Ghosts Bring Ephiphanies, Vampires Are Real

I've had the feeling of haunting lately. So, I lied and had to write more. I don't know why I say I won't write, when it's obvious I will.

I don't seem to be able to bury my dead very well, the ground is either too rocky or soft. I've been wondering why, given how awesome our show is, Dusk, why I've had an increasingly hard time dealing with Twilight. I've been more and more agitated by the films, by the tropes. I've been writing about it too much, I realize. I'm moved, obviously, which is never a bad thing, but it's taken some thinking to realize why.

I was in love once, in love with that kind of Bella intensity. My first real lust, the first love where sex and pleasure and passion combined into a intense tube of physical dynamite that nearly killed me when its fuse finally burned down. Dramatic, much? Yes.

He was tall. And slender. He was, at the time and heck, even still, one of the most beautiful men I'd ever met. He was arty and a little pretentious, he was a writer of course. He was a beat off the music in a lot of ways. I wanted him the moment I saw him. I mean I wanted him. Wanted him like nothing I'd ever wanted.

Somehow I got him. I'm not sure how that happened. I was not his match that is for certain. What I lacked in beauty and hipster appeal, I suppose I made up for in persistance.

He became, very quickly, the perfect boyfriend. Attentive, verbal, romantic, silly. And though I wasn't a virgin at the time, this was the threshold relationship, sexually, that let me see what all the fuss was about. I had never felt anything like it. It was, just like the books said, exquisite. Addictive. I would have done anything he asked. I did. I was shameless and lost in passion. I was high. He was like an angel, or so I thought at the time.

As the months wore on, we talked about moving in together. We talked about vacations, we talked about his family. I met his family and stayed with them. He seduced me with everything. And then suddenly, he was distant. He was hard to reach (and we only had regular phones in that day remember). I saw him on campus with another girl.

I, no fool, inquired about this. It was nothing, he assured me. He was stressed, he said. She was in a class with him.

He made love to me and we made plans for my birthday. We looked into vacationing on the coast and were close to buying tickets.

He came over one night. He looked strange. His face had no emotion and he said, robotically that he simply didn't love me. He didn't love me. I wailed. I think I actually might have begged like a child. He didn't love me. He just kept saying it.

He walked out.

The next three weeks were like, I imagine probably erroneously, withdrawal. No sleep, sweats, nausea, pain. He'd call me on Tuesdays and try to see me, try to get me to sleep with him which I thankfully was not foolish enough to do, and by Sunday he didn't love me again. This went on and on until I was broken.

I went to his apartment to finally end things and found him, naked and panting, in bed with the girl. The girl. Her. Of course. He stared at me, a light smile on his face. I told her in as still a voice I could muster, my righteous last words. "He lied to me, he cheated on me. And he'll do the same to you."

I never spoke to him again.

I was pretty fucked up for a full year after that. I moved to Seattle and not but six months into my stay there, at a time when I had begun to think of him with a touch more forgiveness, I got a call that he'd killed himself.

He threw himself into a deep quarry. He had leapt to his death like the poet he thought he was, wrecking his beautiful body on the rocks. He left notes and notes, including one saying, "Tell Julie, I did love her." He got the last word after all, didn't he.

I was pretty fucked up for a full year after that, too. I've understood more and more that the entire relationship was an illusion. That he probably was suffering from depression and a personality disorder and that his great skill was being who everyone else wanted him to be. He was the perfect lover until he just couldn't be anymore. He hurt a lot of people, but he was the one aching, without a core. I was fooled because I was young and inexperienced, but the illusion, well I bought it hook line and sinker. It was real for me, only for me to find out it wasn't real at all. Or maybe it was. I'll never ever know if he loved me or not. If any of the things he said, the ways he made me feel were real for him.

I dream about him sometimes. Mostly, in the dreams he's coming to say goodbye. We hug and he's so entirely beautiful that I can't help forgiving him. He's remorseful and he walks off and disappers and I feel lighter. He's been lingering around lately, trying to get my attention, trying to remind me of mistakes I've made.

I realize that I was only 21 when the relationship occurred. By most people's standards, hell even my own, that's just...what, puppy love? But it really altered how I managed all my relationships. As in, I still have the deepest longings for "Romance" but I don't often allow it, unless I have the most precise trust in the person I am with, perhaps because I still don't truly trust myself. As in, I do not abide relational lies in myself or others.

As in, I have a problem with movies like Twilight. Maybe that's because I just finally realized I've actually had a relationship with a vampire, and it really didn't turn out so well. I'm surprised, in a way, that I was able to let my husband into my life when he showed up, full of light and love and the most resolute kindness. And a depth of sexual maturity that floored me and still does. Neither angel nor vampire, but fully human and ready and willing to grow with me, beside me, support and confront me, despite how hard times might become, despite how easy things might seem. I'm very happy I was able to find him and even more thankful that I posessed the wisdom and courage to step up and take his hand for life.

I don't believe that passion is worth anything unless there is honesty and intimacy to go with it. It's cotton candy laced with arsenic, otherwise. Thing is, no one would by tickets to see a movie about a healthy meal. Maturity doesn't make money in Hollywood.

I feel better now, having figured some of this out, and in a way, I'm thankful to my ghost. His feelings, however he felt about me, aren't the issue. I loved him, fully and with abandon, and that's what matters. I should trust myself more. I'm capable of a great deal.


  1. There is such beauty with the sadness in this post.

    You should trust yourself more. Love is, sometimes, all we have.


  2. Wow...beautifully and evocatively said. I have a story that is almost identical and also was followed by the discovery of a real and true partner who taught me how to really love as an equal partner. I think this is one of those experiences that is hard to put to learn so much about yourself and love and expectations, but at such a price. If you had it to do over, would you avoid the pain but forgo that knowledge, or was the knowledge of self gained worth the price? Very hard to say...and it does haunt.

  3. Indeed, you should.

    Beautiful, as always.

  4. T_T

    Thank you for writing this for me to read.


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