The Mysterious M Saga (TM pending) is my horrifying way of simplifying what was my “first love”. A first love experience that ended with the Iraq “war”, murder, my inability to pronounce rally and an unfortunate kitty passing away.
I did however receive a pair of panties from all this, which I hold nostalgically to this day. Eventually I plan on laminating and framing them, but we’re getting ahead of ourselves here.
Early 2005 MODBLOG (an early poineer in the personal blogging sphere) was doing exceptionally well, I was doing a little less well, considering it was my final year in school and I was under contract that if I got less than a certain grade I would be demoted a year. Not an empty threat either, as a friend under the same contract fell to its ills while I scraped through by studying myself to sleep each evening.
But Modblog! We were talking modblog weren’t we? Modblog was fantastic. Better than WP to this day, though its creators may disagree. I was a part of the community for several years before it died, and made an admin just as it did. Irony is not my friend.
Modblog had a intermingling community and it was very very easy to find someone’s blog, and thus: Info about them. Such it was that one night I randomly recieved an email saying “How cute I was”. We emailed, we im’d, we internet called, we grew attached before we knew it. She lived/lives in San Francisco, but “well-off” enough that a plane ticket either way was pocket-change. We made plans to meet in November of that year, as my exams ended and as she was on leave for Thanksgiving (She had volunteered as a nurse in Iraq).
She never arrived.
The main reason I choose to leave the greater (and bloodier) part of this tale untold is out of a very very warped sense of respect. Indeed I still respect the privacy of someone who quite literally tore my soul asunder over a period of three years. Three extremely naive and hopeful years on my part.
Of course there were many times she told me “My words are yours”, but then there were times I was yelled at for telling someone she didn’t know that she…………..had a cold. She had some good reasons for this though, an ex-boyfriend had posted “pictures” of her online, violating her trust. Pictures I still randomly see to this day. I have my own collection mind you, mostly of recorded voice calls. But I’ve password protected that DVD with a password even I don’t know, for my own good.
Still, I can indeed go into some details.
Why didn’t she arrive? I had heard nothing. Until late December I sat every day hoping for an IM, and every day I was disapointed.
Eventually she spoke, she wouldn’t tell me what happened, only that I “shouldn’t wait for her anymore” and “it’s not my fault”. You, my dear reader, can understand how difficult it is to accept someone leaving you for a reason even they cannot dare say.
I was stubborn. I said I wouldn’t give up. I would wait. It took 6 months to find out the truth, but what hurt more was that I was the only one who wasn’t told it. The truth was shocking, hell had personally visited her in Iraq, but I wasn’t given the chance to support her, to even try and support her. I still would wait. The truth of that could not change my feelings.
Three years I waited. I heard from her maybe once every month if I was lucky, when before we’d talk until dawn broke. She would go to celebrity parties (a script-writing hopeful of the well connected sort), hang out with famous guys on her “fuck list” (that was hard not be alarmed by), even dart across the country. Anything but be with me.
Two years in, we finally “spoke” again. Crying in conversation in the earliest hours of the morning, she thought she might finally be “ready” for me again. I felt like my hope and suffering were not for naught.
Then she disappeared entirely.
Six more months of determination was all I had in me at that point, and when the time came, I sent her an email myself. An email expressing how I longed and hoped, how I believed and ached. An email about how I never gave up………………but also an email about how I would finally try to. I asked her one favour: Not to reply. Every word would make me reconsider, and I had not the strength to face such feelings.
Was pretty fucked up. My first lesson in love was the harshest one I could ever face, and in that, I learned the only person I could really lie to was myself.
From time to time I still think about it, I still feel a mix of gratitude and sadness. I still wonder what could have been if only I was believed in as much as I believed in another.
But I carry on, with a strange strange certainty that love can never truly fail, and that if that did fail, my “true love” remains to be grasped.