When I was in kindergarten I got married to someone who was older than me, an entire two years older than me. He didnāt really like me very much, not when I think back about it. It didnāt matter to me though, I was smitten and determined to do what all people who are in love do and get married. Sure, he made fun of the hair on my arms or the chubbiness of my face, but that was okay because everyone knows that teasing and bickering is part of the love package. I was so determined and excited to finally have someone to love who had to love me back, I even stole my cousinās sentimental emerald ring that was a size too small for the ceremony. The event itself? It was a beautiful ordeal with FLY 92.3 playing the music as I walked down the school bus aisle. Kissing was still way too much, so we hugged to make the marriage official.
After my wedding, I remember all the tears and terror of being unable to take the pretty ring off my finger for hours until my aunt finally managed to work her magic. I do feel a smidge bad about how many times Iāve cheated on my school bus husband, especially since I left the school less than two years later. My family joked about the wedding for years afterwards, and even now when itās brought up itāll usually follow up with laughter at how ācuteā it was.
I canāt help but feel bad for little Nikki, especially knowing that my āboycrazyā ways would only intensify the older I got. The desire for love is something that most can understand, especially as the hormones begin to flow and adjust. The part that was less than normal was when I started using my birthdays at age 7 to wish that I was never born. That wish turned to attempting to overdose by taking 30 motrin pills when I was in the 9th grade, shortly after learning about the calming effects of self-harm about a year following my mini stint of bulimia. Despite my mother denying the possibility of my actions as evidenced by my lack of requiring hospital attention, my schoolās psychologist somehow convinced my mother into taking me to therapy a few days later. The self-harm didnāt stop, but I graduated high school with the highest diploma (advanced regents with honors babyyy) and I secured over 80% of my college tuition and board payments in scholarships and grants. For some reason that I didnāt understand at the time, despite the amount of loans I needed to take out being just under what I would have needed for community college, my mother offered to buy me a car if I stayed local. I was convinced by then that if I didnāt do it myself, Iād die from a heart attack by 25. As I write this Iām happily 31 years old, so that did not happen though my quest for love fiercely continued.
In my search for love I found my way to requesting and acquiring a restraining order against the boy I lost my virginity to.
I found a romantic who serenaded me on his guitar with Just the Way You Are by Bruno Mars. I later found during one of his visits to my dorm while looking through his photos on his phone a lovely homemade video of him with his ānothing to worry aboutā bestie from behind. Iām pretty sure this is where my prejudice towards gingers beganā¦
I found a toxically intense on again off again relationship with a guy who would go on to die in a reckless motorcycle accident the semester I was studying abroad.
I found a relationship with a cute DJ who couldnāt name one of my friends after a year of partying, arguing, and playing a fun game of ādid he drive me home soberly or did he lie again?ā
I found a tall jock with a six pack who was really fun to party and hook up with, until he didnāt understand what stop meant.
I found a guy who Iād learn about unrequited love from our on again off again relationship throughout college. The one who comforted me when I had nightmares after getting back from studying abroad, and nightmares after the jock. The one who would sometimes kiss my roommate in front of me when we were off again. The one who stopped my second attempt and was sent to a psychiatric crisis unit our freshman year.
Things calmed down more by the time I began my first year of graduate school. In fact, by the time of my 25th birthday I had a master's degree, a new apartment with two adorable cats and a boyfriend that had begun talking about engagement, and a job offer at my internship. The worst thing at the time of my double celebration with my mother in her fianceās backyard was her speech āfor meā that somehow included her hope for her future graduation. She was not in school at the time, nor is she now but hey maybe one day! That was May 2019. I moved into my dadās apartment on Long Island from my upstate solo apartment following two stalking incidents. One of these incidents was by a patient who was formerly deemed ācriminally insaneā before admitted to the hospital I worked at, found me at a bar and followed me to my apartment the day after he was discharged, then taunted me for about two weeks that he would visit my apartment after being discharged. No worries though, my female supervisor discouraged me from seeking a restraining order and didnāt allow me to work on the other unit, as this was something women should just expect when working in the mental health field. By February 2020 I was living with my dad and a month later the world would shut down.
I was grateful for my 26th birthday. My dad had been in therapy since the world momentarily ended, our relationship grew while we talked about my childhood and he took accountability. Despite having already been diagnosed with Covid-19 at that point, the recovery had been easy enough and I was getting used to counseling clients through telehealth. That was when I decided that it was time to begin facing my trauma with a clinician who specialized in it, to begin working on what started from a kindergarten wedding. Things were beginning to look up.
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