When asked how many times I’ve been married, my usual response is…”I had a few free weekends…and the answer is 5.”  5 times before I turned 40.  My first marriage…that was the best one…the only one…really.  We met when I was 16.  It’s funny how some memories are like paintings on a wall.  They’re vivid in every detail.  I remember the house, how it looked, who was there, the first introduction…as if I’m 16 again.  Oh…we were so in love.  The hair stood up on my neck when Thomas kissed me, when he held my hand…he would be soooo excited to see me, as would I to see him.  We made out in his old ’54 Chevy and rode for miles on his Yamaha 650.  I would drape myself over the sissy bar and fall asleep on long rides.  We would hike and camp and go rock climbing.  We would listen to music…that good ol’ rock ‘n roll…and smoke dope and drink Crown Royal and play backgammon into the wee hours of the morning.

The tears tumble down my cheeks at the remembrance of it all…and how it all went south so badly.  It had nothing to do with him…he was wonderful.  It had everything to do with my dysfunctional upbringing…the secrets that I harbored…the feeling that I didn’t deserve him and all that love.  I made it all go bad.  I needed so much help back then, but I just didn’t know it.  I had repressed so much that I didn’t even know the reason for the things I did.  I left him and then tried to get him back, but he wouldn’t have me…too much hurt had I caused him.  I left him and began a life of promiscuity and addiction and the lowest self worth I would ever have.

To this day I miss him…but now…we are, at least friends.  That will have to be good enough for this lifetime.