The first time I remember meeting the man who would become my first love was freshman orientation.  I remember walking over to Western with a guy and girl I’d just met to see the comedian George Carlin.  The girl reminded me of my childhood best friend and I immediately liked her.  He was tall dark and gloomy.  I liked him too but didn’t relate to his quiet and restrained manner.  We didn’t all become best pals right away, but oddly they both became major players of my college experience.

As we walked, wonderful fall light filtered through the still green leaves of late summer.  I smiled and turned my face to the sun only half paying attention to the conversation.  I loved being in college.  I felt lighthearted and carefree.  This was what I’d worked so hard for, freedom.

My mother and I had argued endlessly throughout my senior year about me going away for college.  She’d say, “We can’t afford it!”  And I’d reply, “They’ll be my loans.”  Then she’d say, “But it makes more sense to stay home for a year or two and then go to college.”  My reply, “Yep, but I’m still going,” would often make her cry.  Once in a particularly dramatic moment she sobbed, “but I don’t want to eat cat food when I’m old.”   This argument made no sense at all.  Trying not to laugh, I said, “I’ll buy you tuna.”

So there I was my first week of school and I was already making friends and life never seemed so good, perhaps to make up for the awful years of high school.

A few weeks later, I got a letter in the mail.  It was from this same guy.  As I read, my gut tightened.  It was a love letter. I was somewhere between disbelief, anxiety and nervous laughter.  I liked him and he was nice but I didn’t want a boyfriend, and if I did, I didn’t think it would be him.  I showed the letter to a few friends and asked what to do.  We laughed a bit and I felt bad for showing it to them.  But they gave me good advice and ultimately I just approached him and said quite honestly that I wasn’t interested.

Senior year, it was at a party I think (I don’t really remember) but I do remember him leaning over and whispering in my ear, “You know, I still love you.”  Again, I felt shocked, but this time I was pleased rather than dismayed.  I couldn’t believe he still liked me.  Over the years we floated in and out of the same social circles, never quite in the same group but with a lot of cross over.  I thought, “What the hell, if he still likes me after all this time, I’ll give him a chance.”  I’m glad I did.  He was my first love and my first heartbreak.

We were living in Boston in a tiny apartment.  I looked around at the piles of stuff and felt angry.  ‘Why doesn’t he clean up after himself.  What? Does he expect me to do it?’  I was working a terrible job taking pictures of babies in malls and discount stores.  This was not the life I’d imagined after college.  I was angry in general, and lonely despite the fact that my best friend also lived in town (same girl I met that fine fall day in Freshman year.) 

Things were not too good between my friend and me.  She and I had planned to move to Boston together, but then in a romantic moment, I’d looked at my boyfriend and said, “You want to move to Boston.”  When I told her he’d agreed, she looked hurt.  To make it worse, she’d had a huge crush on him the year before.  We couldn’t all live together (which is what I suggested to her at the time.)  It would have been impossible, awful.  I chose him over her.  At that time I was ruled by impulse and was being a very bad friend.

So, that day I was angry about the mess in the apartment.  When he got home that night, I said, “It is getting so messy in here.  I’m not your mother.  I’m not going to clean up after you.”  He didn’t say anything.  He just looked at me, his beautiful brown eyes showing his irritation.  This made me more angry, and I insisted, “Why don’t I clean the kitchen and you clean the bathroom?”  He shrugged, “OK.”

I still can’t believe that I actually made a set of cleaning instructions as if he’d never be able to figure out how to clean a bathroom on his own.  In fact, I think I taped them to the bathroom wall.

I was miserable.  We were miserable.  There were definitely good times when we just enjoyed each others company, but most of the time we fought or he valiantly tried to ignore my tears or rants.

It shouldn’t have surprised me when a half a year later, he turned to me in bed one night and said, “I want to fall in love again.”  He meant with someone else…

This hurt terribly, but only because I’d allowed myself to love him.  Love is always an act of bravery.  A friend said recently that courage is not about being fearless, but doing something despite your fear.