A few months after getting my first car, I finally had a real Topanga. It took less than three months to convince myself he was The One. The only excuse I have for believing we had to spend every free second together is, that’s what I learned from my parents.
My parents don’t have other friends. They never go somewhere without the other. They go to work, come home, go to bed, repeat. That is their life. Now that I am out of the nest, they take nice vacations, but that is it.
For such a horrible clingy girl trait, I’m surprised it lasted so close to a year. I was so far down that rabbit hole, I forced myself to go to church with him every Sunday. I was an angry, pouty, bitch about it.
They didn’t understand why I was coming if I was so miserable. I didn’t understand how they could possibly be upset with me when they were the ones inflicting this on us.
If it wasn’t for our routine trips to the cemetery to do the dirty, he probably would have broken up with me much sooner. I feel like I should clarify we chose the cemetery for location and privacy. Not because we had a weird fetish with cemeteries.
When we parked, we hopped in the back seat, and before a song could repeat its chorus he was finished. I believed this was normal. Sex was something women did to please men. It only took a second, no big deal.
One day, something strange happened. His mother had to pick his sister up from school. She didn’t think we could do anything in the time it would take her to drive across the highway. Silly woman.
We had a bed for the first time. We were able to get in a position where no seatbelt buckles were poking me. I felt something… different.
So that’s an orgasm. Interesting. It was fine and all, but considering all the messy body fluids, it was hardly worth it. I had mental scars that would mar me for the rest of my life, who cares about a 15 second orgasm?
I always had to re-live the same fears over and over. Would my privates look or smell weird compared to what was expected? One of my friends was told she smelled like fish heads and tarter sauce. I would fall dead on the spot.
What if I performed really bad and he told everyone? Each time we finished and he didn’t cringe or laugh, I sighed with relief and started preparing for next time.
When we were dating over 6 months, I realized I developed a comfort zone with him. It was like being with Bestie. I didn’t worry if I had make-up exactly right, I didn’t think he would make fun of me if I shared my thoughts. I never imagined something like that possible.
Eventually we started to fight when he wanted to have a guys night and I wouldn’t let him. He got sick of me when his parents were taking him on vacation, and I cried non-stop until my eyes swole. His parents thought I was so pathetic they took me too.
The only ally I had was his father. The man took pity on me until we got back from vacation. I tripped all the mouse traps before we left. I shouldn’t have brought it to his attention in the first place. I thought he didn’t understand they were lethal.
They started walking on eggshells around me, afraid to upset the sensitive girl. I didn’t understand why they thought I was the problem. They were the ones doing things wrong.
You think I’m going to say he broke up with me after that, but you would be wrong. The more I felt him pull away, the more I sought to fix it with sex. When he found porn, I let him watch it during. Apparently, that was mega bragging rights to a teenage boy.
Eventually there was too much resentment on both sides to keep going. One day he put his foot down. He told me he was going to spend the night with a friend and have a guys night. I told him, we were finished if he did.
He said I couldn’t break up with him for wanting to spend one day with his friends. Watch me. He tried to bargain. “Let me have tonight, then you can pick me up in the morning. We can do anything you want for the rest of the weekend.” He sounded very reasonable.
Unfortunately, that didn’t work for me. It didn’t solve the problem of being apart that night. I threw my fit, made my dramatic exit, and parked down the street to wait for his call. After he apologized, we could go back to normal.
Half an hour later, it was too late. He didn’t call. On tv, when couples were apart, they do a scene where they’re reunited. I found those touchy-feely scenes sickening. I was picturing myself in a montage of those scenes (over 30 minutes apart, remember) and drove off in a depression so black I was already trying to decide how to kill myself.
I physically lived this and it doesn’t make sense to me. As I say these things out loud I am more confused than ever. He did try to call me the next day. He apologized now that he had his guys night. I knew he would do it again and told my parents I wanted a new phone number.
I purged his existence from my life with one garbage bag. He never existed.
The saddest part: If this had happened on a school night, I don’t think I would have gone through with it. This was the first time in my life I wasn’t lying when I told people I had a boyfriend. People had seen us together. They knew he was real. I never had that before. They weren’t calling me a lesbian or spitting on me anymore.
When I realized I might go back to that, I knew I had no other choice. I had to kill myself. I guess I’ve already explained how well that went in Suicide, Party or Suicide.
I wish I could say I learned how wrong I was before I found my next Topanga prospect, but sadly there was next to no improvement at that time. To be fair, I had already met the next one at work and would start dating him less than 2 months later.
Since that first Topanga, I have never stayed single for more than 2-3 weeks at a time. I’ll have to look into that issue at some point too, but I think it revolves around the combination of Boy Meets World’s All-Purpose Guide to Life, and the way other kids picked on me. Regardless, the end result remains the same.
Good day imaginary friends.