Here I am. Staring blankly at the clock as it reads 4:20 AM. I have to wake up for work in less than three hours, but yet… here I am. 

It’s been another night of tossing and turning. I can’t sleep. These nights have become frequent in the last month and it’s finally starting to catch up to me. My sleeping is irregular. My eating is different. My eyes are baggy. I’ve become highly irritable. I am in the midst of my most devasting creative block. My friends have even began to point out that something looks wrong with me. Like I’m stressed. Tired. Upset. Angry. And I keep thinking. Random thoughts. Seeing random images. Random acts just play out in my head. I’m not sure why… Is it because I have a lot to say? Or is it because I have nothing to say at all? But at the same time, it all leads back to one thing – her. 

I remember the last conversation I had with her, about four months ago. 

I dialed her number late one night. Probably around 1 AM. With no intention to say anything. I just wanted to hear her voice again. Perhaps for the last time. It has a calming effect on me. Like that warm, safe feeling you get when eating those fresh-baked cookies mom used to make. She picked up.

“Hello?” she said softly. I knew I had woken her up.

“…” I couldn’t answer. Already, I could feel myself getting choked up. Her voice was sweet and as soft as I could remember it. As if nothing had changed. Maybe that’s what bothered me.

“Bryan?”

“…” Again, I couldn’t say a word. I knew if I opened my mouth words would just flow out and I wouldn’t be able to control myself. 

“Baby, what’s wrong?” Don’t call me baby I thought to myself. She stayed on the phone with me for what seemed to be an eternity. Both of us silent… hearing each other breathe. 

“… is he with you now?” I managed to mumble out. I didn’t want to know the answer because I already knew it.

“… yes.” she answered. Maybe reluctantly. Maybe feeling bad for me. Maybe regretting that I had to ask that question. I’ll never know. All I could feel though was the anger and depression heating up to a boiling point. I could imagine him, arms wrapped around her the way I used to do. Wishing her good night and kissing her on the forehead before laying there waiting for her to fall asleep, safe in my arms. Feeling her body move with every small breath she took as she slipped away into a dreaming state. My anger and depression evolved into a state of rage and jealousy.

“I hate you.” I heard myself say to her. I couldn’t take it back. I didn’t want to take it back. But at the same time, I wasn’t sure if I really meant what I had just said.

“You don’t mean that…” she answered. I could hear the uncertainty in her voice.

“I fucking hate you.” I said said slowly and as clearly as I could while letting out a defeated sob. The tears had built up and by now were streamining down my cheeks. I wanted to punch something. There was silence on the other end of the line. What more could she say? There was nothing. 

“I never want to talk to you again.” I said. “Good bye.” 

And with that, I hung up the phone. And that was the last time I ever spoke to her. 

Maybe that is why I haven’t been able to sleep at night. I don’t know. Ever since then, I’ve tried to hide it all. I attempted to conceal my wounded pride by allowing myself to slip into a downward spiral of animalistic fucking and drinking. I have become completely ignorant to the person I used to be. And here I am. Maybe at the dead end of that downward spiral. 

People have asked me, “Bryan, are you over her?” and before I answer that question, I think about what it truly means for me to be over her. Does it mean that I can carry on my every day life without having her enter my head? Does it mean that I can look another woman in the eye and truly think only about the one in front of me? Does it mean that when I am in bed with another woman that she never crosses my mind? If that’s the case, then yes. I am over her. And I will answer that question with a consistent answer – Yes. Yes. Yes. 

Which of course begs the question, why am I writing this? Why is it that I toss and turn at night? Everyone remembers the events that change their lives. Either for the better or worse. This is no different. I think anyone would be inhuman to completely forget and move on from their first love – no matter the outcome of that relationship. For me to be able to finally tell this story, openly, and willingly, to whom ever wants to read it, says to me that I am indeed over her. I have kept this from myself and from my friends for months. But here I am. Unveiled. In a completely vulnerable state. I’ve nothing to hide any more. I toss and turn at night because it’s hard for me to accept that the way I closed a chapter of my life was with the phrase, “I fucking hate you, and never want to talk to you again”. I dont’ care who you are. What you’ve done. But to me, no one deserves that sort of hate. No one deserves to be completely shut out of someone else’s life – albeit without at least some sort of closure. And that is why I think I can not sleep. Because this chapter of my life that saw me through my final years of high school and into college continues to linger on without some sort of ending. I am not sure the ending will ever be written, but at least this is some progress. 

I have accepted the fact that she’s with someone else know. And I hope, very, very happy. In the end, all I want is a woman that I can trust. That I can confidently let into my life, into myself and allow her to understand me, and for me to understand her. I guess that sort of thing is rare – especially out here in the city. But I know she exists. Maybe I’ve already met her. Who knows? It’s one of those things that only time has the power to dictate. 

Maybe now I can close my eyes and fall asleep. 

Bry