Chapter 4: The Relapse

About two weeks into my new job, I had a routine established and things in general were working out well. The first electronic payment into my bank account sure felt nice because it had been about a year since that happened.

Smoking and I were still very close friends. I knew it was terrible for my health all around but the feeling of calm that enveloped me during and after each cigarette was much too satisfying.

Eventually, though, I began to receive unexpected “reports” from my friends regarding J’s activities that just rubbed me the wrong way. I knew any shred of love or even care for him as a person was gone like a fart in the wind when I envisioned him as a pesky insect that I just wanted to smush. Is that bad to admit publicly? Probably. Nevertheless, it is the truth and I did commit to telling this story honestly. Maniacal thoughts included.

Under what I would classify as a “momentary logic malfunction”, I made an unwise judgment call, proceeded to type in JM’s name on Facebook and clicked the “Add” button which included a message along the lines of “The reason no longer exists.” Seconds after I sent it, I stopped breathing fire, snapped out of it and rushed to cancel the request. “Phew!” I thought, “Dodged that bullet.”

I didn’t.

I received a confused message from JM shortly after wondering what I meant and whether J and I were still together. I apologized profusely in case he was involved with anyone, explained my momentary logic malfunction and requested that he just forget I ever pulled that move. The last thing I wanted was to go on the rebound or play silly games because at the end of the day, I still wanted the, as Carrie Bradshaw stated, “Can’t live without each other kind of love”. (Seriously, I love Sex and the City.)

JM, however, said he was glad I messaged him because he’d always found it “nettlesome” that he and I never had a real shot at developing anything. Our first rendezvous, as he put it, he was involved and our second, I was involved. Third time around, being involved with another person wasn’t an issue for either one of us.

Yet and still, I strongly felt that entertaining anything with JM would just lead to more trouble because technically, we cheated on our then-respective partners with each other and it wasn’t because any real feelings were involved. Regardless of what our reasons were as to why we did what we did, cheating wasn’t the solution. It never is.

We debated about it for a little while which, regardless of the awkward conversation topic, was slightly refreshing. J didn’t exactly mentally stimulate me.

JM argued that we were different people, more grown up and he was willing to take the time necessary while I continued to heal. I, however, insisted that it just wasn’t a good idea and it wouldn’t be fair to either of us. At the end of it all, we decided on trying to form an actual friendship first.

I thought about the idea of JM & I quite a bit. I mean, there was nothing not to like about him on paper; he really was a great guy. I’m not even going to compare him to J; that’d be insulting to JM. However, no matter which way I thought about the idea, my gut strongly insisted that JM was off-limits in that respect given our history.

August 2009 was almost coming to an end. My parents moved and no longer lived close to the city, where I wanted to stay, as the commute to work was less expensive. My Mom had arranged for me to temporarily live with my aunt while I recuperated financially so that I can sustain a rental on my own.

I came home after work one night with no plans and with no one home. I had a snack, got bored and logged onto Facebook. I was commenting on a friend’s status when, in the corner of my left eye, saw a familiar name under their Friends List… A name I hadn’t thought about in seven years.

John Castillo.

I stared at it not knowing what to do with what I just stumbled upon. A couple of minutes passed when I finally decided to just bloody click on the name. It may not even be him-him…

It was him-him.

“He looks different.” I thought, but it was one thousand percent, no doubt about it – him.

My mind cleared of all thoughts and the only question that remained was  whether I should make contact or not. I mean, I spent one and a half years of my high school life avoiding him precisely because of my crush.

I placed my elbows on the desk, rested my face in my palms and slowly tapped my left index finger on my cheek while shifting my eyeballs left to right. Thinking, weighting out the pros and cons via talking to myself.

“Ok, he doesn’t even know me. He would totally be within his rights to think I’m some kind of crazy creep-stalker-psycho… Fine, maybe I’m a little psychotic but who isn’t these days? What happened to the “no unknowns” on Facebook rule? Exaaaactly. Just drop it. Who cares. He doesn’t and probably wouldn’t. He would definitely think you’re a creeper. Can’t have that. Whatever, leave his stupid page already.”

ADD.

“Damn it, Leslyn!”

The following night, a couple of my dearest friends, Ace and Randolph, asked me to watch a movie with them. I told them about the Facebook-John-JM what–the–fucks and of course, they teased me.

We seated ourselves in the movie theatre and I figured I would check my messages before the film started. I logged onto Facebook on my iPhone to find I had one new message.

Without even knowing for sure who it was from, just the inkling that it might be, made my heart beat faster for some reason.

It was him.

“Oh shit.”

Chapter 3: The Recovery

In retrospect, I bounced back at near-lightning speed after I found myself alone and at rock bottom no less. Five years I devoted into a relationship to end up with nothing but a multitude of emotions (sure, and lessons) that I had to sort through.

I remember feeling the cold leather on my skin when I laid down on my parents’ couch for the night. There was a momentary separation between the cold temperature of the couch and the chill I felt inside my own skin. I covered myself with a blanket for warmth and prayed. I prayed for the pain to subside even a little because it was paralyzing.

No one survives their first big break up alone. I had a lot of support from my close friends and family but the two who were pretty much glued to me were my girl, Sha (short for Natasha) and an old friend, B (privacy protection).

Prior to that time, I had only touched a cigarette once out of curiosity and choked on the smoke. Sha gave me access to her pack and I chain-smoked about five in a matter of minutes. It numbed the pain and I really needed that. She kept me company, took me out of the condo, kept me up-to-date with the outside world and let me talk my thoughts out which kept my brain from imploding. She helped take my mind off things for a little while and immensely lightened up my mood.

B, however, buckled me down and laid out the realities of the situation point blank. Listening to B made my insides freeze because it meant that I undoubtedly had to dive into the unknown and figure out how to begin putting my life back together.

I was petrified because this was when my insecurities were at their peak. My heart and brain were racing – I mean, HOW was I going to peel myself off the ground after I’ve been so badly beaten? I was so weak, so lost, so foolish.

B told me that the first step in my recovery was to stop distracting myself from the pain. I had to face it, to suffer through it and eventually learn from it. J and I both contributed to the deterioration of the relationship and I was to sift through my memory and figure out HOW.

B warned that if I didn’t build my strength by understanding my pain, I would never heal and J could, at any given time, waltz right back into my life and I would very well let him take advantage of me all over again. Not only that but I would drag my baggage with me and would never be able to be happy with myself or another man ever again.

That scared me more than diving into the unknown. By venturing into the unknown, I had a shot at making a better life for myself and growing into a better person. If I just slapped a band aid on my wounds, I would have sealed my own fate with misery as my sole company forever.

So… day in, day out, I drowned myself in an ocean of memories of my failed relationship. I suppose my unemployment was a blessing in disguise because I had the time to really focus on the mission B assigned to me.

To say it was torture would be an understatement. At first, I couldn’t see the point of revisiting those memories because it only added onto the pain I was already feeling. Nothing was sinking in. I didn’t feel like I was learning anything new.

I cried everyday for a week. I planted myself on my parents’ futon and barely budged from it. The only time I got up was to go to the bathroom or to have a cigarette or two. B, Sha and sometimes, a few of my other friends would visit but when they left, I was alone again with my thoughts. It was supremely unpleasant.

In the meantime, I had to take care of things like the separation of our phone plans and the pick up of my things from J’s parents’ house. There was also the matter of the car we leased. I was the primary and J was the secondary lessee. Our initial verbal agreement was for him to continue using the car and no action will be taken on my end in terms of surrendering the vehicle back to the dealership as long as he made the monthly payments accordingly. I was too tired to fight about that at the time.

I eventually stopped crying and with a ton of guidance from B, I was able to gain a basic understanding of why the relationship fell apart. With that, however, feelings of anger and disappointment surfaced. I was angry and disappointed at myself for not ending the relationship sooner; shoulda, woulda, coulda. Ok, admittedly, I didn’t exactly have well wishes for J either.

However, in the midst of all my emotions, for the first time in a long time, I was certain that everything was exactly how it was suppose to be.

The root of our problem was, I grew up. J didn’t, nor did he want to. Our ideal lifestyles were polar opposites in addition to our polar opposite personalities. The things we had in common began to disappear and we stopped seeing eye-to-eye.

I concluded that he stayed in the relationship out of convenience. Nobody lies to or hurts someone to the extent that J hurt me if they were truly in love with that person. It became clear to me exactly why he stuck around. I voluntarily supplied everything he needed to not only survive without his parents but to be more than comfortable while he did practically nothing in life. He had it made for years. Based on my and B’s combined analysis, it was why it was so easy for J to toss me out like used up garbage when all of my resources were tapped out. He kicked me when I was down as I was of no use to him anymore.

I stayed because yes, I did love him but also because I didn’t want my family to be proven right about J as that would mean I failed. I poured my heart, my resources and my energy into the relationship in hopes of preventing the inevitable: it was destined to come to an end. This, however, only led to having my heart broken every day, which sparked fights way too frequently. I hoped that he would eventually become a better man. That he would one day appreciate everything I had done and would treat me the way I deserved. I was stubborn and a fool.

I permanently embedded this truth into every corner of my brain and my heart. I vowed that I would never make the same mistakes ever again. I finally accepted that the relationship was indeed just a learning experience that I had to go through in order to really learn. As I mentioned in the previous chapter, I had a very strict upbringing so I craved learning about life through experience rather than in theory.

J and I broke up in July of 2009. Early August of the same year, my Mom called me to tell me to prepare for an interview with her company. A few days after my interview, I was offered the position. It felt wonderful, as I knew it was the next step toward building a new life, another chance to make better decisions and an opportunity to take everything I learned and use it as my fuel to succeed. It was time to focus, nurture my talents and chase after my dreams.

I knew I still had to deal with the side effects of everything that happened, mainly my insecurities, but I thanked God that the dunce cap and blindfold were finally off. Just the fact that I came out the other side of what was the most horrible time in my life alive, kicking and blessed was a miracle to me.

I was practically dead in a cold, dark ditch but as grueling as it was, I clawed my way out and came back into the land of the living. I was ready to live again.

Chapter 2: The Best Thing I Never Had

I would like to begin by admitting that gathering the words for this chapter proved to be surprisingly difficult. Recovering from the relationship’s demise was actually a lot easier in comparison.

I guess it’s because I don’t really know which direction I am going to go with this. At least after we parted ways, there was a clear goal: learn from it and move on. I certainly do not want to sound like I’m beating a dead horse however, this was five years of my life. I would not be the person I am today had I not had this experience.

His name is J. It was Summer and I was seventeen when I first met him through a friend of a friend’s. From what I can remember, he was sporting short, bleached blonde hair, yellow contacts and over-plucked eyebrows. He is of Filipino descent so you can imagine how odd this looked.

It was only after the relationship ended did I realize what it was that drew me to him: he possessed the freedom I so desperately wanted.

I came from a very strict household. Being the first born of then-extremely traditional Filipino parents did not bode well for my desire to join my friends for any kind of outing. J, on the other hand, was a year older and was completely free to do whatever he wanted whenever he wanted.

We became friends. At the time, I thought he was really goofy and fun to be around. He was easy to get along with, chilled out and totally carefree.

One night, I had yet another argument with my parents regarding their seemingly endless list of restrictions. I confided in J and he offered, as a friend, for me to stay with him at his parents’ house for a night just to take a break from the turmoil. I agreed. He helped me temporarily forget about what was going on at home and made me feel safe.

Safe. A word I didn’t realize I would not be able to even utter two years after that night.

Our first month, like every relationship’s first month, was bliss. I remember having more fun than I ever had prior to that time.

I felt free.

He would do little things like pretend to hug me when he was actually slipping a pair of gloves in my jacket because my hands were cold. If my memory serves me right, I may have received a rose or two from him. To a seventeen year-old girl, that was wonderful.

Three months in, I began to see signs that he wasn’t the guy for me but alas, I was already in love so I turned a blind eye.

The first sign was when my Mother requested for him to come by our house to meet the rest of my family but he said he promised his friend that they’d play jitz (foosball) together. I didn’t want to be what one would render a “tight-ass” especially since we had only been together for a short amount of time so, I pretended that it was cool when my gut was actually twisting and turning.

By my eighteenth birthday, I was holding a full time job at a financial company. I excelled and was quickly promoted. With the increased income and the continued turmoil at home, I made the decision to live independently.

It was hard to leave my parents, as troubled as our relationship was at the time, but I didn’t show them that. Some of my nights were spent soaking in the bathtub crying over not having my family around but I knew I couldn’t go back. I had to prove to them that they didn’t have to shelter me so much. That I did listen to them and I knew how to take care of myself out in the world.

J made me feel less alone during the transition. He practically became a resident in my home.

Soon after, however, it began to hit me that while I was working hard to make something of myself, J just wasn’t taking any kind of responsibility. My income became OUR income.

At one point, I was working full time and going to school for Makeup Artistry part time. I had previously expressed my great interest in Makeup Artistry to my parents but neither of them felt it was a good career choice so they weren’t supportive about it. I wasn’t ready to give up on it so I saved the money for the tuition and entered the program.

I lasted three and a half courses out of the six prior to needing to drop out due to the financial strains of only having one income.

I didn’t realize it then but I became J’s main provider. It was a stupid in love kind of situation.

There was a time when he was afraid to approach his parents regarding his phone bill with Bell. He ignored their warnings pertaining to his lack of payment many times and only felt it was urgent upon accruing $500.00 in penalty charges. So who did he come to with a promise of securing a job in order to pay the debt back? Me. I knew, as I dialed Bell’s phone number, that it was stupid for me to do. I knew it but I did it anyway. I fucking did it anyway.

Obviously, he didn’t put much effort into obtaining a full time job after I relieved him of that stress. Consequently, I began to get really frustrated with him because I couldn’t understand why. As time passed, I began to get angry. Really angry. I lost any respect I had left for him. I couldn’t respect him as a man. I still loved him for some godforsaken reason but I didn’t respect him.

We began to fight. A lot.

He began to lie. A lot.

I began to destroy things. A lot.

He was twenty-one when he yelled, “Well I’m not ready to grow up. I don’t want to do anything. I just wanna chill.”

I was completely baffled. Was I really being told this? How many times was he dropped on his head as a child to result in this immense stupidity? Twenty-one. No job. No education. Borrowing money he’ll never pay back from his parents or his girlfriend. And he just wanted to “chill”.

I could have, should have left but I was too goddamn stubborn. I didn’t want to feel like I failed when in reality, every single day I stayed, I failed myself.

The nights of him disappearing for hours and hours began. Forget about getting a hold of him on the phone. He would promise to be home for 8:00pm to join me for dinner and wouldn’t arrive until 2:00am at the earliest.

The first time I heard Melanie Fiona’s 4AM on the radio, I was in the car with my fiancé. We both looked at each other and he said, “That was you.” I was, indeed, stunned at how accurate the lyrics were. 

J never gave a fuck about how his neglect broke my heart. I was in pain every single day and telling him didn’t help. If it wasn’t “fun”, his brain didn’t compute.

I would have crying spells wondering what I did wrong to deserve that kind of treatment. I would beg God to take the pain away. I would talk myself down from the hysteria – it rarely worked. Sometimes, after hours of crying, I would find myself lying perfectly still… staring… praying…

Sitting here feeling kinda crazy, but not just any crazy. It’s the kind you feel, when you love somebody. 

By our two and a half year mark, he attempted to pursue another woman. This was what finally did me in. I didn’t know it but I was depressed. I couldn’t focus at work no matter how hard I tried. I was angry one minute, completely shattered the next.

I was out of fuel in every way possible.

I realize now that I didn’t want to let him go because I still associated him with freedom. He was like my drug. Destroying me little by little but I was hung up on the highs, the momentary highs, and I would think, hope that maybe next time it’ll last longer. I was sick.

After his failed attempt with the other woman, he laid low on his douchebag activities. He tried to prove that he was trying to be a better man, a better boyfriend, a better person but the damage was too severe. I could never trust him again. I doubted every word that came out of his mouth. I found him disgusting. I hated him yet I couldn’t bring myself to leave him. If I left him, everything I put into the relationship would have been for nothing.

My self-confidence went in a downward spiral until it disappeared into oblivion. My creative imagination that I once used to succeed was now my worst enemy as I kept seeing vivid images of the possible ways J would deceive me again. I was having violent nightmares and would wake up in tears – completely frightened. Paranoid. Broken.

When I couldn’t take it anymore, I called a man I knew from when we were in our early teens. I will address him as JM. JM was of far greater intelligence than J and had his life together for the most part.

JM informed me that he was on a break with his own girlfriend. We even entertained the thought that perhaps we were with the wrong people. I mean there must have been a reason why we kept crossing each other’s paths.

We kissed but seconds after my lips touched his, I became so overwhelmed with guilt. That wasn’t who I was. I wished so badly to be able to follow through with it but I couldn’t.

It didn’t matter anyway. The confession didn’t actually affect J. He was more just riled up, threatening JM that he’s going to kill him and all that ridiculous, immature nonsense.

As the days, weeks and months passed, J eventually fell back into his old routines of disappearing for hours on end, lying and feeding me bullshit excuses. This caused fights to erupt intensely and frequently.

The stress was too much for me to bear. My performance at work dropped severely hence, keeping me on board didn’t make much sense to the new manager. I lost my job; yet another blow to my confidence. I was at an all time low.

J, on the other hand, still felt no pressure to secure a job even though we were officially living off of my severance pay. He only hustled when all of my resources were almost drained and was able to secure a position within an electronics retail store.

This seemed to be a boost for his ego. After four and a half years of me financially providing for the both of us, suddenly, I had no income and he felt all high and mighty working retail. He claimed his earnings as his money and that he should be able to enjoy his money however he wanted like going out with his friends to play jitz. I loathed him.

Our arguments worsened and he began laying his hands on me. It started slow – nothing that frightened me too much. At first, he only restrained me in the heat of a fight. It progressed to him throwing punches at my legs, where he knew no one would see bruises because I would wear pants. The only mark I currently have on my body was from when he dug his nails into my left arm after I caught him in a lie. It was to stop me from asking further questions about his whereabouts. Apparently, four and a half years into a relationship and I wasn’t entitled to know where he’s going to disappear to.

The worst of it all was when my sister called me on the phone to report something she had heard from her then-friend’s then-girlfriend. Apparently, J had been using the car I leased prior to losing my job (he co-signed) to drive young teenage girls (at least seven years his junior) around. J grabbed the phone from me and yelled, “Mind your own business!!!” to which, my sister responded, “My sister IS my business, bitch!!”

FIGHT.

He threw me on the bed, straddled me, strangled me with his two hands and elbowed me in the head multiple times. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t see. My ears were ringing. I actually thought I would die. I didn’t even yell in pain. Everything went black. I was waiting for it to stay black.

He stopped. I guess he realized I wasn’t exactly capable of physically fighting back. He was much stronger than me.

I couldn’t tell anyone. They’d just call me stupid – something I already knew I was being. I didn’t need anyone else to tell me that.

Sometimes I would pack my things ready to get the fuck out of there only to drown in tears and put everything back. It was pathetic. I was pathetic…. weak. The only person I hated more than J was me for being so goddamn pathetic.

Finally, we had one last fight in the car. He ended it. I begged him not to because I was so far gone in the brain. He dropped me off at my parents’ place. My brother opened the door. I locked myself in the bathroom, sat on the floor and cried. My Dad made me come out and he took me into their room. I was waiting for the “I told you so” but they just comforted me. Of course, it wasn’t without my Mom cursing his name and praying to God she never sees him face to face ever again.

It was over… it was really over.

Chapter 1: The Boy in High School

I was fourteen.

I was not at all excited for my first day of high school because we had just moved to Scarborough and I didn’t know a single soul at Pope John Paul II. It really didn’t help my nerves when my Mother made me wear my kilt all the way down to my knees and my tie all the way up to my neck. She totally assured me that that was how all the kids wore their uniforms.

Mama lied.

Random Girl on stairs: “Aaww, look at the little niner. Her kilt’s so long.”

Me: Heart beating fast wishing I were invisible. Walk faster legs! For the love of God walk faster!

My memories of my time at PJPII are very few and most are just bits and pieces. An event I do recall clearly was our grade nine orientation in the gym; it was where I met one of my dearest friends. She made me feel less scared and alone when she introduced herself to me: “Hi, I’m Ashley.”

There was also a time when I found myself standing in the middle of the hall, staring at my schedule and not knowing where the hell my next class was. Two sisters (twins), Trisha and Keisha, called me over (probably because they saw my panic-stricken face) and asked if I needed help. This memory has stuck with me since because of the small kindness they showed me.

I eventually became more comfortable in my new environment. I got to know the school’s layout, which of my friends had the same lunch period and that the school’s cafeteria sold delicious poutines at lunch for only $1.50 (or was it a $1.00?)! I even convinced my parents to let me hem my kilt so I didn’t look like such a nun. My classmates also taught me the “proper way” to tie my tie (not proper at all) and that rolling up my kilt in addition to the hem would make it look better. I even had fun with the “kilt pin code” thing with everyone else. Depending on the way it’s positioned, a girl is either single, in a relationship or a lesbian.

The things I thought were cool in high school make me want to slap myself.

Now, I really can’t pinpoint when and where I first saw him; my memory plays games with me. I just remember it was always in the hallways. I had other crushes like any young girl would but the butterflies in my tummy were more active and embarrassingly excited when I saw this boy.

I don’t even know how I found out his name. I want to say one of my friends who knew of my crush told me or I purposely sent Ashley on a mission to investigate for me. However it played out, his name would end up being the first I looked for in the yearbook at the end of the year.

John Castillo.

Now, this boy would not know of my existence just yet because not only were my friends sworn to secrecy but I would stop dead in my tracks and walk in the opposite direction when I did see him around.

I avoided the biggest crush of my high school days like he was an incurable disease.

My crush, however, significantly dissolved in the middle of my second year of high school when my girlfriends reported back that he was “checking” with another girl in my grade followed by my seeing him with her.

The terms we thought were cool in high school make me want to drop a sledgehammer on my toe.

The news was like acid rain annihilating the butterflies in my tummy. Ohh vay, I says. How unfortunate. Right then and there, I decided to divert all of my attention to my other crushes. “Hmph! I’ll show you boy who has no idea I exist! I’m gonna crush on these other boys so hard that you’re going to smell it from a mile away.”

I was fourteen. My logic made no sense.

I left PJPII at the end of my second year to move to Markham and for seven years, this boy would not at all cross my mind.

When I think about how clueless my fourteen-year-old self was of what God had planned, I simply smile and shake my head in utter amazement.