Why I Loved Matt John

I don't want to be a normal girl.

I could tell you I'm not, and come off as one of those self-expressing individuals who push the fact that they're weird so much that, yes; they do seem strange, just like everyone else.

Or I could tell you I am normal, and be half-lying to you. What makes someone different? Is it the way they dress, the things they say, the people they associate themselves with? I don't think so. It's the way your mind works that puts you apart from others. That's how I categorize you, people of the world; by your motives and aspirations.

Matt John was an individual. In one of our first phone conversations, we somehow got on the topic of being different.

"I think I'm different, but I'm sure that's what everyone else has told you," I said with humor in my voice.

He laughed. "You're the first one to point that out." I couldn't help but hear the incredulity behind his voice.

That was one of the many things that led to my loving him.

Just a quick description of him, for those who don't know who I'm talking about: he's tall, one of the few things that makes me automatically attracted to a guy, and thin. I loved how thin he was. I could walk up to him and put my arms around his waist easily, and put my head on his chest. He had his own style of hair, I think--I never asked if he got the idea from anywhere--with long bangs in the front, just enough to cover his eyes, and short in the back, a deep brown. I always loved his hair. When he didn't straighten it it curled at awkward places around his face, giving him an almost cute, bedraggled look that made me want to hug him. And he was muscular, mostly in the arms, although I liked his arms better when they weren't bulging with muscle.

He was handsome to me, sexy not in a way the media portrays sexy should be, but in a way that I admired.

Then here I am, an average-height girl with brunette hair. I have a small stomach and a moderate build, big brown eyes with a greenish tint, and a shy-looking expression most of the time. People have also told me lately I seem to have gloomy eyes.

I think I'm pretty. I sure try hard enough for the title. I'm pretty, but nothing extravagant, nothing that catches your eye.

He told me I was beautiful, and he meant it. One of the first times we snuck out past curfew, I walked all the way to Plano from Richardson--a good three miles--to see him. He'd walked that far for me before, and I didn't want to do that to him again; he needed his energy for things like football and riding his bike to and from school.

When I was about to walk back home, I felt so tired I wished I could have just fallen asleep in his arms. We stepped under a streetlight, its glow illuminating our faces. I let him hold me for as long as possible before he gently nudged me away.

I looked up of him, the full force of his eyes in mine. I remember exactly how he looked, the mental image burned into my brain; his hair was messy, his mouth curved in his half-smile. But the greatest part was his eyes; they were soft, as if I could see the love in them. I was standing there, looking pathetic in my black sweat pants and much-too-big-for-me black jacket that was wrapped tightly around myself.

"You look so beautiful," he almost whispered. We kissed...

How could I name everything I loved about him? How could I recall every little gesture, every deep conversation, every kiss and every touch, every stupid habit, every time my heart skipped a beat, every blush, every tear and every laugh, every promise, every dream? How could I possibly tell anyone how I felt about him other than him? I did, and although my shy nature prevented me from doing it often, I told him everything. I tried to let him know I loved him, rather with actions than with words. I sacrificed myself for him on countless occasions, mostly emotionally, but sometimes with loss of sleep and use of energy I didn't have.

"It's not what you say, it's what you DO," he once told me during one of our first fights. We were arguing about whether or not I really loved him, if I remember correctly, or about something I constantly said but he didn't think I meant.

I'll do whatever it takes, I promised that day. Whatever it takes to prove to him I love him, that my feelings are true, that he was the only one I ever wanted to be with. He was all I thought about. He controlled my dreams, my emotions. He gave me a feeling that could only be described as love, a feeling I've only once ever tried to put into words, when I tried to describe it to him. I said something like this:

"It's a warmth right where your heart is, I think. It makes you light as air, yet brings you down to earth. It's something wrapped around your heart, and in the same way that it can be the greatest feeling in the world, it can also be the worst pain..."

And that was only how it felt, not what it was like. What it was like is a whole other story.

He also told me he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me. The thought brings tears to my eyes now. I felt so assured, so safe when he said that, that my whole future was lain out before me.

When he held me, I felt so protected, so safe and loved. When he gave me that look of his that couldn't be described with a million words, I felt lucky. And when all else failed, he was what I fell back on. How could something so pure turn so badly?

I've never known this kind of pain before. It's like the warmth in my heart has turned to fire, a constriction instead of an embrace. It's like a dog who's turned suddenly on his trusting master, killing him as he slept. I know what I felt; this is the exact opposite of love, and it isn't hate. Love is happiness, and this feeling is some more serious form of depression. Most call it heartbreak. I just call it being broken.

He did so many unforgivable things. The first thing was only a few months into our relationship. He cheated on me, with a girl who he'd had relations with before me, a girl he said he'd thought he'd loved. I didn't even know it was her until recently. The story I got from him is that he and his friend were completely wasted, and took a couple of girls home and "did stuff". That's all I wanted to hear, back then--I was already getting a taste of the pain. But he apologized. He was the one who told me, and he apologized. I said I forgave him. He told me he was drunk, right?

But recently, I was told that he and his friend purposely brought these girls home and got them completely wasted. He drank a cheap brand of beer, and they got the hard stuff, and he took advantage of them. He knew what he was doing the entire time. I didn't matter to him. and I forgave him.

He never really cared about me in a sense of my emotions. I cried over him, cried over our arguments, cried because I felt hopeless when we were apart and cried because of the horrible things he sometimes said. He always found a way to make me apologize, taking advantage of my unconditional love for him and turning it against me. Nothing was ever his fault. I always had to beg him to forgive me, for things obviously not my fault.

That was the most fatal mistake I made--I loved him more than I loved myself. He loved himself more than me. So, who loved me?

I could also recall all the faults we had, all the things that he did to cause me pain, but what would the point of that be? It's easy to point out the bad things.

He was stubborn, both in debate and arguments, which were the same thing to him. He was closed-minded. He never listened to anything I said. He put his friends before me in most circumstances. I could go on, but I now realize it were these faults that were apart of who he was, the boy I loved, and loving him so fully, I loved them too, strangely.

But then, on one strange night, I got a call from one of his closest friends who told me he was cheating on me. The pain came back, and after I hung up with his friend, I called Matt and, without discussion, bluntly said, "how could you?"

Betrayal. After I forgave him for cheating a few times before, after I made it so obvious it would hurt me beyond repair if he did again, he went against me...

Then he informed me he hadn't actually cheated on me, only talked about it. It was a long argument, more like a debate of me trying to get him to forgive me and trying to prove my motives to him. He ended our conversation with telling me he was going to cheat on me that week, but stay with me.

It was a long week after that, the first week of high school, a week we didn't talk. That Friday, I went to the mall with two friends, and he was there. After a series of events, we made up, and we were okay for the time being. Than the next week, on a Thursday, something so small I did triggered it again.

He called me and told me, word for word, that he was having a party the next day, and that he was going to fuck as many chicks as possible. He was mad, but I knew him well enough to know that he used his anger to hide his pain, hide the fact I'd hurt him. Like always, he didn't care that he's hurt me a million times over. He didn't care that I spent that entire night crying myself to sleep, and the next, and the next. He did fuck another girl, and that was his way of breaking up with me.

It's been around two months since then. New friends and old friends got me through the pain, though the majority of it I keep hidden from everyone. No one can know the severity of that horrible broken feeling, because it's impossible to describe.

I made a goal that I was going to fall out of love with him. I told my friends he was an ass, and that I hated him, and they in turn constantly reminded me of the bad things he'd done, never the good. No one but him and I harbor the good memories now. I found someone else, someone who hated him just as much as my friends did, someone who I've been in a relationship with for three weeks now. I like this boy; he does things for me Matt John never did, simple things like kissing me and attending my choir performances and making sure to call me every night. But when he tells me he loves me, and I smile sweetly and say I love you too, my heart tells me I'm not telling the complete truth.

Love is like a dog, and its human owner is like your heart. The dog may turn suddenly and hurt the owner, it's true. But the owner may also hit the dog with a newspaper for discipline, and some incredible force of nature may make the dog come crawling back, tail between its knees, for forgiveness.

I don't hate Matt John. After everything, I still love him. My heart aches for his touch, to be able to look into his gentle eyes, to lie under the stars with him again. I still love him, and the fact I'm not still with him is as much my fault as it is his. I don't know how he feels. All I know is that he has replaced love in his heart with hate, and I hope he makes the pain a little bit less for himself that way. I hope he's happy now.

But as for me, I've realized I'm not different at all, especially not to him. I broke his heart just like the girls did before me, and I supposedly moved on. I don't want to be this normal, teenage girl, who goes through boyfriends like tampons and cries about the dramas of high school life, but isn't it who I am? I want to prevent it, but I'm tired, so tired, of having to make such an effort.

My new goal: I'm going to stay in love, because I realize it can't be helped, but at the same time I'm going to try and push Matt John out of my life and replace him with this new boy, who treats me "how I deserve to be treated". Maybe, if I can manage to be normal, I can move on and fall in and out of love with this boy, and the next, and the next.

Or maybe I can't.