By Christine Hamilton-Schmidt
I’m going to tell you a scary story: I was ghosted in 2012.
I’d gone on a few dates with a boy who was as sweet as a strawberry. He had a small mouth, and that small mouth gave me small kisses, and he made me feel beautiful, interesting, and fun. I recall lots of blushing and giggling, a welcome change from the sweating and grunting that up until that point had dominated my early twenties.
We didn’t go all the way until our 7th, 8th date? We watched the movie Saw and he called me “absolutely gorgeous,” so the mood was just right. The sex was memorably mediocre. I fell asleep next to his strawberry body, excited that we’d gotten that mediocre sex out of the way. I knew that the second time would be better and the third time was bound to be magic.
I walked to my car the next morning. It was the 4th of July. Adele’s “Someone Like You” played on the radio and I told her to shut up and sing to someone who cared. I was on the up and up! I mean, we’d already planned our next date: the zoo. You know what that means (what does that mean?).
Well.
The big zoo date day came and I didn’t hear from him.
I texted him once.
Twice.
Three times.
Nothing.
I figured he must be in danger.
I called.
I called again.
I texted one more time.
Then, I saw a mutual friend had tagged him in a post. He was hanging out with them right then and there, which meant he was safe and sound and ignoring me.
I cried and texted three other guys in my orbit. I ignored their replies as my anger and sadness boiled over.
I wondered what I did wrong. I agonized and twisted my brain until I remembered I had lunch in the park with a friend the day before. Maybe he’d seen me lunching with this gent and maybe he was SO mad at me! Or maybe I had done something in the dark while we were naked together for the first and only time, moved my body in a way that made it look unappealing. Maybe I had said something I thought was clever that was really just stupid. Or I must have been myself too soon.
It had to be something. It had to be something I did.
A couple of days later I messaged him on Facebook. I let him know I left my copy of On the Road at his place and at the very least I’d like to get it back. Dark days.
I heard nothing.
This ghosting episode haunted me for the next five years. Whenever someone brought up ghosting, I would tell my story.
Oh, I’ve got a great one…
Have you ever begged someone to make you feel whole? Beautiful, interesting, fun? Maybe it was the kind of begging where you scream at them. You call them names. You blame them. You carry their ghost with you from place to place. You pretend to ignore them and sip the poison, sip the poison…
That is the scariest part of this story.
I fell in love
and out of love
and in love again, and yet this ghost baby was always crying in the crib of my mind.
This ghost baby I didn’t want, but I kept feeding it and loving it and burping it and playing with it.
Five years later, in an entirely different city, I saw my ghost in the flesh. He floated by, and it sent a chill down my spine. I think he saw me, too, but neither of us said anything.
I waited another few months before I finally reached out to him again, for the first time since I asked for my Kerouac back.
I messaged him on Facebook.
Hey, it’s been a while but we went on some dates years ago and then you ghosted! What’s up, did I smell, was I a bad kisser? I’ve always wondered!
It shocked me to see the typing bubble pop up immediately.
He apologized. He acknowledged that he had behaved like an asshole, and he had. It felt good to read those words, but it felt awful to realize I only accepted them as truth once they had come directly from him.
It wasn’t my fault, but I had spent so much time obsessing over how it was my fault, how that could be the only explanation. I turned him into a big, mysterious question of a boy, when in reality he was only a place to hide my lack of self worth. I asked him to take responsibility for the most important thing I possessed, and so I didn’t possess it.
No one did.
I wished him luck and picked my self worth up off the floor, where I had left it. Where it was waiting for me that entire time.
It feels so good to be whole. To build Myself by myself, out of pieces that are all mine. The coolest thing I’ve ever learned is to be myself right away.
I wish someone would ghost me tomorrow so I could show the world how whole I am and that I refuse to be haunted.
Just kidding. Don’t ghost me.
I’d be fine if you did, but I like you very much.
Christine Hamilton-Schmidt is a playwright and screenwriter. She currently lives in Los Angeles, but everywhere feels like home to her. Her Instagram is @christinehamiltonschmidt, and her website recently got a sick upgrade, so check that out, too: www.christinehamiltonschmidt.com.