#i drew this high and sleep deprived at like. 5am and then i passed out

[domobo]

Hi

[thejkrschild-blog]

“Driven By the Heart”

Originally, I thought it fitting to call it: The Married Man. But I didn’t. I didn’t name this story, my story, The Married Man because that insinuates his role in the tale as dominate. This story isn’t about him. It’s about me: The Other Woman.

So often these love triangles follow the same, predictable pattern. There’s the cheater, the guiltless victim, and the vile temptress. Guess who typically bares the majority of the blame? Yes, of course the cheater holds some responsibility, but the cheater and the victim are always portrayed as humans. This makes it easier to forgive the cheater, for he is only human and incapable of perfection. But that vile temptress, if it wasn’t for that third party, we wouldn’t be in this mess. The mistress finds herself a separate entity, an object, an idea in some far off land. Therefore, placing blame on her and her alone, tends to serve as the diabolical scapegoat. To resolve the guilt, she is generally painted as a despicable human being. Her sole purpose is destroying relationships, marriages, and families. From this the real pleasure arouses and the poor cheater merely fell victim to her devilish ways. With this scenario in mind, the couple finds a way to exorcise the vile of the affair and potentially mend their sacred bond. It was just a bad dream, a distant memory. No one is to hear of it again. Until now.

I have been the “other women.” While I never condone my actions sprawled throughout this tale, I feel a fair representation of this third party deserves recognition. Like most committed regrets, it was driven by the heart.

I could spend the next several pages rambling with detail in each and every interaction as it rings clear and true in my memory. Each passing flirtation accompanied by flushed cheeks and racing hearts, before we know it, we’d have a novel. While these feelings hold power in my individual experience, I find infatuation a human condition and therefore, pointless to detail what everyone knows. Think school girl crush. Though I admit, there are a few fundamentals deserving recognition for this particular tale.

When we began, I was 19 and he was in his early 30’s. A full time student, I required a job that would not interfere with my studies. I applied for an overnight position. This man was my boss. My boss was married with his first born on the way. This was unbeknownst to me at the time.

While my initial attraction sparked the during the interview process, it’s hard to say when the affair officially begun. I suppose with a series of text messages, one weekend, when I was off. In fact, I spent the weekend helping my brother move into his apartment. I couldn’t decipher whether or not he was just a young boss forging genuine relationships with his staff, or if something dubious lay behind the obvious unprofessionalism. Before skepticism set in, my mind justified the conversation as the former, and continued development into a mistake.  

A few days later I was back at post: 8PM to 4AM by myself, and he was to relieve me at the end of the shift. Often I chose to stay around a little longer. Again, originally this was an innocent act of a hard working employee. I constantly made sure I communicated everything I felt necessary and didn’t leave until I felt everything was under control. However, after the slightly scandalous conversation of the previous weekend, there grew a tension between us.

We both went to the back room; me to collect my belongings, him to gather supplies for the shift.

There was a moment.

In the darkness there was a tense silence, and an extreme heat resonating between the intimate space of our bodies. And he looked at me. Somehow, in the dark, his eyes cut through the blackness and lit my soul afire. It’s that look when you’re 13 and you like this boy, but have never been kissed. You think it’s going to happen, you want it to happen, but you are nervous. You don’t know what to do.

But I was not a child and therefore, knew exactly what to do: I ran.

“See ya tomorrow!” Breathlessly I scurried out from underneath his presence.

If only I kept running.

It was almost 5AM by the time I reached my apartment. I needed sleep; school started at 9AM.  I checked my phone, no surprise he texted me.

“I was so close to grabbing you and kissing you.” My heart raced. Moral dilemma gashed my soul into two painfully divided pieces. One side lusting after the adventure and affection of this man and the ethically sound side sat as two peaks polarized by a vast valley of uncertainty.

“I know. It’s a good thing I ran away.” I kept it safe. Resisting temptation seemed the only way to avoid the inevitable. My head spinning with exhaustion, I silenced my phone and put my head to the pillow. It wouldn’t happen again.

By this time, through a series of casual conversing encounters, I learned about the wife, the baby, and the marriage woes. Seeing as I’ve never been a mother, or an expecting mother, I could not precisely assess the root of her emotions. But I could make assumptions. They married young, too young to know any better, I suppose. This man held some sexually deviant characteristics, and these traits were buried deep in his own self-consciousness. So she married him, unaware of his needs, desires, and degree of hunger. When this heavy fact came to light, the discrepancy in each other’s preferences caused a turbulent ride to pregnancy. Now that pregnancy was upon them, the sexuality component diminished even more. Instead of practicing self-control, he chose to appease his appetite elsewhere.

He confided in me intimate details from his past and I talked him through his thoughts. Hearing about the marriage problems, and a developing interest in his well-being, I honestly wanted to help. I remember a few particular times offering advice in igniting some magic back into their lives.

He actually took my advice. I guess that’s where my selfishness set in. I felt important. I served a purpose, no matter how menial. I meant something to someone. My infatuation was stronger than I.

We kissed.

He was irresistibly intriguing, the way he would saunter into the store every morning, at least 10 minutes late. Jet black hair, constantly disheveled—evidence he slept late and rushed out the door. His shoulders slumped heavy with the weight of his own problems. He was broken. I was charmed. My heart warmed every time our eyes met, and through his sadness he managed a smile. I was selfish, I rationalized to myself, “If it wasn’t me, it would have been someone else. At least I can make sure he’s safe and look out for his well-being.”

A ridiculously arrogant sentiment from a teenager.  

I looked forward to work every night now. I knew each isolated, chore filled night, lead to an infectious connection the next morning.  As the burning orange greeted the deep indigo for a lilac horizon, our time together grew short. Soon, the next shift began. Avoiding suspicion amongst coworkers, my presence always expired before the next crew manifested. Our ever-expanding mornings together seem nothing more than a surreal fantasy now. This was the last time I remember prolonged, utter bliss. That’s the problem with intoxication: with every high comes a painful low.

Guilt along with lack of sleep broke me. The night before spring break I passed out, forcing a collision between my cheek and bathroom counter. For my personal health, I decided to quit. Painfully, I presented my feelings and reasons behind resignation. I planned to run away from it all and spend spring break in Texas with my parents. If only that was the end of this nightmarish wonderland. He wouldn’t let me go, he asked me to come back to the store and talk. Of course, my resistance (or lack thereof) reputation proved itself true, and I met him.  

After all this, I returned to him. To gaze at his face in the sunlight, to witness that sparkling warmth of his eyes for the very last time.

His shift had finished and he took me away from the store front, again to avoid suspicion. I sat slumped on the curb of the parking lot; defeat enveloped my whole reality. He squatted down, meeting at eye level. Even still, after it all, he stole my breath.

“Don’t go.” He implored so softly. He scooted closer, as if to fill the empty space left by the silence.

“We need you here. You do an amazing job.” His voice paralleled the strengthening degree of his persuasion.

Again, silence.

Sighing, he dropped his head as if there was a contagious aspect of my defeat.

“I need you.” To this, I began to tear up. Sleep deprivation has a way of making one weak in every situation.

“I want my mom.” Was all I could say in return and this was the truest of sentiments I expressed in a concerning amount of time. Secretly dating a man in his 30’s, while still technically a teenager, tends to age a person. In his eyes, I was an adult. More than the legal sense, but in the soul sense. I like to think I served more than a sexual thrill to him, but an actual companion. A person concerned for his welfare, and him mine. Someone offering understanding in a way he never before accepted.

“Shit” he muttered with exasperation and running his fingers through his mess of a head, “I forget how young you are.” He scooted me over and placed himself on the curb. I stared at the blistering asphalt. I forgotten how everything looked during the day. It felt completely alien, which only further my desire to extinguish the conversation.

“How about this,” he interrupted my examination. Curiosity brought my eyes to his gaze, “You take a little break. Go see your parents. Come back, refreshed and we’ll fix all of this. I just can’t lose you.”  My heart melted in his seemingly obvious truth. Though overdramatic, I believed his enticing plea.

This, of course, was not the truth. Only a bold-faced lie could manifest from such a fantastic fairy tale. He may have not recognized the malicious inevitable, and blindness overwhelmed me. Thoughts of visiting my family drew focus from the irresistible immorality.

Only hours pass before I boarded the plane, texting my anxious mother of my traveling status. With brief “I love yous” and “Can’t wait to see yous” from both the parents, I set my phone to airplane mode.

There was peace—a  relieving sense of invincibility high amongst the clouds. No communication with anyone on the ground, I found freedom to think and feel and examine without regard or priority to anyone but myself. I should have hidden in the starlight forever.

A sick irony stirred on the ground. Once gravity got the best of me, I immersed myself in the chaos of airport pick-up. Desperately searching for the comfort of my parents, I simultaneously struggled for my luggage. My tired and aching body ran on adrenaline. The tank was almost empty. Only the face of my parents granted a surge of energy as I approached the couple. Once settled, my parents suggested an outing to iHop, considering the late hour and lack of options. On the way to the magnificence of their house, we stopped.

Entering the establishment, my phone buzzes.

I read it.

The world stops.

“My wife found our texts while I was sleeping. She’s really upset this time. She’s never going to let me see the baby. IDK what to do, I feel like driving off a cliff.”  

Sitting in a diner booth, the insane ride finally came to its predicted crash and burn ending. I just never assumed it would all end in a diner, hours away from home. I take note of the world as I knew it. And I didn’t know much anymore. But I did know I was in Texas, in a diner, in the middle of the night. A twisted paradox arose from the discrepancy between my inner chaos and they chaos surely happening at home against the beautiful simplicity of the current setting. I gratefully examined the beaming faces of my excited parents. The restaurant glowed with a serene warmth as customers quietly enjoyed their comfort food and whispered amongst themselves. Even the harsh cold of that night’s twilight seemed miles away once a steaming cup of mocha found its way in front of me. I concealed the heart-wrenching effect of that written message. Smiling and conversing with my parents pleasantly, I ached from a depth within I never knew existed. The pain resonated from every joint, grappling my chest and poisoning my stomach. I hurt because I knew this was the end. But it was more than that. I hurt for him. A man I honestly loved currently enduring an extreme crisis causing panic, mayhem, and of course, pain. I longed to offer aid. But how can you help the sick, when you’re the disease?

I responded after my head ceased the sickly spinning.

“It’s going to be OK. Don’t do anything until I get back. Just wait for me.”

That’s all I could offer. The next morning, however, I was greeted by this man’s message, asking me to quit. I did as requested. I emailed the other boss, spelling out a bogus story of my immediate resignation. Something along the lines of “better for my mental health.” Fortunately, I was met with understanding and condolences.

It was over. Just like that, an infatuation grew into a love and died a lone soul. I was alone, hundreds of miles away, and there was nothing I could do about it. Words simply demean the painful concoction of the next few days. I never spoke to him again. I guess the worst part of being cut off is the waiting. That damn little sparkle of hope that things will mend. You’ll get a message. He’ll want you back. So you wait awhile for a miracle to happen.

And it just doesn’t.

You transition from the hopeful to the realistic. Reality brings home your rational side and you understand that the miracle won’t happen. It still hurts though. What was once in your grasp is nothing more than a fantasy. You wonder how you’re going to live with yourself? How are you going to heal from a situation that argues you deserve the pain?

I don’t condone my actions. I believe I am forever bound to shame. I am not looking for justification, validation, nor pity. I just hope this serves people. Either as a cautionary tale, or an understanding of those who feel alone and ashamed. I understand you are hurting. I understand you have been shattered by yours or someone else’s actions. That’s the problem when we disregard realistic repercussions, especially when our actions are driven by the heart.