Top Article

1 of 1

by Sideon

There's nothing like falling in love with the idea of someone. It's an exquisite experience in self-torture and self-abuse, the kind that in hindsight makes you wish would grow hair on your palms or make you go blind. Cousin It palms and dark glasses for life; that would be more humane than the self-inflicted heartache I created.

Initially, I was very aware of his flaws: he was incapable of emotional honesty, he had a Joseph Smith and Brigham Young idea of monogamy, he was just coming out (run away, run away!), and perhaps he didn't floss regularly. Justification and rationalization (my fort) started in the getting-to-know-you phase: the sex was fantastic. I would have robbed banks just to stay in bed with that man. Maybe he was so cute that I was blinded to his lack of substance. Maybe he was aware of the infatuation and enjoyed the doting and fawning. He meted and doled just enough attention or tenderness to keep this jackass looking for the dangling carrot. I blithely ignored how he was a world-class player and looked at his incredible potential. I started seeing him as what he could be, which was a gorgeous picture, but unfortunately, that Prince only existed in my mind. The plain truth is that I met a royal pain in the ass that was just a toad, but I fell face-first, and I fell hard.

We played the game of relationship tether ball for about three years. He'd stray, we'd break up, we'd both cry our eyes out, and we'd get back together. He'd stray, we'd break up, we'd both cry our eyes out, and we'd get back together. The highs were better than a Ben and Jerry's flavored blow job while the lows were worse than sand in Vaseline. Anyone see a potential pattern here? I couldn't, then. I was busy with the man of my dreams, and the real McCoy was busy being a conflicted Mormon boy, saying one thing but doing everyone else. I stayed the course, as obscenely stupid as it was, ignoring the negativity of the relationship until I was out of it. The third time we split was the last. Only then did I let it register how blind I'd been to my own insanity. Even so, it took moving from Utah and several boyfriends later to get a Prince Charming who never existed out of my system. Years later, when I hear Sheryl Crow sing "My Favorite Mistake," I smile, I nod to myself, I might even sing along.

Learn more about this author, Sideon.
Click here to send author comments or questions.