your love was toxic, and so was my hair.

He brushed my hair hard and rough, pulling at my scalp as if he was trying to rip away what was left of me. I was young and vulnerable. I wanted to live the love story I saw on TV for so many years. All I wanted was to be loved.


One time, I playfully took his phone and he yelled, "Come back here, you piece of shit!" I frowned and returned the phone. He held me tight and combed through my hair and apologized for being so rude.


He used to text me at night and tell me about the parties he went to. "I met a girl and I think she likes me." I said, "That's great, hun. Seal the deal!" Seal the deal–I didn't want him to know I was talking about myself.


"Don't forget to bring gloves. If you fall, the ice is cold." He didn't bring gloves. I brought extras because I knew he wouldn't. I sat down and took off my gloves to tighten my skates. He made me laugh so hard that I forgot everything and hit the floor. I looked down to see that I wasn't wearing gloves. My hands laid on the frigid, melting ice. I looked up at him and saw the spare gloves I had brought for him dangling by his sides. He didn't offer to help. I got up by myself.


He told me about the girl he liked and his face lit up. He said she was beautiful and her laugh made his day. I saw a gleam in his eyes as he talked about her and wished he would do that for me.


He compared me to other girls. If I wore a color he didn't like, he'd tell me to never wear the color again. He ran his fingers through my hair and threatened to never talk to me again if I ever cut it. He lowered my self-esteem and I let him, so I could please him, so he would love me.


He used to force me to tell him I loved him, even when I convinced myself that didn't. Every night, we'd get into an argument about why I refused to say it. I let him win, and told him I loved him before hanging up and crying myself to sleep.


He forgot to call sometimes, and I stared at the phone all night until I fell asleep. When he'd call, he'd say, "I have to go, I need to talk to her." Her–she became more important than I. He'd stop anything he was doing for her. He'd stop me mid-sentence to answer her call and tell me to "hold on" and I'd wait half an hour before hanging up. I waited hours, until he finally remembered to call me back and apologize for keeping me on hold for so long. "It's alri...""Hold on, she's calling again." I wanted to stop talking to him because I saw what he was doing to me and I didn't want to hurt anymore.


"I don't want to be friends anymore. You drag me down."
 

"What are you talking about? Everyone loves me. It's an honor to be my friend. You should be thankful that I call you at all."


"You're right, I'm sorry."


"It's okay, I love you."


Each time, I believed him. I love you. I would try to tear down the walls so I could leave, but every time he said those three words, the walls would rebuild themselves.


I remember the first time I said "I love you" and really meant it. A week later, he broke my heart. "Abby, I think we should just be friends. Is that okay?" mhmm. I cried into the same pillow that was all too familiar with my tears. He didn't hear me cry; he just asked me for the answers to the test I had taken in English.


I came to school with red, puffy eyes. I claimed that I was sick. People believed me. My best friend at the time didn't. She said, "Why do you still hang around him?"


Because I love him. "Because I don't want to ruin our friendship."


"Oh, sweetheart, can't you see? Your friendship is long gone."


I got home and jumped in the shower to cry. I didn't want my parents to know that the boy who brought me my favorite roses would use the thorns to stab at my heart. I couldn't figure out if I was crying because my friend was right or because I didn't know how to walk away.


I got home from practice one day and checked Instagram. I saw a picture of him with a new girl. I ran upstairs to the bathroom and almost cut all my hair. The one thing he loved about me, the thing he'd use to comfort me with, I wanted to get rid of it. I dropped the scissors and watched myself cry. I went to my room, locked the door. I stared at myself for hours as sad love songs played on repeat. I stroked my hair trying to recreate the feeling I got when his fingers massaged my scalp. I looked over to the gloves he wore at the ice rink. Why didn't he help me up? I had fallen and he just watched as I got up on my own.


I watched his smile grow wider and brighter with every day, as my tears came down faster and harder. I saw him become a better, happier person without me and I knew I had to let him go. He wasn't going to help me up. All he did was push me down. And just like that night at the ice rink, I wanted him to watch me rise again and I couldn't do that while I waited for him on the cold, hard floor. I reached high above my head, looking for anything to grab. I waved my arms around until I felt something smooth and cold.


I grabbed the scissors and I cut my hair.


I recently cut my hair and it reminded me of the last time I was at the salon.. two years ago–yikes. I remember coming home after that hair cut and writing this and I thought it was finally a good time to post it publicly. 

Although I don't feel anything towards this boy anymore, I thought I would share this because I remember how hurt I was. When I first read it, I was almost disgusted, but I'd like to applaud my 15 year old self for writing it all down. A lot of this is very exaggerated because I used to be (still am) such an over dramatic person, and at the time, all the feelings were amplified. 

Okay, ew, I'm explaining myself too much. Who cares when I wrote it or why I wrote? I already know it sucks. It's been posted. YOLO