Not So Merry Go Round

Before I knew it, days turned into weeks. And weeks turned into months. It wasn’t long before that chilly eve where it all began had been long forgotten. But the high. The rush of it all. That was something I held onto. Something I continued to search for. Desperate to find.

The hope for love consumed me.  

It was hard at first, having felt so mature in so many ways and yet so naïve to this particular area. Almost jarring to my fragile heart. I quickly came to learn I possessed the emotional dating maturity of a 13-year-old, not above things like passing notes and leaving my phone number on napkins. But I was swimming in a pool of 26-year-olds. Who had been dating for years.

Still, I wasn’t going to let that intimidate me.

But it did change how I played the game. To start, I didn’t know there was a game to be played. I didn’t know the rules or about ‘playing hard to get’. No, I went foolishly in, heart wide open. Believing the best. Trusting what was said. More, I didn’t know to pay attention to red flags. I didn’t know red flags were often an indicator to run. Hard and fast. In the opposite direction. I didn’t know the importance of moving on.

In part, I blamed my good nature and naivety on my upbringing. I didn’t expect others to be cold. I didn’t expect to find such darkness. Such selfishness. I didn’t even consider the possibility of being used. Again. And again. Why hadn’t I been prepared for a world so cruel?

I hadn’t considered that perhaps the plan all along had been to spare me from a cruel world. From those who didn’t abide by the same moral code.

Proverbs 4:23 says, “Above all else, guard your heart, for it is the wellspring of life”.

But he liked me. And we were dating. So I figured that didn’t apply.

If there was ever a time when that applied, it was then.

One humid summer day, the kind of day where your skin sticks to the car seat, a date took me to a funeral. I was all dressed up in a new yellow top with my hair fixed just right, anxious and eager to possibly meet his parents. When we arrived, he hurried out of the car, telling me he would “be right back”. Stunned, I sat in the hot car, alone. I tried not to think too much. I tried not to feel too hurt. I didn’t want to ruin the rest of our day together. But I couldn’t help but wonder if he was ashamed of me. I felt my cheeks flush in panic, suddenly realizing we were not at all on the same page. A heavy sadness rested on my heart.

I was being used.

It seemed every couple of months someone new would come into my life, just on the tails of someone else having had left. Inevitably feeling hurt and rejected, I began to wonder if there was something wrong with me. All of my friends had settled down. Engaged or married. Some even had a few kids. I became frustrated, as things weren’t going as I had hoped.

The more I worked to ensure I was not physically alone, ironically, the more alone I felt.

A few weeks later another date took me out for dinner. I knew he didn’t have much in the way of money, so I down played my desire to go out. Spending time together had always been more important to me than spending money. One evening we stopped at a fast food restaurant. I sat down and began to eat my burger. But he didn’t order. He didn’t eat. I knew it wasn’t for lack of money that particular night or having had just ate. I knew he wasn’t ‘just watching me to see how cute I was’. He sat there, rather impatiently. I was humiliated. As an Italian girl, part of my upbringing included the tradition of breaking bread with family and friends. Why wouldn’t he eat with me? I felt a wall had gone up. Like some kind of game was being played. But I was not in on it. Deeply embarrassed, I told myself it wasn’t a big deal.

But it was a big deal.

As time passed, I found myself hiding parts of who I was. I needed to avoid any further feelings of rejection. I noticed my dates tended to dwell, ever so subtly, on their exes, lamenting the character qualities they didn’t care for. So, in desperation, I tried to overcompensate, becoming the exact opposite person, even when it sometimes meant dulling down my own (at times sassy) personality. I figured it would be an okay trade if the end result were love.

But it wasn’t a fair trade.

Not even close.

I felt like I was playing a role in some kind of twisted play. But I never got my happy ending. Having buried my faith down deep, I found myself slowly beginning to compromise. More and more the strands of what made me ‘me’ were coming loose. It started out small. Dismissing the fact that my date had one too many drinks or someone didn’t open a car door. But as time went on, the compromises grew, and with them came an uneasiness in my stomach. I tried to bury my unease. But it stubbornly resurfaced as I began to tolerate more and more.

One cloudy afternoon, I sat down at my desk, covered in nursing textbooks. I held a warm cup of coffee in my hand, which always did well to relax me. I grabbed the mouse to my computer and logged into my social media account, noting I had a new email. It was from a girl about my age. I wasn’t at all prepared for what I was about to read. It was an abrupt email, telling me in aggressive language that she had been dating the same guy that I had. My body froze as I read her words. She went on to say that he had also been seeing his ex-girlfriend. I couldn’t believe it. We had just been out the night before. How was this possible? Her email continued, informing me she was a “single mom and very attractive with a lot to offer”. Her insecurity spewed through her words. More, for the first time in my life, I felt trashy. My stomach turned, realizing I had unknowingly been part of a circle not of my own choosing. I immediately bowed out. It was not a competition; and if it was, I no longer wanted the prize.

I had been used.

A few months later, I went on a date with a different guy. I again logged onto my social media account only to discover he was not single. He was engaged.

With each heartache, came a cut, a little deeper than the last. I did my best to cover them with new distractions. But after a while, even that wasn’t working. I found myself lying on the kitchen floor of the old ranch more than once. Tear soaked and broken hearted. Something about that floor brought me comfort. It wasn’t particularly comfortable, with outdated linoleum covered by a thin and worn blue rug. Nothing about that kitchen was special. In fact, it was dreary, with dark brown cabinets and outdated hardware. But to me, it was home. Even as a young girl, I would sit on that floor, watching my mom cook.

And so again, I sat. With a breaking heart. I watched my mom put together a pie. It strangely helped. We had clashed over the years, being wired similarly. But in this particular area, she surprised me. The one area I felt she would be most likely to offend me and say something off putting or judgmental. She didn’t. She had always been the first to react to a crude comment or dirty joke. So I was sure she wouldn’t be of much help. But I was wrong. Not only did she accept me, the advice she offered was golden. I had grown tired of advice from friends, while well meaning, often did more harm than good. I could never be sure their advice wasn’t coming from a place of jealousy or some other ill intent. Or maybe just complete lack of experience. Those were usually the ones to offer the most and worst advice. But my mom. I saw her heart. Her heart of love for me. Truly wanting me to be happy. Truly accepting me, without judgment, even having strayed so far. No, she didn’t lecture me. She just told me what she thought was best. She was gentle. And having her on my side in that way was life giving.

As time passed, I grew tired of the attention. Tired of the game. I became easily annoyed at small things like someone checking me out at a local store. What was the point?  My once naïve heart had been damaged. It was now a heart of experience. And those experiences had shaped me in a way I wasn’t particularly proud of. I was tired of the merry go round of dating, leaving me where I began, only each time a bit more broken.

Where was God now? Didn’t he see how broken I was?

The problem was that I didn’t see how broken I was. Long before any heartache had occurred. In turning away from my faith, I had handicapped myself, essentially removing any chance for me to ever be truly happy.

Psalm 144:15 says, “Happy are those whose God is the Lord”.

I had given up everything for what I thought was my chance to find love.

But I didn’t find it.

I just found a lot more pain.

Joni Eareckson Tada, in her book The God I Love: A Lifetime of Walking with Jesus says, “Maybe the truly handicapped people are the ones who don’t need God as much”.

But I did need him.

More than ever.

I just wasn’t sure I was ready to admit it.

Tada goes on to say, “We rant and rave against God at the evil we have to endure but hardly blink at the evil in our own hearts”.

So much time I had spent frustrated with God. Not understanding how he could allow so much darkness in my life. But this time. This time the darkness in my life hadn’t come from him.

It had come from me.