My first love

Posted on October 13, 2013


I remember my first love. I was 16, he was 17. He had long hair in a pony tail, wore a bomber jacket and was a drum and bass DJ.

In his bedroom. But actually to be fair, he did work as a DJ when he got into his twenties, in the crappy bars and pubs round my hometown. By which point I think he’d probably shagged most of the girls who still lived there. I got out when I was 19, and never looked back.

But before all that, things were innocent for a while.

When I was 16, and he was 17, we had something going on. But it took me a while before I realised I had feelings for him. It wasn’t love at first sight.

I thought he was a player.

He was good looking, popular, and all the girls fancied him. He was chatty, charming, outgoing and funny. He knew how to roll a good spliff, and no one had a bad word to say about him.

We worked in the same department store, and would pass each other on the escalators some times. He’d say hello to me, and all the other girls with me would squeal with excitement as they thought he was saying hello to them. Only I knew it was to me.

We’d run into each other at raves.

He’d offer to give me a back massage.

I’d decline.

He’d offer me some poppers.

I’d decline.

No, I probably didn’t decline. I quite liked a bit of amyl nitrate in those days, prolonging the headiness of whatever high I was already on.

He eventually got fed up of my knockbacks, and upped his game. He looked me up in the phone book, and called me to ask me out. I told him I wasn’t interested in seeing him like that, and he said ‘let me take you out as friends. I promise we’ll get on’.

I remember hanging out with him as friends. It took me two or three weeks before I let anything romantic happen.

When it did, the rain was pouring down and we were stood on the bridge between our houses that went over the railway tracks, and he must have been walking me back to mine after a party. I can’t remember how it came about, but I think he told me how much he liked me, and in that moment I realised it was genuine. That he wasn’t going to mess me around. He’d put in all that leg work, and there’d never been any pressure. We ended up kissing for about half an hour, maybe longer. And it felt like the best feeling in the world. From that moment on, I knew it was love. I was in love.

Love to me, when I was 16, was so exciting. So innocent. So addictive. We saw each other all the time, almost every day. If I wasn’t seeing him, I wanted to talk to him all the time. We made plans, we went on adventures. We were getting high every weekend and going joyriding and getting stoned – whilst I crammed in GCSE revision in between.

My poor parents must have been fraught.

It took three months before I was ‘ready’. It wasn’t my first time, but the first time it had been with someone I cared about. Whom I properly knew. That I trusted. He was the first person to venture, ya know, down ‘there’, and the first person that I loved so much I thought I could spend the rest of my life with them.

Two years later we were engaged. But it didn’t last long.

By the time I was 18, I was losing interest in the partying and the drugs. I wanted to explore the world, go to university. He didn’t want me to go. He was possessive. He could be jealous. He didn’t like me getting dressed up, wearing make up. Yet he’d go to raves at the weekend without me, and then disappear for days. He’d eventually call, always on a come down, wanting some love and attention. If I wouldn’t give it to him, he’d cry, get really upset, his mum would have to call to tell me to stop being so mean, without every really knowing a mere fraction of the truth. I never had the balls to tell her what was going on, and to this day I would suspect she thinks I was ‘bad’ for her precious son.

We split up a million times. Or so it felt like.

And we would always get back together.

Until one time he got with someone else. And I got with someone else.

When my grandma passed away, we got back together – but it didn’t last. His partying was getting harder. He started taking crack, and the disappearances would get longer. I didn’t trust him. He was choosing that life over me, and it felt horrible to be honest. My first taste of the dark life. Having to send a search party out for him one time, then to find out he was lying face down in the road outside some random house party, almost overdosed on a dangerous cocktail of god knows what was a massive wake up call. I couldn’t carry on wondering whether that next phone call, was the one saying he was hospitalised. Or worse.

I still loved him, but I knew he was bad for me. I knew I had to walk away.

It probably took me around three years to get over him. Nothing was ever the same again. No one was the same. No one made me feel the same way he did. Nothing compared.

The next time I fell in love, it was exactly the same. And that didn’t last either.

Love is madness. Love is life. Love makes the world spin round. Love can drive you crazy. Love can make you believe anything is possible.

But love isn’t forever.