I Don't Know How To Remember You

I don’t know how to remember you now. When I talk about you, it’s usually to illustrate how doomed my life would be if we’d stayed together. But every now and then, a good memory slips through and makes me reconsider.

Of course, I’d be doomed if we’d stayed together. We’d both be. But it wasn’t all bad. Not even close.

I did love you. I just don’t remember how that feels.

You were the high school romance I had a couple years too late. Our eyes locked in CEGEP orientation, and something drew me to you. Some sort of magnetism. I didn’t consider that magnetism only occurs in opposing forces.

I made space for you in subtle ways. I sat next to an empty seat in hopes that you would choose it. I paced myself in the hallway so our steps would fall in line. You were lost in conversation with someone else, so I gave up and went home. But I thought of your blue eyes on the metro ride.

I ran into you frequently once the semester started. Our eyes always caught each other in the hallways. After a couple seconds I would look away, afraid of seeming too forward. I’d still feel your gaze burning the back of my head.

Even after you said hello, after we started hanging out every day, I told myself the interest I saw in your eyes was just a reflection of what I wanted.

I remember our first kiss vividly; I suppose I will until I die. It’s an odd thing to have lodged in my mind. Over time I’ve become a bit flexible about the accuracy of the details. If I try to picture it, I see us from above. Everything has a blue tint.

I dropped acid with my friend Gab a couple days later. We bummed around a shopping mall, using everything from donuts to high heeled shoes as symbolism for intrinsic beauty and eternal love. You dominated my mind that day. I revisited our night together through visions my love pouring into you from my lips.

“I’m going to fall in love with this boy,” I told Gab.

“Yes! Do it! Love is the most beautiful thing.”

How much of my life is dictated by drug-fueled epiphanies?

You never took drugs, not even alcohol. You weren’t big on breaking the rules. Caution was one of your most dominant features, and you got anxious when life diverted from your plans.

I, on the other hand, was willing to risk nearly anything for a bit of fun and a good story.

It was the mundane things about you that terrified me the most. Your life was steady. I felt like my own experience took up too much space.

You were an anchor when I needed a rudder.

But you were there, and I needed something.

I switched from all-night excursions through the city’s underbelly to evenings watching movies on your couch. We walked around the same few blocks and talked about school. I watched you play video games. We ate dinner with your parents, where I tried to awkwardly skirt around any conversations about my upbringing, beliefs, or hopes for the future.

You never asked me to change for you, but I couldn’t fit into your life as I was.

You started drinking and smoking on the rare occasion. Sometimes you’d spend time with my friends or join me on directionless adventures. Those are my favourite memories of our relationship. The ones where I was myself.

You reverted back to your old habits as soon as we broke up, and I created new ones. I ate copious amounts of nuts to make up for the ones I’d missed out on because your allergy, and went out with the shameless intention to party. I smoked weed and listened to classic rock and read all the pretentious literature from hidden corners of the world.

I wonder if you smoke now. You might, now that it’s legal.

I wonder how much you’ve changed.

I liked the feeling that I was shaking up your life. I saw myself as the Summer to your Tom, the Clementine to your Joel. It felt like a good thing. For some reason, I didn’t believe our relationship would end in heartache.

When we went to see Scott Pilgrim together, I was wearing the same turquoise sweater as Ramona Flowers. I took it as a sign that our love story would reach epic proportions. The girl from his dreams.

I was a bit offended when you told me you preferred Knives Chao.

I remember the first time you told me you loved me. We were making out by the lockers, two weeks into our relationship.

I pulled away.

“I’m sorry. Was that too soon?”

It was, but I didn’t want to have that conversation. Who was I to set time limits on love?

“Of course not. I love you, too.”

I knew I would eventually. It wasn’t a lie, just unsynchronised timing.

I remember the first time you saw me cry. You were supposed to come over, and I messaged you saying not to because I was too sad.

You called me. “What’s the matter?”

I tried to choke back my tears. “Nothing’s the matter. It’s just chaos in my head,” I sniffed, hoping that wouldn’t be enough to scare you away.

“I still want to see you. Even if you’re sad.”

“I can’t promise to be fun.”

“That’s okay.”

You came over and held me in your arms when all I could do was relentlessly sob. You told me I was beautiful even though I felt like a mess. You kissed me goodbye and said you’d see me the next day. And you did.

You’d seen me cry and hadn’t bailed. I think that’s when I started to really love you.

A few months later I was having another breakdown, this time on my own. I pounded my pillow at the thought of the darkness I was dragging you into. It just felt like too much. There were too many feelings building up inside of me, and they needed to be released.

I scribbled down a poem about a woman walking into the sea to regain her solitude. It put me at peace long enough to fall asleep, but I wondered what that meant for us.

You came over the next day. Summer was almost over; we’d be heading back to school soon. If our relationship spanned two semesters, you’d be a constant part of my life. I didn’t know if I wanted that.

But the sun reflected off your eyes and in them, I saw everything I wanted. I kissed you, and to you it must have felt ordinary, but I knew I was committing myself to the type of love that could fuck me up.

I don’t trust blue eyes anymore. They’re like mirrors, reflecting what you want to see.

I wonder what you saw in mine.

I don’t know how to remember you now, a decade later. Do I remember lying in the park once you’d figured out that trees and sunshine were a sure guarantee of my well-being? Do I remember the smile on your face when I bought you glow-in-the-dark stars to make up for the ones you’d never had as a child? Do I remember the way you strummed your guitar while I lay on your bed, feeling like maybe music could bridge the distance between us?

Or do I remember how we argued before I went to visit my male friends, because you couldn’t trust other men around me? How you would spoon me and I would silently cry because despite our physical proximity I felt hopelessly alone? Do I remember how every conversation about the future turned into a “compromise” in which I agreed to sink even deeper into your life?

You wanted to live in the same suburbs you’d grown up in and work as a teacher until you retired. I struggled to see how I fit in that.

But I had nothing of my own to offer, and love is sacrifice. As long as you were there, I’d be fine.

Once I got used to your company, I became much worse at being alone. You distracted me from my thoughts. On my own I felt myself spiral, the demon voices in my head taking full control. I didn’t know what to do when you weren’t there to quiet them.

I didn’t sleep or eat properly for the duration of our relationship, trying to work long hours and keep living costs low. I was overworked and stressed about school and finances and my mental health was plummeting, but if you loved me I could pretend none of that mattered, so I needed you to love me.

That wasn’t fair to you.

When I talk about you now, I mostly talk about the ways in which we didn’t fit. How we had next to nothing in common. How most of our conversations about important issues ended in disagreements, so we stuck to banalities. Neither of us were fighters.

But our bodies fit together when we lay side by side. Our faces fit into each other’s shoulders when we needed comfort. And we made space for the ways in which we were different.

That has to be worth something.

On New Year’s Eve, after all the guests at your party had gone to sleep, we lay together in your twin bed planning a trip to Europe for when you finished CEGEP. It was my dream you’d agreed to, and it made me love you so much more. Our legs tangled together, and we spoke in hushed voices. It was the first time the future was so thrilling. I could have it all, true love and high adventure.

Three months later you told me you couldn’t go. I was so angry. It was a week after the deadline for university applications, so I suddenly found myself with nothing to do. I wanted more to life than working a minimum-wage job and waiting around for you.

I wanted to cry and scream, but you felt terrible about hurting me so instead I held you in my arms and kissed you, promising it didn’t matter. I didn’t need to travel. I was happy as long as I had you.

Our relationship changed that day. I never wanted to admit how much I resented you for killing my dream with such disrespect to my own timeline. From that point on, I gave up on participating in our future plans. I figured no matter what I wanted, you would draw the blueprints for our life. The best I could do was be there to help build it.

But I still wanted to be there. And love is sacrifice.

The first time you broke up with me, we sobbed together in your parking lot, holding onto each other like the whole world was shaking. The neighbourhood kids watched curiously from the edge of your driveway, and you yelled at them to mind their own business.

“I’ll never forget you,” you told me. “You opened my eyes to the world.”

You would be the first of a string of men to tell me that, or its equivalents.

I can’t stand hearing it anymore. It never means anything tangible.

The second time you broke up with me, we met by the metro turnstiles. I had a plastic bag with your socks and a couple of books you’d left at my place, just in case it was over (I knew it was over). I’d been waiting over a week for your final decision. I was refreshing my Facebook relationship status daily to make sure you weren’t planning a “secret” break-up.

I vowed to never post my relationship status on social media from then on.

You had nothing good to say this time, no explanation. You simply told me it was over and I shouldn’t talk to you or your friends. I wondered if I’d have anyone to talk to, since over the past two years your life had become mine.

On the way home I threw myself into a snowbank and embraced the bite against my skin. I was tempted to stay there until the cold stopped my heartbeat, but instead got up and walked myself home, where my sister waited in our living room. It was too late for theatricality.

I don’t know how to remember you now. When I talk about you it’s usually with an eye roll and a laugh. Look at how young I was then. How naïve.

I thought love could fix just about anything.

Some days I remember you as a warning, a cumulation of all the opportunities I missed and the boredom I put up with.

But I was a kid, nineteen at the oldest. You were probably exactly the experience I needed. There’s nothing to regret.

Is it rude to remember someone as an experience?

Sometimes I remember you as a montage of young love, grainy and far away, like an old film. For some reason there’s always that same blue tint.

You tried to save me from my mind, and sometimes you came close. I’ll always be thankful for that.

But our love made no sense. And you broke my heart.

“I’m going to Ireland,” I told you. “I need to get away.”

It was the first time I’d seen you after our break up. We ran into each other at the university bar when we were both quite drunk. I stole swigs from your beer as a dramatic show of my anger, until I got tired of the act and asked you to talk outside.

Of course, talking inevitably led to kissing. Old habits die hard.

“Ireland. That’s cool.” You broke away from me and looked up to the city lights above us. “I always thought you’d fit in there.”

“Really?” I’d never thought that myself. I was just going on a whim.

“Yeah. I never wanted to tell you though, because I figured you’d want to go, and I’d get dragged along. I was never really into the whole travel thing.”

I remember that moment vividly; I suppose I will until I die. It was the first time I got excited about a life without you.

“I probably won’t date anyone for a long time,” I said. “It will be hard after you.”

“Yeah. Same.”

You were dating someone new by the following week.

It’s been over eight years since then. How many lifetimes is that?

I apologized to you often after things ended. I wanted to let you know I didn’t hold you accountable for the pain you’d caused me, and that I recognized my accountability in the pain I’d caused you. It probably just came off as obsession. I was a bit obsessed.

I wish I could write to you now, just to find out how you’ve been. What you’ve done with all this extra time. I want to know how you remember me.

I try to remember you with caution and love. None of this can touch me anymore; you’re the specter of a life that terrified me, and a version of myself I’m glad I left behind.

You still exist out there as a living, breathing human. Sometimes I fantasize about running into you and having a normal conversation. In these fantasies you don’t run away or hide from me anymore. Our shared history is distant enough to cause no pain.

I don’t know how to remember you now, and I’m not sure why it matters.