Getting Smarter.

I didn't ask you to call me -

but you did. Every night. At any hour - 1 am. 2 am. 3 am. You had no boundaries.

When I was with friends - at sleepovers - on trips - doing homework - sound asleep - you expected that I was available.

And, foolishly, I made myself available.

We learned to drive. Your car was parked in front of my house more and more. No matter who was over, you were there too, with your kidding insults, eager to make me doubt myself. And our phone calls lengthened. Your closing line became "I love you."

Did you notice that I didn't say it back?

I didn't know what you meant. You confused me, daily. "I can't risk losing you by dating you." You said it more than once, as you dug into more and more depth of who I was, asking for more and more of my trust, making yourself continually present (whether audibly or visually) in my world. These words were the most incomprehensible paradox. You were dating me, but without a label! Without that label, you were free to date date others, but my heart was yours.

Your mom saw it. She warned, "don't trust" - I didn't listen. Instead, I longed.

Idiotically, I ignored the wisdom of friends and family and clung to your words as a promise for the future - "I love you."

I shrugged off the pursuits of new men who liked me, who wanted to know me, as I waited for you. And waited, even when I knew I shouldn't wait. I was a simpleton. A ninny. A chump.

I tried to escape you. I asked someone else to prom, only to find you buried under a heap of red and black balloons, asking me to be your date. Like a dunce, I uninvited him and went with you . . . unsurprised when you left that night with another girl's number. But I was still yours.

I put over 1600 miles between us with my college choice. You still called - I couldn't escape your audible presence. I ran further, trying to quiet you, so I could hear my own thoughts and discover my own dreams. This time, nearly 6,000 miles and a seven hour time difference. And you still called, for three years. While I had the wisdom to flee, I didn't have the desire to click decline. So, just as i'd opened the door to my house, and my heart, I clicked "accept." I had so much hope; you fed that hope, and I believed you. I'm a dope.

Ten years later, you told me you'd met her, that you were proposing. I listened, feeling the tsunami-like tides of emotions, frustrations, confusions. Fueled by passion, I did it:

"Do not call me, ever again." "Will you tell me when I'm ready?" "I won't be." Click.

I meant those words. Other than a wedding invitation, I never heard from you again.

Did you notice that in the end, you lost me?

Almost ten years later, trust has regrown. I changed my name. I'm having his child. It took all that time to heal.