The first week of university, I met my first boyfriend. Let’s call him B. He was a jerk to me. He ignored me unless he needed me.
B worked in the building in front of my dorm, but rarely visited, even when he hung out with his friend who lived a few floors below me. When we did see each other, we stayed at B’s place; the bathroom smelled of piss and he would play Eminem all night because “he needed it to sleep”. Then he would add, if you don’t like it, you can just go home. I didn’t want to walk home alone in the cold dark winter, so I slept on the edge of the twin-sized bed trying not to fall off. He didn’t try to make room for me.
He and I would go to the same party, but I attended as a ghost. He didn’t even acknowledge me. I cried every day we were together. After a few months of this bullshit, my best friend told me to wake up. I knew she was right, but I stayed with him anyway.
Eventually, B and I took a break, like Rachel and Ross. During our Christmas break-up, he called me every night. He told me he loved us better when we were far apart… In the new year, his best friend took me aside and told me that I wasn’t being treated well, that I was wonderful and deserved respect. A week later, I invited B over to dump him, but he dumped me first.
I remember B dealing with a lot of stuff, but it didn’t give him the right to treat me like a blow-up doll. When I think back, I mostly wonder why the hell I let him behave that way towards me. Why did I try so hard to make it work when he clearly didn’t want to be with me?
A few weeks later, B saw me and my new man, Boyfriend #2. He emailed me and said we should give it another shot. I respectfully declined.