Conflicted

Not too long ago, I learned that someone I went to high school with died. This person was a couple of years older than me but had been held back in school, so we were often in the same classes. He lived near me. We took the same bus to school. He was a huge personality, always loudly looking for attention; he was too much for my quiet, reserved, neurotic teenaged self. Often he would tease or torment me, and I never knew why. I was mostly what I assumed was invisible, exceedingly introverted, and always friendly. I would stand up for him when our horribly nasty bus driver was mean to him. Even then, I could see then that he was in pain.

Hearing the news of his passing was an overwhelmingly complex feeling for me. Even right now, typing out this is strange. No one I went to high school with should be dying. We are too young; no one has lived a full life yet. It’s not right or fair. But on the other side of all of those things, it felt like a relief.

We reconnected through FaceBook about 12 years ago. It was fun reminiscing and laughing about high school and catching up on what we had done in the time since leaving all of the nonsense of high school behind.

Sometimes the chats were light and fun; other times a bit more meaningful and long. It was interesting to learn where life had taken him. It turned out he tormented me because he thought I was pretty and didn’t know how else to behave. After talking for a few weeks, we decided to meet up and hang out in person.

I picked him up at Tim Hortons. We got a coffee-to-go and walked around the area where he was living. I had lived in the same town a few years earlier, so it was nice to be there. It felt comfortable. It was easy to be near him, and a free-flowing conversation, almost electric. We ended up kissing, standing on a bridge over a little creek — a terrific first kiss in a beautiful setting. I went home, and we continued to chat from time to time. We arranged to meet one time after that, and it was equally as fun - the kissing was more intense the second time; he said that the way I kissed was like art.

Not long after this, he moved too far away to see each other easily, and as he settled into his new life, we talked less.

A few years later, he was back in my area, and he reached out. It wasn’t the same. I was different; I had two small babies. He was also different; things hadn’t gone well for him. He was struggling. He was aggressive and relentless for attention. He repeatedly asked to see me, asked me for money, and made me feel bad for not giving him what he wanted. He figured out where I lived and sent me photos of my house. He didn’t knock on the door to say hello as you would expect; he was watching me, scaring me. He became very dark, and the messages were frightening. When I asked him to stop, he became verbally abusive and started harassing me. I had to change my number and blocked him on Social Media. Nothing ever happened after that; I feel lucky that that is true - at the time, I feel like anything could have happened, none of it good.

So perhaps you might see how hearing of his death is feeling very complicated. It brought up all of these memories, and they don’t feel right. They sit on my chest like a lead weight - too heavy for me to lift by alone.

He was in a dream I had last night; he was happy, loud, joking, and having fun. He was the person I remember when we rode the bus to school.

I hope he has some peace now and that things are easier for him. I hope that I do too.