Teenage Soulmate
And maybe this is the real end. Not the fake ends like I've spoken before. Not the kind of end that started this diary with a broken heart of a kid that moved away from happiness and a teenage soulmate.
And what ever happened to that teenage soulmate? That Scott Matthew? That Romeo.
He's still in Kansas moving out of his parents house and forgot to tell me. I still have a message of his sleepy voice at 7 am in the morning before work whispering sweet lovings before his birthday. And I wasn't there when he turned 21. And that when he was mowing the lawn on his own birthday that a call wasn't enough to get his attention.
Because I've called everyday for almost a month , up to 5 times a day. And he hasn't called back. And, why can't I just get the hint?
Because starting at 14 years old and six years have passed makes me believe that we can handle anything. Because I thought we conquered the 550 miles between us. I thought that we beat that, that we were over that. We weren't just a conventional couple.
High school sweethearts that spent more than half of their relationship apart. And now, I hate it. I hate the fact that I met him freshmen year of high school and he stole my heart. And he never gave it back.
I hate that I have diary entries of him all over this fucking journal, like a celebration of some long toxic neverending puppy love that lasted well into the years we shouldn't have been together.
Because there's so much growing between the ages of 14 when we first met until now when we can legally buy alcohol.
And all those stupid things we use to do.
And all those stupid things that we use to be.
Each others best friend. Each others soul mate. Each others rock. You know so that when things get rough you get to lean on your rock?
And things hurt more than you could possibly understand. I've filled this diary and an older diary, ndslotesse, with stories of him. That chronicles our entire relationship that began in 2001.
And this is more painful than you could possibly imagine.
The only thing I know about love I learned from this man. He was my first everything, the first man I held hands with, hugged, kissed, ... my first everything.
And six years later I'm sitting infront of computer at 8:23am wondering what I did wrong and how it ended. Because he was suppose to be the one. I would die for him. I'm serious.
And to be honest, I feel like I'm dying without him. And I can't make it stop. And every day I catch myself daydreaming of us being normal and us being happy. And us holding hands. I just want to hold your hand.
I'm trying so hard to be okay. I don't talk to anyone about it. Because that's what you learn after six years of a teenage relationship, that you definetly don't wash this kind of dirty laundry in public. Because people judge you. And they don't understand what's going on unless their going something through it themselves.
Because there is so much dramatic growing up between the ages of 14 and 21 that almost seems impossible to be with one person for that duration, much less grow up with 550 miles apart. And people will not understand. Believe me, they don't. They make assumptions about who you two are, how you two are, and how you two feel. And they don't understand that being this far apart to people this young is a tremendous feat.
And we were suppose to be the fairytale. We were suppose to the archetypical relationship that other relationships modeled themselves after because we defied the natural laws of relationships that can't be bent. We bent them. We were the exception.
We lasted this long. And, now we're over.
And we fucked up our fairytale somehow. It can't be all his fault. Some of it has to be mine. Because it 'takes two tango.' And we were a team, and whatever yours is mine. And so, some of this has to be my fault too.
And my heart is breaking into so many pieces no one can see it. And it's broken down as far as it can go, to molecules, to atoms, to energy. And now my heart is a ball of energy traveling a billion directions but always ending back up in Kansas and never here with me.