally speaking, some of the most intimidating people in the entire world.  Sometimes I can't bring myself to follow through on plans with them because I just feel so unworthy of their presence.  Sometimes I don't text back or don't show up to a party simply because in my ridiculously skewed through process, I'm doing them a favor.  I'm saving them the hassle of dealing with me.

You're probably thinking, "That's just plain backwards!"  And, you're right.  Also, logically, I know this.  I know that my friends love me and think I'm great, but I'm always wondering how long they will think that.  I'm always wondering, "Is this going to be the day when they stop?"  And I'm always bracing for it.

This fear of abandonment--this feeling that I'm unworthy of love or friendship--has cost me dearly.  I've lost great friends and I've missed out on potential friendships.  I push people away before they can leave me...  And while I think that I'm protecting myself, I still end up alone...

The thing I'm most afraid of still appears.

Throughout my life, most of the people I've been surrounded by told me that I was worthless.  They told me that I wasn't special, that I was ugly, that I couldn't do this and that I couldn't be that, and at some point I started believing it.  Then I started preaching it.  I became the leader in the anti-me movement and for a long time, I thought I was being empowering.  I thought that by saying all of the horrible things about myself that other people said, they would stop talking.  Then I grew up.

The people who pushed me down and made me feel awful about myself didn't care anymore (thank God).  They had lives to lead and shit to do and suddenly, it was just me against myself--locked in the stupidest, most imbecilic battle to have ever been waged.  And the longer it continues, the more people get hurt.

So now that I'm able to identify the problem--able to point to it and say, "That right there!  That's what's mucking everything up!", what's the next step?  How do you build confidence?  How do you realize that you're worthy of love?  How do you accept that you are enough?

I really have no idea, to be honest, but I'm playing around with a few different things.  Meditating has proved to be helpful, though I still can't shut my ego up all the way and worry that I'm doing something wrong.  It helps because it's quiet, because it's an escape into myself.  Also, it's one of the only times I am truly able to be gentle with myself.  When I'm repeating my mantra or singing or whispering a prayer, it's all kindness.  It's all light and love and positivity.

Because of the way I was treated for so long--because of the abuse I endured both with intimate partners and with friends, acquaintances and peers--I try to treat everyone I come across with kindness.  I always try to be reverent to the fact that everyone is struggling, that the intrinsic worth and value and fragility of everyone should be recognized, but I cannot seem to extend it to myself.  In fact, I would never speak to another person the way I speak to myself.  It's actually hard for me to even think about looking someone in the eyes and saying some of the things that I say to/about myself.  I don't understand that.

I read a quote once that really inspired me, it went something like, "You, as much as anyone in the universe, deserve your love and affection."  I think it's true, and  I want it to be my truth.  I'm just not sure how to get there yet.

Thankful Thursday: Music Festivals

I've been thinking a lot about the things that I'm thankful for, and there are so many obvious things that I actually struggled with narrowing it down a bit.  So today I'm giving thanks for music festivals and the wonderful ripple effect they had on my life.

My first music festival was just a few miles outside of the town I went to school in and it was being thrown by a fantastic guy who helped coach our individual speech teams in high school, Hippie Bill.  I believe it was the first year that events were being held at Hidden Acres Music Farm, and it was the last event of the year: Fall Frolic Festival.  At that time in life, I was fresh out the mental hospital and pretty fragile.  I was still depressed, unsure what to do with my life, unsure who I wanted to be or how I would ever be happy (you know, typical 19 year old stuff!)  I saw a posting on Facebook about a contest for free tickets to the festival, so I entered and won 2 "VIP passes". 

I gave one ticket to a friend, bought one ticket for a friend, and then loaded up a tent and a bag of chips and a bottle of water and got in the car, having absolutely no idea what to expect.

When I got to Hidden Acres, I experienced a huge deal of culture shock.  There were women running around in tutus with wings and bells on, shirtless men with long hair, beards, tie dye and face paint.  There were children handing out flowers and giving people hugs.  Each time we passed a stranger, we were greeted with hugs and smiles, with "welcome homes" and "have fun's".  An entire flock of people put up our tent and then pranced off into the cornfields.  For someone who grew up in a small community, being universally hated and mistreated, sticking out like a sore thumb, it was wild.

I remember wandering around the grounds over and over.  I walked past the stages and the food/jewelry/clothing vendors.  I didn't care about the music or the entertainment, I just wanted to see more of these people---my people.  I remember thinking, "Oh my god, my fellow freaks!!  Where have you been my whole life?!"

Eventually, I kind of settled into the experience.  Being that I have always been anxious and socially awkward, I didn't go out of my way to make friends or even talk to people, really.  I had a few conversations throughout the night, but mostly I just wandered around in awe, trying to take everything in.  I ventured through fairy and pirate themed camps, sitting down when I found a fire surrounded by other quiet contemplatives.  

It was the first time I'd ever experienced a sense of belonging.  I'd never, ever felt like I'd had a place or a tribe before, but as I looked around at all the free-spirits, freaks, hippies, gypsies and flower children, it occurred to me that THIS was exactly what I had been searching for.  

I remember trying to go to sleep that first night.  My friends and I laid in the tent giggling hysterically for hours.  We developed a closeness and bond that I don't think we would have been able to discover otherwise; it was just kind of understood that it was where we all belonged.

After that I was hooked.  I became a regular at Hidden Acres, volunteering every chance I could.  I still felt a bit out of my element, but I knew with absolute certainty that I belonged there.  

More of my friends started trekking out to the festivals and suddenly we had transformed from a group of friends to a family.  Instead of hanging out and watching a movie, we were building fires together, cooking together, going on road trips, dancing and playing together.  We were gathering in this beautiful place with beautiful people, finally realizing that without judgment we could be whoever we wanted.  We were opening our minds, learning about new religions and philosophies and ways to identify ourselves.  We got to learn about each other and ourselves in the safest, freest place I've found (in the Midwest, that is.  Perspective, people.)  

Even now, though it's been almost 2 years since I last went to a festival, I see the lasting effects of this lifestyle all around me: it's in the music I listen to, the books I read, the art that I enjoy, the people I relate to, the friends that I have, the activities I enjoy.  In fact, I owe Hidden Acres a huge debt of gratitude because that's where my husband proposed to me--it was a safe place for us to be open and vulnerable with each other when our relationship was still new and unsure.  Had things turned out differently, we would have been married there....

But that's a story for a different day.

I have so much love in my heart for those immortal summers at Hidden Acres, and I owe so much of who I am to the path I started down at Fall Frolic 2008.  If there was a time in my life I could go back to, that would be it.....

I'm so glad I got the chance to experience it.

Regret.

Facebook is kind of like a philosophical dumping ground where quotes by famous thinkers and feelers go to be misinterpreted until they fade into irrelevance.  Not a lot of topics make this more clear than the one of regret.  It seems like someone is always talking about how life is too short to have regrets.... And while that's all great in theory, I think that we can learn a lot from our regrets.  I know I have.

When you lose someone you love, regret is kind of an instant reaction.  Your mind starts spiraling as you wonder about the last things you said, the last things you did, the last thoughts you had....  In the case of my grandmother, this is a particularly difficult subject.

My grandmother was the strongest human being I've ever met.  She may have been "past her prime" when I knew her, but I don't think anybody had bothered to mention that to her--probably because they were scared.  She grew up on a homestead, so growing up she was a bit of a tom-boy.  Her favorite toy was her BB gun, followed by a shotgun when she was old enough to upgrade.  She raised chickens and pigs and cows and goats, she planted and picked vegetables in the garden.  When she grew up, she became a nurse.  I think out of all of the things she saw and went through, that may have hardened her the most  She used to tell me stories about working in the neo-natal unit of a hospital early in her career.  She didn't get to work with the beautiful little cherubs who had all their fingers and toes; my grandma took care of premature babies, ones with birth defects and abnormalities. (I think it left a mark on her, because one of the only things I knew about her for a long time was that she wasn't entirely fond of children....)  My grandmother went on to get married to the man who would become my grandfather.  I don't know much about my grandfather, really, since he died when my father and uncle were children.  I know that he was received a Presidential Pardon from Nixon that allowed him to work at the Post Office, and I know that he was very fond of the booze.  I also know that, on occasion, he would get drunk and mean and abusive with my grandmother.  Being that she was a strong, independent, woman that didn't sit well with her...  She didn't believe in divorce, and she had a great deal of love for my grandfather, so instead of leaving him or going to counseling, she started hiding baseball bats in corners.  My grandfather would get drunk and go to hit her and my grandma would have a baseball bat in her arms, ready to come at him swinging.....

That story always makes me smile.  I mean, it's a horrible, unhealthy situation and abuse isn't a laughing matter, but it just shows the woman's tenacity.  She was fearless.  She was strong.  She was willing and able to defend herself and her family, regardless of what or who she was up against....  When I think about my grandma, that is what I like to think about.

I suppose it's because the realities of our relationship were kind of harsh and severe.  I don't want to make it sound like there wasn't love there, but the way my grandmother showed her love was difficult for a child to understand.  She could be cold and cruel, sharp and cutting.  I remember being very scared of her when I was a kid because she was incredibly hard on me.  She always seemed to favor my brother, and it showed.   I think a little girl may have just been out of her wheelhouse because she grew up in a rougher, tougher time and then raised a family of boys...  I suppose the reasons don't matter.  I never cared enough to look for them when I was younger, and now that I'm capable of understanding, I can only take guesses.....

What I'm trying to say is that the foundation for our relationship wasn't necessarily sturdy or solid.  There was more love in the relationship than I could ever understand, but there was always this distance between us.

That faded away quite a bit when I grew up and got married.  During that time, she also moved in with my Aunt and Uncle because she couldn't live on her own anymore (she was capable of mobility, but suffered from dizzy spells that would cause her to lose her balance, fall and bruise the entire length of her body.)  When they would go on dates or on day trips, they would call me and ask me to come sit with her for a few hours in case she needed anything.  I didn't dig the idea, but I did it.   I figured, "Hey, she probably had better things to do than baby sit me when I was a kid."  So I sucked it up.

Sometimes it was enjoyable, sometimes it wasn't.

Her health and mobility started to decline fairly rapidly after that.  I didn't see it at the time.  I mean, I noticed certain limitations but I didn't realize what they implied and how much alarm they should cause.  Suddenly it wasn't just sitting with her anymore....suddenly it was meal prep and planning, runs to the store, preparing her medications, taking her to doctors appointments, helping her shower, helping her change her adult diapers...  I did it.  Knowing my grandma, I figured that it was worse for her to have to ask for help than it was for me to have to help her.  I sat with her, I helped her, I hung out with her, but I didn't appreciate any of it....

I was always checking the clock--checking to see how much time was left on my sentence.  I was always rolling my eyes when she asked for a third cup of coffee or another piece of cake.

When my aunt and uncle called to have me check on my grandma the night I found her body, I didn't want to go.  I'd already changed into my pajamas, I'd taken my shoes and bra off.  I remember, very clearly, thinking to myself, "I don't want to deal with this," when I hung up the phone.  Then I sat on the couch and watched TV for a few minutes---not feeling any sense of urgency.  And that was the last thought I had about my grandmother in the present tense.....

I know those weren't the last minutes of her life; they were the last minutes of my perception of her life.  I know that, but it doesn't make anything easier.  It doesn't change anything.

I live with that regret every day--knowing that I was more concerned with having a lazy night in than with making sure my grandmother was taken care of and tucked in for the evening. It hurts me to know I was that selfish--that concerned about myself, that preoccupied with my own shit....  But it has taught me how valuable time is.

I may not have enjoyed every second spent taking care of my grandma or helping her, but I got to hear so many stories.  I got to learn so much about her and her life and her marriage and the way she saw the world.  I got to know her in a way that I doubt many get to know their grandparents.... And I cherish it.

The regret I feel for my actions--the way I thought about things, the way I was out for myself--has helped me see what wonderful gifts I received from my grandmother.  It's also taught me not to make the same mistakes with others....to cherish every second I get to spend with my loved ones and to be thankful that, out of all the people in the world, they asked for my help and my time....

So I don't hope for a life free of regrets because they are valuable.  If you're willing to take an honest look at yourself and make some changes in your life, regret can be the one of the most valuable emotions you feel because it'll light a fire inside of you.

And I think we all need that sometimes.

Thankful Thursday; Radical Self Love

Things can get pretty heavy when you are opening yourself up in order to deal with things.  Allowing yourself to be vulnerable can mean bringing up a lot of fears and insecurities.  Because of this, I'd like to lighten the mood and taking one day each week to reflect on something I am truly thankful for.

So, today I am thankful for my body.

I am what the media and society refer to as "plus size".  I'm fortunate, because unlike a lot of strong, healthy and athletic women out there, I actually belong in this category.  My weight, like my moods, is a bit of a roller coaster, but at least it's got some level of consistency.  Since I was around 17 years old, I've been fluctuating between a size 13 and 15.

I used to feel an incredible amount of shame in that until I began to look at myself in a way that was realistic.  I am 5' 11"; I have broad shoulders, large biceps and what Jerry Seinfeld would refer to as "man hands".  I'd consider myself to be fairly proportionate, maybe not as much as I'd like but everything fits together all right.  My size has never once prevented me from doing something like riding an amusement park ride or riding in a car or airplane.  It's actually been a hugely advantages part of my being.  Working in a coffee shop or retail setting that is mainly female dominated, my simple ability to reach things made me an integral part of the team.  I'm also quite strong for a woman.  While my work out routine doesn't involve weight lifting, I am able to lift toilets and install them on my own.  I'm able to carry sheets of dry wall upstairs without a partner.  I'm able to wield saws to cut down walls and dig post holes to build porches.  Rather than being ashamed of my size--my bigness--I relish in my ability to do things, to work hard and accomplish a physical, tangible task.

When I wear clothes that fit me and flatter me, I love the way I look.  I truly love my curves, my stretch marks, my cellulite and scars.  They are all a part of me--of my body.

The human body is incredible, really.  Each sense in and of itself is a miracle, something that proves our ability for such immense pleasure and joy.  The way chocolate melts across your tongue into pure sweetness, the sound of a lover's laugh, the feeling of silk against a freshly shaved leg.  All of those fantastic things that make life worth living we experience through this amazing meat suit.

I love my body for helping me get from point A to point B--for being reliable.  I love my body for telling me what it needs, because learning how to listen to it has been essential to my health and well-being.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to promote a sedentary lifestyle or obesity or anything, I'm just promoting the "radical" notion that one can love themselves no matte their shape or size.

When I make jokes about my size or call myself fat in jest, there's always somebody who feels that this is a cry for attention--that I need reassurance or that I'm fishing for a compliment.  "No," they say, "you're just tall."  And while that's true, I'm also fat.  Whatever.  I mean, let's address the elephant in the room here....it's fine.  I'm quite aware of what I look like, probably more so than you, so just trust me on this one.  I appreciate what they are doing, but at the same time, I wonder why it's bad to be fat.  Why does this word have such a stigma?  Why do we give it so much power?

There are all kinds of things you can be in life that are terrible.  You can be mean, manipulative, cruel, uncaring....  I mean, I could sit here and list things, but I'm sure you understand my point.  When you look at the big picture in life, is being fat really a big deal?

Yeah, I could use other, sexier words to describe myself; curvy, chubby, voluptuous, plus size, but I choose fat because I want to take it back.  I want to dispel this belief that being fat means you are lazy or unmotivated or that you have low self-esteem, because that's not at all how it is.  That's not how it has to be, any way.

I'm in good health.  Or at least my doctor says so.  While he says I need to kick the cigarettes (because I fell off the wagon hard when stress hit), I have no other real risk factors in my life.  I don't drink, I eat healthy, and while I am a few pounds overweight, I am not in danger of diabetes or high cholesterol any more than a slimmer person with a similar lifestyle.

And so I love my body.  I accept my body.  I appreciate everything that it's able to do and everywhere it's able to take me to go.

I encourage you to do the same thing, regardless of what size you are.  Embrace yourself; your body is a temple and you deserve your love and affection just as much as anyone in the world.

My First Love (Pt 1)

My love affair with alcohol started well before I was close to the legal drinking age.

When I was fifteen, I entered into my first serious relationship.  Like most romantic attachments formed as a teenager, it was an intense courtship and I was very much in love.  The object of my affection was 2 years older than me and was the kind of individual who garnered a great deal of respect in the Theater/Performing Arts department of our tiny school.  

Dating someone so out of my league gave me a small amount of confidence in myself, but all of my self worth was hinged on that relationship.  There were several reasons that the relationship was unhealthy, but it essentially boiled down to his need for power and control.  At the time, I was so happy to be getting attention from anyone that I was unable to see the level of abuse that I endured.  It was almost never physical (as if that somehow makes it better), but he wormed his way so far into my brain that I was, essentially, a slave for his love.

As I've stated before, I was universally hated and mistreated in school.  Because of this, he felt a great deal of shame in dating me and for the first several months of our relationship, we hid it from almost everyone.  I knew what was going on, and had, in fact, agreed to hide our affair.  When he asked me to be his girlfriend, he actually laid that out as a condition.  "We don't parade this," he said.  "We don't need anybody to know what's going on."  

Looking back, I see just how desperate I was for...anything, really.

It's not hard to wrap one's mind around that relationship dissolving, but it wasn't something that happened quickly.  In fact, it was almost 2 years before things ended.  Being older than me, he had moved almost 3 hours away and had begun college.  I somehow managed to grow more and more insecure about our relationship which lead me to do tell him all kinds of insane tall-tales in attempt to win his attention/affection.  That ended up backfiring on me (thankfully), and when he came home to visit several friends, he dumped me.  I had become too much drama to handle and the distance prevented him from being able to control and manipulate me in a way that was entertaining.  

Needless to say, I was devastated.  This boy was the first person I'd encountered who had made me feel like I might be worth something.  I didn't understand the sickness of the relationship or how miserable it was.  I didn't see the level of control or manipulation, and I didn't care about the abuse (as long as enduring it meant he would keep loving me).  All I saw was that the person I loved had decided that he didn't love me anymore.  And I fucking lost it.

For a while, I laid in bed and cried.  I listened to sad music, watched cheesy romance movies and did all the stereotypical, halfway normal things you do when you're 17 and mourning a relationship.

Then, one day, a friend of mine invited me out.  He said I had to get out of bed and move on with my life.  So, I did.  

I'd drank before, although not often and not much.  If anything, I'd put on a bit of a buzz, but it's safe to say that until that night, I'd only been drunk maybe once.  

When I arrived at the party, I remember feeling really out of place and awkward.  There were a few girls my age there.  I knew a couple of them, but they were saddled up close to a couple men that I didn't know, so I pretty much went straight for the booze.  

I remember that it was cheap vodka, and I liked the way that it burned.  I drank straight from the bottle, dancing, losing my inhibitions, talking to men much, much older than me.....  and then things got foggy.  From then on it's only images---still frames.  I remember crying to one of the older men about how my boyfriend had dumped me.  I remember him holding my hand and taking me somewhere.  I remember vomiting all over a strange bathroom and waking up in clothes that weren't mine.

I know what happened that night, but I have no memory of it.  I don't think I want to, honestly.

After that, I was a goner.  I'd discovered a magical elixir that made all of my problems magically disappear.  In addition to taking away my feelings, I also found a way to lubricate social situations and ease my anxiety.  I found a way to make myself "fun".  After an adolescence spent listening my friends complain that I only ever wanted to talk about feelings, I'd discovered the secret to being life of the party!

And that's where it began for me, that's how I found my first real love.