Blue helmet. White bike. Red backpack.

Blue helmet. White bike. Red backpack.

Every time I see a motorcycle go by, it's just instinct. I look for those three things to see whether or not it's him.

99.999999% of the time, it isn't him. There are thousands of other motorcyclists in the area (especially this time of year), and the chances of running into him are slim. But subconsciously, I always have to check to see if it's him. Today, on my way to work...it was him. And that is what stirred up all the memories and inspired this post.

For four years, he was the love of my life. And you don't just get over something like that. We've been broken up for six months now, and I still think about him all the time. Wondering if he's doing ok. Wondering if he's dating other girls (those worthless tramps), and wondering if he still thinks about me. Now, I'm not trying to say that I want him back. That ship has sailed, and I know that we were not meant to be. But how do you get over the one person who loved you and knew you more than anyone in the world? I know that a part of me will always care about him. We may have had our disagreements, our differences, and our feelings hurt from time to time. But for the most part, he treated me like I was someone special. That I deserved to be loved. That I was important. He taught me that I could do hard things, he encouraged me to try new things. He gave me the confidence to apply for this job I have now at this amazing company. He inspired me with the courage to go for my dream - to make the very scary purchase of the home I have now.

He helped me when I needed help. He was there for me when I needed it. Back when my old car gave up the ghost and I couldn't afford to buy a new car yet, for three or so months he drove me everywhere. He even taught me how to drive a manual transmission, so I could buy the car I have now. He helped me financially when I needed it, back when I was making just $7.50 an hour and only getting scheduled for 15 hours of work per week. He helped me move--like three times. He supported me when I felt I didn't have anyone else in my life to support me. He made me feel loved by going to my choir concerts and other important events in my life when everyone else in my life was busy with "more important things". He took care of me when I had my wisdom teeth out. He held my hair back while I puked my guts out after a bad reaction to the oxycontin they'd given me.

...and the list goes on.

Its funny how when someone dies or when a relationship ends, all you can remember are the good moments, the happy times. Our relationship was never perfect. We both did things that drove each other nuts. Sometimes I wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake him, wondering why he couldn't or wouldn't see certain things from my perspective. I'm sure he wanted to strangle me when I refused to back down or tried to force my opinion on him. He had a difficult time apologizing for things. I had a difficult time forgiving him for things. Toward the end, I needed him to spend more time with me. He needed more space. In the end, we just weren't meant to be. But I'm happy to have had the experiences that I had with him. For better or for worse.