Fool Me Once

There is a story I have wanted to tell for a long time, but never had the courage to share. It's not an uncommon story -- in fact it's probably more common than most of us realize. It's probably a story many people reading this can relate to, which is one of the reasons I hesitated to share it. Who wants to hear my story, when there are millions of women out there who've been through the same thing? What makes me and my experience so special?

Nothing makes it special, other than the fact that it's mine. It's part of my history, part of who I am, and maybe by sharing it I can help someone else -- how it helps isn't up to me, but if it changes just one person's view, or encourages just one person to demand better treatment, if it helps one person understand me a little bit more, then it's worth it.

Now comes the hard part. The soul-baring, vulnerable part of actually telling the story; of saying the words.*

I was still in high school when I met Javier. We both worked at a restaurant in Oak Park -- he was a cook/busboy and I worked the phones and the register. We worked in fairly close quarters, as the front counter and the kitchen were basically a single open space, so we interacted a lot. 

There was a slight language barrier, but I knew he was working hard at perfecting his English so communication wasn't a big deal, especially since it usually had to do with pizza orders and tables that needed to be cleaned.

After high school, I went away to college for a whopping six weeks and came back to work at the same restaurant. I started to befriend Javier and the other cooks -- we even went out to play pool a few times after work. Looking back, I have no idea why I thought that was a good idea. Or a safe idea. But I liked the attention. I liked being the only girl among them and I liked to flirt. 

Soon, it was just Javier and me playing pool, and it was even more thrilling because it felt like something "real". Having had no romantic relationships up to this point, having the attention of a cute guy -- who was a couple years older than me -- was exciting. The fact that I wasn't afraid of the attention made it even better. So, I hung out with him when he asked because it made me feel like I was important.

After we had sex for the first time -- which happened to be my first time ever -- I assumed what we had was an actual relationship, though as far as I know we never actually talked about it. It just became this thing we did, and since it felt normal to me, I never brought it up. I never asked for a label. I was happy to be inside the circle of people who'd had, or were currently in relationships. I could call a guy my boyfriend and mean it (not that I was allowed to, but still). 

But is it really a relationship if it can't be talked about it public? If our co-workers weren't allowed to know? If my friends weren't allowed to know? 

At the time, I didn't question it. I didn't question the fact that he never set foot inside our house. We'd go on dates to restaurants and parks that were way outside of Oak Park and then come back sit in my car outside the house for hours, but we never went inside. I guess the secrecy was part of the thrill for me, so I didn't even think to ask why.

Several months into our secret relationship, Javier and I went to a local park one night to hang out. I remember we were having a heated but friendly discussion about song lyrics -- I insisted he was wrong about the lyrics to "La Isla Bonita" by Madonna and he insisted I was wrong about the lyrics to "Come Undone" by Duran Duran -- and I thought it was funny that he was right about the English lyrics and I was right about the Spanish ones. We both laughed about it, and I remember feeling happy and content in that moment.

Oh, if only I'd known that would be one of the last times I could live in such ignorant bliss. 

When we were ready to leave, I realized my car keys were missing. I'd sworn they were right beside me on the playground equipment we'd been sitting on, but they were gone. I got up and hunted around -- in the dark, no less -- losing my mind because obviously we were stuck without the keys and we weren't supposed to be in the park at 1am anyway. A dozen thoughts about all the ways we could get into trouble scrambled around in my mind, and my panic was growing by the second. 

I no longer remember how I figured it out, but after all the frantic searching, I discovered that Javier had my keys in his pocket. The whole goddamn time. 

And he thought it was funny.

I was pissed. I made him give me the keys -- he thought it would be cute to play "keep away", because why not mess with the woman you've just pissed off? -- and went to the car. I wanted to drive home without him. I wanted to leave him in the park and let him figure out how to get to the damn train all by himself. But, lacking a solid spine, I let him in the car. I drove half a block, still mad as hell, and he made me stop the car. He wasn't going to put up with my anger, so he'd make his own way home. 

He got out of the car, leaving me speechless. And panicked. He was mad at me. Furious because I showed my temper, and instead of being pissed off about that, I found myself desperate to get him back in the car. I rolled down the window, driving alongside him as he made his way down the street, begging him to get in the car.

Begging. I was so afraid of him leaving me, of this being the end, that I literally forgot that he'd just fucking gas-lighted me and I had every right to be pissed off. I needed him to get back in the car, to kiss me and make up with me so I'd know I was okay. I was still wanted. 

And that, my friends, is how the next two years of my life began. Two years in which I gave away pieces of myself, again and again, because I didn't believe I could get anyone else. I was already convinced that I was lucky to have him, and that not having him was the worst thing that could happen to me.

I was so, so wrong.

Anyway, he got back in the car and I spent a ridiculous amount of time apologizing for my behavior. By the time I dropped him off at the train, all was right in my world. For a while, at least.

*In the interest of not making a novel out of this, I will continue this story in a series of posts, spread over the next several days.