His name is Xavier.
Okay not really. But I won’t tell you his real name, mostly because privacy is something I’ve (almost) always respected. Also, you knowing his real name (or anyone important to me) might start a forest fire from hell, spreading and encompassing what I like to call my life. Do I sound depressed? I didn’t want to come off as some “woe is me” “I-hate-my-life” woman right off the bat. But if I weren’t completely honest with myself, I don’t think I would’ve ever started a blog. Or paid the money to do so. So yes, I am depressed and I’ve been fighting it for years now. Why did I wait so long to admit it? It got worse. All thanks to this one male. Now, please don’t think or assume the stereotype: I’m stupid or naive enough to allow some… BOY to ruin my life or I’m being over dramatic… Classic heartbroken teen (But I’m a woman!). Or the classic suicidal conflict.
I don’t think you’ll understand unless you read on and follow up with what I’m about to share. So I’ll start over:
His name is Xavier and we met in my junior year of high school over two years ago.