Some Days I Do Feel Regret

(*Sally, stop reading at this point. If you pass this sentence you are basically signing a waiver that you will not be upset with what you read, nor will you blame yourself for being a bad parent or think you failed or anything of the such. Do not move forward, and don’t get your friends to tell you about this story either*)

Long before I became the exceptional person many of you know today, I was a completely different type of exceptional. I was well liked by most everybody who knew me, I had friends I could rely on whenever I needed them, and I cared just little enough about anybody I came across I had a certain magnetic appeal which made people get very attached to me (so basically, I guess, I was exactly the same as I am now).

Honestly I did care about people, but I was dealing with a few mental and emotional problems due to the fact my ex, a lovely girl named “Faith”, had decided to attempt to off herself when we broke up (But, really, can you blame her?). That was a traumatic experience I had trouble dealing with due to the fact I was an emotionally stunted child in a man’s body. As a result every girl I met for the next year or so was put on a suspected terrorist list and I had no problem not allowing them to get very close to me. If they tried to get close I sentenced them to my own personal GITMO where they would be forgotten about. Yes, this means if you are expecting the worst from me at this point in my life, I did everything pretty much imaginable.

It didn’t help at the time I was doing my best to develop an exceptionally strong drug habit, which was doing nothing more than deadening my already hindered emotions even more. It is no wonder my parents decided to take a family trip to England during this time in which I was not invited (I’m still bitter about that, but at least I get to tell everyone about this story, which is totally worth not going to England. I hope you all appreciate this one).

In reality, they were blue.

Let’s get back to the story at hand, since this is not a forum to say I’m mad I didn’t go to England or to complain about Faith swallowing a bottle of sleeping pills (I have other stories in which those are discussed).

As everybody knows in this messed up world the moment you get out of a relationship is when for some reason you have the best luck getting with other people. Yes, I’m certain this is doing emotional damage to your soul, or mental state, but sometimes you need to damage yourself in order to repair the damage someone else did. It’s kind of like having to break a bone in order to repair it (of course, eventually, you will break a bone so much it won’t heal anymore. This brings  us to who I am today). So, of course, shortly after Faith and I broke up, I was taking full advantage of the fact it was just easy to get with someone new as often as possible.

The deadened state of my emotions and the fact I was just standoffish enough to appear mysterious was a perfect combination. People wanted to hang out with me. My house turned into  a party house. When I went to bars I never paid. They just wanted me to come out, drink, have a good time and perform the same karaoke song I did three times a week (I don’t do karaoke now; it’s just not worth the public humiliation).

I would like to say I loved my life at the time and if you asked people back then, they might say I was the happiest, most fun, most outgoing person they knew. The truth was I didn’t like who I was becoming, but I am the easiest person that I can lie to. In all honesty, I’m pretty damn gullible when it comes to lies I tell myself. The easiest lie I can tell myself is I am happy doing what I am doing. The question is, can I tell that to someone else and believe the words that I am saying?

I know looking back on the person I remember being, if I met that guy today, I would not have liked him very much. He was kind of an asshole to any girl he hooked up with and to all of them I apologize on his behalf. But this is to one girl in particular. This is to one girl we shall call “Tricia.” And that is not per se a made up name, it is the name I have been calling Tricia for a very long time. It is the name I call Tricia because I don’t know what her real name is.

Tricia was a young girl. I think she was 18 or 19. I don’t really remember that either. I’m not really sure how she got involved with our circle of friends, but I remember she did somehow get inducted. She started showing up at parties we had, she would be at the bars hanging out with us even though she couldn’t drink, and she would call us after work to see what was happening. She was this cute, little, flirtatious girl who was sweet and just wanted to be part of our group (who could blame her? We were awesome).

I wasn’t the first to hook up with her. One of my best friends, Christopher, hooked up with her first. He went to visit her at school and hooked up with her there. He also was dealing with his recent breakup and was going through his own freedom tour. When he got back I gave him the obligatory high five for his recent conquest (because, yes, we were those guys. I told you I wouldn’t have liked myself much), and we assumed that we would just never see Tricia again.

Of course Tricia came back for summer break, as college kids tend to do, and she started hanging out with us again. Christopher was trying to get back together with his ex, or it may have been a new girl at that point, but either way he just kind of ignored her when we were all together. In retaliation, or desire for acceptance, Tricia started hanging around with me. I didn’t mind. I thought she was exceptionally hot and, well, let’s just say, notes had been compared.

Eventually, of course it happened. I will spare everyone the details of that story because those are the private intimate details between a girl, whose name I can’t remember, and myself. Also, I know the warning to my mother not to read this story will be ignored and as I make her more and more proud with every word I type I don’t want her to know too many details about my life (too late).

I saw Tricia out after that night, but nothing ever really happened between us again. We made out one night when she dropped some ecstacy at the bars since she couldn’t drink, but nothing as intimate as that one night.

Later I found out from a mutual friend that Christopher and I made up 66% of the people she had slept with at the time. Even back then-at my young immature age-I knew that what I had done was a mistake. I acted like Tricia was not an actual person. I acted like she was there for the sole purpose of making me feel better. While yes, I had probably done that with others as well, I had at least remembered their names. I also feel as though it is almost worse that my best friend did the same thing. We didn’t think about the consequences. Not just our own, but those of this young girl, who probably thinks all men are just as douche-baggy as he and I acted at the time.

If ever there were a girl I wished I could apologize to for my actions, it would be Tricia. She deserved better than me. She deserved someone who would care about her and who actually wanted her to be there. She deserved someone who respected her and all that other crap people say when they are talking about unfortunate people who were used. She definitely deserved better than two friends who were so emotionally and morally bankrupt they just didn’t care for the person in the slightest. She deserved people who would remember, if nothing else, her name.

To Tricia, wherever you are, I am sorry. I apologize, truly, honestly and deeply. And even though I can’t remember your name, I will never forget you.

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