I’m not one to look back…to dwell…to think much about the past. Well, except when I do.
I’ve got a bit of an obsessive personality. When I sink my teeth into something, I gnaw on it for a long time – What did that look mean? Why did he/she use that tone? What did I do wrong? Why did I do that?
But once I let something go, it’s gone. I don’t look back.
I tend to remember the highlights of an experience – good and bad. I can remember the worst details and the best. But the mundane vanishes. The little details that tell the full story disappear into the ether.
When I’m done with a moment in life, I’m done. I feel horrible even admitting that.
I can remember vague details about the first time I had sex – the weird red hue in the room thanks to a red light bulb, pink sheets, and white walls (not my room, for the record). I remember the scrape of the carpet on my back and the awkward thrusting. I remember blonde hair. That’s all. I don’t remember his name. I don’t remember what we did after. Once it was done, and I dealt with the mental and emotional aftermath of losing my virginity in a drunken haze at age 18, I didn’t think much about it again.
I remember my first kiss. I even remember his name – Raymond. I was madly in love with that boy – my first love at 13, he 15. I can still feel the tremors in my stomach when his fingers moved across my torso to my breast. I can remember the hitch in my throat as his tongue swept across my lips. I even remember where he moved to just a few months after that kiss. I don’t remember a single conversation we ever had. I don’t remember his likes, dislikes, even his last name. It took me a while to get over the loss of him, but once I did, I moved forward, without looking back again.
My first bad boy was 21 to my 16. My father was outraged – as he should have been. Had I been braver, I would have given him anything he wanted. I remember a long trench coat, his name, and ice blue eyes. I thought he was beautiful. He introduced me to the concept of an ice cube on bare skin. The first time I saw porn, I was in his bedroom – with my boyfriend who happened to be his best friend. I’d forgotten that until just now.
The first time I experienced handcuffs I was a tender 18 and he was 30+. I don’t remember his name. I don’t remember anything but his black Jeep and his moustache. I remember feeling the world spinning out of control when I jumped in his Jeep after work one day. He took me to his apartment/cabin in what felt like the most remote part of town. I remember wondering what the hell I was doing and if I had gone insane. I remember the handcuffs around my wrist and the hook in the ceiling. I remember the feeling of powerlessness as I hung in the position, my ass jutting back. I don’t remember how he touched me – I know we didn’t have sex. I don’t even remember leaving or what happened after. When he returned me to my car a few hours later, I never really thought about him again. (In writing this post, I was reminded of the handcuffs).
I remember a red-haired boy, best friends with another boyfriend of mine. I remember the longest, thickest cock I’d seen until then and even now. He fucked me doggy style in my white, four-poster bed while my parents were at work. I remember feeling like I was going to come undone and overwhelming guilt – I’d never cheated on anyone before, and certainly not with someone’s best friend. I was a dumb 18 year old girl. I remember him, I remember his cock. I often forget the guilt. I even remember the obsession with wanting him – and dealing with his refusal because he had his own share of guilt to deal with.
Twelve years of a relationship with the man who fathered my children has been wiped from my consciousness. I only pull out details as needed – to aid in figuring out my children’s personalities, to tell the story of stupidity (mine and his), to remember what I never want to go through again. But otherwise, I don’t look back. Everything feels so good now that it’s hard to remember there was a time when it was different. I know, intellectually, that I was stressed, exhausted, worn to a nub of my actual self. I know that I worried constantly, that I worked constantly, that I made do with less. I know it, but I don’t really think much about it. I’ve moved on. I’m living in the here and now.
I know I’m not sentimental. Birthday cards and children’s drawings invariably end up in the trash after a few weeks. I don’t dry and save flowers. I don’t remember when I was given this piece of jewelry or that gift. I worry that my lack of feeling will bleed into my relationship with John Brownstone. And then I remember that I still carry the first card from the first flowers he ever sent to me in one of my many purses. Every time I use that purse, I find it, pull it out, read it, smile, and put it right back inside the little pocket where it lives.
I’m not the type to look back. I’m not an overly sentimental person. Or maybe it’s because I was simply never given a reason to be that way…until now.
Welcome to Wicked Wednesday! This week’s prompt was on looking back. What I’ve realized, in writing this, is that I don’t look back when it comes to sexual relationships. I dwell in the moment, sure, re-living mistakes and memories, but once I move on, that’s it, I’m done. They are a reference point in my life only. Sometimes I worry about my lack of sentimentality and ability to look back, and sometimes I think it’s probably part of my protective armor.