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I was just 17, dealing with the usual teenage insecurities, doubts, and family difficulties, all while being one of the most sensitive souls you could meet. Then there was him—a grade above me, part of that cool crowd, selling weed, and always having a place to hang out.
At the time, that was enough for me.
His mom was out of town, and he invited me over to smoke a “super doobie” at his house.
Yes, those were the exact words that won me over.
We smoked out of the window fan in his bedroom, snuggled up, and I never left.
He was this big, goofy, larger-than-life guy. He ran with a “popular” crowd of kids in school, but I don’t think he really realized or cared about that. He wasn’t your stereotypical “hottest guy in class,” but he was certainly the warmest. With him, I almost instantly felt a level of safety and comfort that was once foreign to me.
I remember the first time I called him crying.
I was pulled over in a Walgreens parking lot after skipping school again, probably upset about where my life was headed or facing issues with my family. I don’t know what he did or said that particular night, but he didn’t judge me or have an explosive reaction. Most importantly, he listened to me. Something I normally had to fight for.
I didn’t anticipate falling into real love so young—over bong rips and reruns of “Family Guy.” It seems crazy to me now that I thought this was my big, grand love story. But in hindsight, I can see that maybe it was simply the story of two people sent to help each other for a temporary time, not quite knowing how to let go.
Although this love story inevitably caused me more grief than I was prepared to handle, it was through that grief that I learned my own capacity to love.
We were always two very different people. I felt life with an intensity and passion that I knew had the power to overwhelm people—hell, it overwhelmed me every day. I cried a lot. Correction—I cry a lot. He was, well, not that deep. And maybe that’s what I loved so much about him. He was simple, and I didn’t have anybody like that in my life. I was struggling to hold onto that childlike sense of wonder we all seem to lose—he reminded me that we never have to really grow up.
And therein lay a major problem. Inevitably, I had to “grow up,” or at least start changing. I did everything I could to stay stuck in Neverland, but all along I had a feeling—my journey was far from over.
I always knew there was something bigger, or maybe just different, out there for me. Yet, for years, I made myself smaller to fit into a life that wasn’t mine. I couldn’t imagine a life without him in it—because loving him was easier than learning to love my complicated self.
It felt easy to compromise the “things I wanted” because I wasn’t quite sure of anything I wanted except him. There’s no doubt that we both loved each other, but really, we’d always desired opposing lifestyles. It was doomed from the start.
After high school, with our paths headed in different directions, we decided to try long distance. He thought it’d be best to just break up, but I was that crazy girl who didn’t give him much of a choice other than to suffer through long phone calls with me every night, going on about how much I loved him and missed him. Sometimes I would hear him start to snore mid-conversation, but I felt better just knowing he was there on the other line.
During my brief attempt to move to Hawaii, seeking a life of warmth and sunshine, he moved to a ski town where there’s snow nearly year-round. I’ll spare you the details, but let’s just say I’m typing this from the state of Colorado, where I still live today. He didn’t beg me to follow him here, but I tagged along anyway.
In the midst of our on-again, off-again relationship, I lost my father suddenly. How could he leave me now? He became my everything.
Together, we had incredible adventures, laughter, the best snuggles in the world, and two really awesome cats. I admired him—the way he lived his life, his carefree attitude, and how he always knew something about everything. He wasn’t the most romantic guy out there, but he called me every single day on his way home from work, asking if I needed anything from town. And now, I realize, that’s far more important to me than any fancy date night.
When things were good, they were really, really good.
But I was struggling.
I found myself having frequent panic attacks, and he was my main point of safety. He was my constant to hold onto when I felt like my feet were no longer on the ground. He was the rock that kept me tethered to earth, and he was the best damn rock there ever was. He helped me more than anyone has ever helped me, but just to be clear—in lots of ways, I helped him too.
I think we both secretly became terrified of living a life without each other in it. We were each other’s person.
He stood by me at my lowest points—I look back now and sometimes wish that he wouldn’t have.
That he would’ve just let me go and trusted I would be okay without him. But I understand he was only ever trying to do what was right, and for whatever crazy reason, he really did love me and didn’t want me to go. I knew deep down that it would eventually come to an end. I wanted more. I wanted to move to a city, or be an actor, write books, travel the world—who knows? Maybe even date other people, despite loving him with all my heart. But he was happy with the life we were in, and I knew I could never take him with me.
I dreamed of my own life because I, too, am larger than life, but nobody knew it because I was too busy living in his.
I became resentful of being “the girlfriend.” I hated going to the ski shop he worked at and hanging out with the other ski-bum guys’ girlfriends. I wanted my own people, my own life, my own place. After nearly seven years, our relationship would eventually come to an end. It was, and still is, the hardest thing I’ve ever had to go through.
We made a promise: “You can always call me.”
I decided I had the strength to be on my own—plot twist: I totally didn’t.
I spiraled down a dark path rather quickly. I missed him desperately and begged and pleaded that he would take me back despite all the mistakes I had made.
The best thing he ever did for me was say no.
Without him, I was forced to grow.
I needed to change and learn to be okay all by myself. By the grace of God, I pulled myself out of what was a very dark hole. I found myself discovering a new level of peace and a taste of this “self-love” everyone seems to go on about. Through this process, I shed a lot of my past, but he was never a part I was willing to let go of, even as a distant friend.
My resistance to letting go is symbolic of how desperately I once craved love. It represents how much I lacked. When I found that love within myself and through some amazing friendships, I realized how unfair it was of me to expect him to be the only one filling my cup. We’ve been broken up for over three years now.
I still miss him often, and I do call him when times have been really tough.
I will keep my promise, as I know he will keep his.
I will not go cold or act as if he’s dead to me, because the love we shared was the realest thing I’ve ever known, but I know it is time to really let go now.
For a while, I was plagued with the thought of: “Why wasn’t our love enough?” But I realize now—it always is. Love is always enough. Because love isn’t the glue that binds us together; it’s the cloud that carries us to where we need to go. Sometimes together, sometimes apart. And I’ll always be thankful that, for a time, I floated on the same cloud as you.
~
author: Jenna Susson
Image: Author's Own
Editor: Molly Murphy
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