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Love Addict: Anger
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My head turned first to the left, and then back to the right, to align with my body. It hurt to twist my neck in the opposite direction of the rest of my torso. It just wanted to face the same direction, have the same purpose.
As the didgeridoo music began to play and the teacher read a short Rumi poem, I settled into the bolster underneath me, which had a block underneath it at the end of one side. This held me in almost a 135 degree angle, and the blanket which covered my toes and feet and hips and shoulders empowered the coziness to fall into myself. Deeply sinking into the recesses of my brain, enjoying clicking the off-switch on the chatter, my heart rate suddenly rose as my subconscious reached backed more than a few years.
All I could feel was intense rage.
This boy had claimed the role of “boyfriend” in high school, and shaken out of it sometime early in his college career, and later again, early in mine. This boy continued to be in my life, on the peripheral, for the rest of college, meeting me only late at night after more than a few vodka tonics or glasses of Cabernet Sauvignon, and would promptly return to his removed state the morning after. This boy was the “nice guy” that everyone hemmed and hawed over, “why can’t he find himself a good girl? He’s such a great catch, if girls would just give him a chance.” This boy was more concerned with what his frat brothers thought of him than my feelings. This boy, by dangling a string he never intended for me to catch, affected every single one of my relationships since.
The sad thing is, I wasn’t even in love with him.
I can’t recall anything about my relationship with this boy other than breaking up, hooking up, hoping I’d run into him at that bar, making an idiot of myself showing up at his apartment at 3am plastered and covered in puke after I had unknowingly leaned against a wall at a club that someone had just tagged. I can’t recall feeling intimately connected to him during those months, years we spent together in high school, but rather feeling as if I was doing him a favor by being with him. The nice guy. The gangly one. The one with a sense of humor. The one that deserved a nice girl. The martyr – I could play that role.
But as soon as he wasn’t the nice guy, this boy became larger than life and it was my goal to make him succomb. A goal I didn’t even realize I had until now, looking back. Apparently it was also my goal not to move on, not to put myself out there, see all the other men that surrounded me. Not to be rejected by them too. Or, to be accepted by any of them as worthy.
My stomach churned as images arose in my mind – he got away with it all. This boy never had to explain to me why I was good enough to continuing being physical with for four years, but not good enough to walk down the street with, hand in hand. This boy never had to explain why he left the area without telling me. This boy never had to explain why he acted as if he was giving his virginity to me, and then told me the next morning he had given it to some other girl when they were wasted.
This boy never had to explain to me why he didn’t love me (he should have loved me).
The fringes of anger can be stealthy – it is not always an emotion that clearly identifies itself to the being who holds it, or to anyone outside. It is often pushed down, covered with dust and sand and anything that will keep it from showing its red embers. For women, who are told not to be so angry, that we are too emotional and have too much anger, we try our best not to pull that card from the deck and place it upright in front of us.
And so it is 10 years later, countless days, weeks, months since I have even thought of this boy as having ever been in my life, laying in a restorative yoga class where I planned to journey and seek answers for my current relationship questions, that the anger rose. My eyes flew open as I knew what I had to do.