My Story of Love and Low Self Esteem (part 1?)

I was never the pretty girl.

Cute...maybe. Awkward...certainly; more at some times than others. Chubby? No, not really. I had a little chubby phase in my tween years before I magically melted down to 108 lbs in 8th grade and then normalized thereafter. I didn't know how to style my dark, partially curly hair so it was often just a poof (hell, these days I KNOW how to style it, but I just DON'T, so really, how far have I come?).

I guess you could say I was just "meh". Average. I didn't excel in sports. I dabbled in drama. I was the yearbook editor and newspaper staff photographer. I didn't make waves, I didn't shine, I didn't impress. I got good grades, I had [have] great friends. Funny, but not the class clown. Nice though--I was nice. To quote Maeby Funke, "You couldn't pick her out of a line-up of one".

I didn't have my first official boyfriend until the summer before my senior year. Prior to him, there were quite a few guys that I went out with but things never progressed to "official couple" status. I ALWAYS had my heart shattered. I would imagine it had a lot to do with the intensity of my desire to feel wanted and special...it probably came off too strong for a 15/16 year old guy. To me, falling in love and having someone to hug and talk to all night was the Holy Grail. That was just IT; there was nothing else.

The unexpected passing of my dad when I was sixteen made that hole feel more empty and the desire to be loved even bigger. About a year after that, I met Stan* and he immediately began to fill that hole. He thought I was pretty, funny, smart, etc. He acted like I was just the most amazing girl in the world and that there was no one else. If we were being completely honest, I think that was a big part of why I loved him.

With Stan worshiping the ground I walked on, my self esteem blossomed. I no longer had to try so hard, because I had the Holy Grail; my everything. However, I was obviously dealing with some very heavy emotions and grief that I was not quite mature enough to process. This all made my age 18/19 years very interesting. Stan was there all along. He was very sweet and supportive. We definitely didn't fit together (many people and friends noted this), but I loved him anyway. I followed him to tech school and we stayed together 2 1/2 years.

It was my second year of college that I kind of had an identity crisis. I was still with Stan because I didn't know anything else; even though by then we had absolutely nothing in common by that point and just fought all the time. I became very interested in other guys and began to flirt heavily. At one point I broke up with Stan just so that I could explore that new world, but then cowardly went back to my comfort zone. Things really, ruh-lly ended shortly thereafter. After it ended, we probably spoke about ten words to each other since then. The last time I saw him was about a year later in a group of people and he looked at the ground the whole time. I do know that he married a really sweet girl who (from what I gather) is a perfect match for him. So I have no desire to Facebook stalk or selfishly "reach out" and apologize, but if I could, I would say this: Thank you for being so nice and essentially an amazing friend to me for 2 1/2 years while I went through a lot of hidden and unprocessed emotional baggage and pain. Thank you for allowing me to realize that I am lovable when I thought I wasn't. I was just a broken and dysfunctional girl, and I'm sorry for any pain I caused.

Back to the story (...it really is going somewhere, but I fear I may not get there tonight.) For about 2 months after I ended things with Stan,  I had my fair share of partying and craziness (not, like, hard core partying, like small town underage drinking party in a barn). Self esteem, at this point, came in the form of Mike's Hard Cranberry Lemonade and Smirnoff Ice (back when it only came in one flavor) and I certainly was not lacking in either. I joined the cheerleading squad (again...we're talking small town here) and felt like I was living the life. That is,  until I woke up one morning on my former dorm-mate (AKA- guardian angel)'s couch, in her pajamas, unsure of how I got there. She explained how the night unfolded. Thankfully, nothing terrible happened outside of your usual frat party shenanigans, however there was a sneaking suspicion that I may had consumed a beverage that had a "roofy" in it. That is the only time I have ever drank and gotten to the point that I really, truly, still to this day, do not know what happened. I heard a story that they drove me to the ER, but the nurse who checked me out laughed and told them to take me home and let me sleep it off.   I cried and cried many, many tears mixed with intense relief, horror, and shame. This was not the life I had wanted.