It's angsty, it's drabblish, of course i wrote it!!

Three Easy Steps to Stockholm’s

I still think about you a lot.  I’d like to pretend that I don’t, but I do.  You’re supposed to just be part of the past, but you’re so present that, some days, it feels like you’re still breathing over my shoulder, waiting for me to make a mistake. 

I wonder if your intentions were what they seem.  Capture me when I’m young.  Charm me.  Control me.  Sounds like Stockholm’s syndrome, huh? 

Check for step one.  It struck me as strange, really, that a senior such as yourself would be interested in me, a freshman.  You could’ve had any one of the upperclassmen (women) you wanted, yet you picked me. 

This isn’t me being an insecure idiot.  It’s just that, in retrospect, it’s all very much absurd.  You were searching for scholarships and filling out college applications while I was deciding whether to take Anatomy of Chemistry as a sophomore. 

So why pick me? 

I’m pretty.  I know it.  Good hair, great bod, nice face.  But I’m four years younger than you. 

Maybe that’s why you picked me.  You could, and did, shape my views about dating, about guys, about how I should be treated. 

You completed step two at a hugely fast pace. 

You always knew what to say, how to give me butterflies. 

I was the only freshman in honor choir.  The juniors and seniors would either ignore me or gossip about me.  I think you were part of them for a while.  After all, it wasn’t until December, several months into school that you showed any sort of interest in me. 

You asked if I needed any help with the parts.  You said they were tricky, and you understood if I couldn’t get it.  I said that help would be great.  I lied.  All I wanted was to spend time around you and your charming smile. 

We stayed in the choir room after school.  You played piano, and I sang our pieces.  Perfectly.  You chuckled and said that it sounded as though I didn’t needed any help.  That I had a beautiful voice.  That I was beautiful. 

Your clever words made me melt and you knew it. 

You said you wanted me to go to prom with you, but that you wanted us to be something even before then.  You said you’d never met anyone like me.  You said you didn’t know if you deserved me.  You said I made you feel things.  It would be years before I realized it was all lies. 

It’s almost understandable that I believed you.  Sure, you said the same lines guys had be saying for years.  But it was how you said them. 

Those other guys who chased after me sounded like crappy actors on some low budget soap opera.  Sometimes I was tempted to check over my shoulder to make sure they didn’t have a teleprompter going. 

But with you, it was so wonderfully different. 

You were a Broadway actor, who knew the lies, I mean, lines well enough that you could say them in your sleep.  You had the voice of an angel, and we both knew it. 

When we sang “As Long As You’re Mine” from Wicked, I thought you really meant every word.  It takes talent to lie like you did. 

I don’t think anyone ever completed step two with the precision and skill you used.  If I didn’t know your flair with phase three, I would’v deemed it your best work. 

Three. 

Some days, I’m convinced it’s still going. Every once in a while, I think of what you would say about something I wear.  I wondered how I can avoid making other guys, ones I’ve dated since you, mad.  I muse for hours and hours about our relationship.  I ponder how I ever became such an idiot. 

The first time you ever yelled at me, I promised myself it would be the last.  But then you apologized.  You were back to the charming, sweet fellow you’d always been.  Curious transformation really. 

It wasn’t the last time. 

The next time, I began to rationalize.  You were in college, and it must’ve been extremely stressful to cause you to treat me like that. 

Then, I began to blame.  Blame myself, blame school, blame work, blame our age difference, blame your family, blame anything.  Blame anything but you. 

Then, I didn’t react.  It became a cycle.  A circuit of screaming and apologizing, during which I wanted nothing more than to go back to that choir room and sing duets with you.  Because we stopped singing after my sophomore year.  The only breaks in our long-lasting silences were terse conversations, yelling, and half-baked apologies. 

Something in me snapped in the middle of my junior year.  I confronted you.  You cried.  You said that you needed me.  That I was the only thing holding you together.  That you would get better, but only if I was there to help you.  That you never meant to hurt me.  That you had no reason to live without me.  And I believed every word, every tear, every lie. 

It was an Oscar-worthy performance, really.  Summoning those tears without help from eye drops.  The way you sobbed on my shoulder felt so sincere.  It’s still hard to believe it wasn’t real at all.  That none of it was ever real. 

The circle of lies got right back on track, not to be interrupted by confrontation (on my part, at least) for years. 

Another part was added to our cycle.  You became convinced that I was cheating on you.  Sometimes you’d yell.  Sometimes you’d cry.  Sometimes you’d fall on your knees and beg me to never leave me. 

Each time, I promised you that you were my one and only. 

I broke that promise in my sophomore year of college.  You hit me.  Something about it brought me back to reality. 

I left.  You said I would regret it.  That you had no reason to live.  That you would find me.  That I would never get anywhere without you. 

But the fact was that I was regretting staying with you more than anything.  That you had drugs and booze to live for.  That I would hide so well you’d never find me.  That my part-time jobs were the only things that kept out measly apartment and paid for your beer. 

The fact is that your blow to my face is the only reason I came back to life.  I would’ve slowly wasted away trying to make you happy. 

I read once that happiness is like a muscle.  If you never use it, it atrophies.  There weren’t words to describe how far gone happiness was for you.  Muscle death isn’t adequate.  Maybe happiness was amputated.  Drunkenness or some high served as your prosthetic. 

When I left you, my “happy muscle” was so weak that I thought it would never become strong again. 

But I switched schools.  I made new friends.  I dated guys who gave me flowers instead of bruises.  I changed my major from Education to Music. 

As much as I severed ties with you, I still second guessed myself.  I still worried about people would think.  I still cried myself to sleep at night.  I still felt beyond alone. 

I cursed you.  I cursed me.  I cursed music.  I cursed the parents who spawned you.  I cursed you again.  And none of it made it any better. 

So I got over it.  I hung out with my new friends.  I listened to new music.  I saw a therapist.  I fell in love.  I wrote new music. 

And slowly, I moved towards alright.  I felt like I could be honest with people when they asked me how I was.  I started writing music about how the sun shined, instead of how you made me feel.  I laughed, instead of cried.  I fell asleep reading cheesy romance novels with Fabio on the cover, instead of thinking about your lies.  I told the boy I loved about you, instead of avoiding my past at all costs. 

I’m married now.  I'm headed for the music business, slowly but surely.  We bought a house in Nashville. 

I’m completely different than the little girl suffering from Stockholm’s that you lied to.  You probably wouldn’t recognize me if you saw me now.  I would recognize me if I saw me now. 

You’ll always be a part of me, regretfully.  I’ll never be able to get rid of you.  I’ll always struggle for control.  But, just because I’m struggling, it doesn't mean that I’ll give up.  Because I won’t. 

I’ve come to the point that I don’t feel sorry for myself.  I don’t feel sorry for you.  I feel sorry for whatever poor girl you’re going through the steps with.