Love Me Still

Addictions are hard to break. Within a dozen days of Charlie no longer giving me my daily fix of Saccharin, I went into withdraws. During our courtship and engagement he doted on me. I was his number one priority, his pet, his responsibility. He liked being my prince and he often called me "his little princess." He had taken my two "feel bad" boxes, locked them away, and hid the key. There was absolutely no reason why I should be carrying those anchors around, he said. There was no reason why I should feel bad or ugly or defective because I was perfect in his eyes.

It took a couple of weeks before my "feel bad" boxes arrived at my parents' doorstep. They came without warning. I thought I was fine without Charlie, without the doting, the special attention he gave me, his words of affirmation. Then one day, the day the boxes arrived, I crashed.

The airline tickets and Eurail passes were in my backpack. My Volkswagen was gassed and ready to go. The trip had been planned before my crash. It was too late to change my plans, so I drove to New York City, boarded a plane to Luxembourg, and spent the next month traveling throughout Europe mourning the loss of my once-in-a-lifetime love.  What had I done? I had just thrown away the love from a man who adored me. I would never, ever find another man who loved me like Charlie loved me.

You know the story already; I've told it so many times, so I won't bore you with the details about how I met two men from Indianapolis at LaGuardia airport who had the same itinerary as mine and insisted I let them be my guardians and tour guides through Europe, how I met a man in Barcelona who, if I had had more time, might have been my next great love, how I was attacked by the food-cart vendor in Germany, and then there's the running-out-of-money/had-to-eat-toothpaste story.

As I walked down the airplane steps back at LaGuardia, I searched the crowd of people waiting for their loved ones. In my world of fairy tale, happily-ever-after endings, I had convinced myself that Charlie would be waiting for me. But, alas, my prince was nowhere to be found, so there was just one thing for me to do. I got in my bug and drove sixteen hours straight to Evansville.

When I pulled into the parking spot outside of his apartment, my body began to tremble. Here I was, six weeks after giving Charlie his ring back, willing to grovel, beg, plead for another chance.  If he loved me six weeks ago, he would surely love me still.

I felt faint as I knocked on his door. Nothing. Maybe he wasn't home. But wait. His car was here. Maybe he peaked through the peep hole and saw it was me. Oh, no. He doesn't want to see me. But I didn't come all this way to give up now. Maybe he didn't hear the knock. KNOCK! KNOCK! I heard a noise coming from inside his apartment. Time stopped. My heart stopped. Then the door slowly opened. The love of my life was standing there just two feet in front of me. Please, please grab me, Chuck. Hug me. Tell me how much you missed me, how much you love me.

I drove back to Indianapolis, sobbing the entire way. Waiting for me at home were two boxes. The lids were open and all of their contents had spilled out on the bed. I took off my clothes, climbed into bed with all my insecurities and stayed there for one month.