Seven years ago, just in time for Valentine’s Day, I wrote a 3-part series on love and heartbreak for Her Story Goes, the women’s lifestyle blog that I started with my best friend in 2016. Even though our site has since been abandoned—what can we say, life got busy!—I find myself visiting our old posts every now and again, just for nostalgia’s sake.

The personal ones have always been my favorites, and the “Love is a Battlefield” series tops that list: It covers three unabashedly honest tales of romantic rejection I experienced throughout my years in high school and college, and despite the negative feelings associated with these memories, I cherish them—because what in this world could be more timeless or relatable than heartache? We’ve all felt the pain and embarrassment of being broken up with (or worse, ghosted) by the objects of our affection, and it’s the telling of these oh-so-human stories—whether through tears over the phone, in between sips of wine at Thursday night book club, or even spelled out in a blog post—that unite us all.

I hope you enjoy reading my stories as much I enjoyed writing them. Thank you for allowing me to reminisce! Disclaimer: A few edits have been made to the original version(s) of these posts, and some details were added just for fun.

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With Valentine's Day right around the corner, I've been thinking a lot lately about the nature of romantic relationships—the joy they provoke, the agony that can ensue, and the everlasting marks they tend to leave on our hearts.

Before I met my husband at the tender age of 21, there was a small handful of boys (men?) that made a brief appearance in my mostly uneventful love life. And although I only officially dated one out of the three, I can honestly say that I learned a thing or two from all of them. Which is what sparked an idea: Rather than bore you with tales of my happily ever after (February doesn't need any more mush), why not give tribute to the failed romantic endeavors that shaped my past? After all, these are the stories that we never forget.

So here's how this is going to work: Three guys, three separate posts. At the risk of getting way too personal, I'll tell you what happened and what I took away from it—in hopes that at the very least, my dating disasters will invoke a bit of laughter on your end, or perhaps some sisterly solidarity. Because every last one of us has been there: stranded helpless on this cold battlefield we call love.

Without further ado, I give you Part 1 of my 3-part series starring the (slightly stereotypical) Mr. Wrongs that, looking back, might have led to something right. Let's begin with...

THE EMOTIONALLY WOUNDED SERIAL CHEATER

THE STORY | I have to give myself a pass for this first one, because I was a wee thing at the time: only 15 years young, completely naïve, and head-over-heels "in love" with the hunk of my high school theatre department. I met him on the first day of my freshman year, and it was infatuation at first sight. He—let's call him Cliff for the sake of this post, shall we?—was two years my senior, couldn't so much as look at a girl without flirting, and had a head full of voluminous hair that would've made Justin Bieber jealous. Never in a million years did I think someone like Cliff would give little ol' me a second glance, as shy as I was, but the stars just happened to align one September day: We were chosen opposite one another as lovers in a school play.

After that, Cliff and I became fast friends, and it wasn't long before he began entrusting me with his deepest, darkest secrets via AOL Instant Messenger. (Ah, the good old days!) Within only a couple months of knowing him, I had learned about the anger he harbored from his parents' divorce, his nighttime ritual of writing poetry to cope (swoon!), and the real reason his ex-girlfriend had dumped him: He had a bad habit of putting his lips where they didn't belong.

But did I care? Not really. I was trying to find my place in this scary world called high school, and Cliff was the first boy that ever made me feel important. Confident. Worth something. In the poetic words of Mia Thermopolis, he saw me when I was invisible. (Sorry, had to.)

So when he finally asked me to be his girlfriend on a particularly sunny day that following June, I didn't think twice (despite my mother's disapproval) before awkwardly agreeing. Fifteen-year-olds, am I right? In any case, we had a wonderful—albeit brief—summer together, the most memorable evenings spent riding around town in his best friend's car while belting Moulin Rouge’s “Come What May” at the top of our lungs.

I’ll never forget when he asked to kiss me for the first time: I was so nervous that I actually whispered, in true Jamie Sullivan fashion, “I might be bad at it.” He chuckled, unfazed, and luckily for me, leaned in anyway. A few weeks later, while curled up together on the couch, he sweetly confessed that he was falling in love with me. *Cue the blushing!*

I thought that this kind of ~TeEnAgE RoMaNcE~ only existed in movies—yet here I was, some sort of nerd-turned-heroine living out the love story that most 15-year-olds only fantasize about. Life was downright dreamy for a hot second, and I was over the moon. Unlike in Hollywood, though, I didn’t get my happy ending. August showed up out of nowhere, and with it, the inevitable: On a senior class camping trip, Cliff hooked up with the same ex-girlfriend he had cheated on before me. Classic, no?

THE TAKEAWAY | I know, I know. Should have seen that one coming, right? (Mom, you can wipe that smug look off your face.) As pathetic as this particular experience was, it taught me a very valuable lesson in life and dating, for which we can thank Maya Angelou: If a guy shows you who he is, believe him the first time. But more importantly, I learned that opening myself up to vulnerability won't kill me. Being dumped is not the end of the world, and being bitter about being dumped won't mend a broken heart. Even then, I knew that Cliff wasn't the villain of our story. He was just as young and confused as I was, and we were both learning to navigate the hormonal mess that is public high school. (In fact, I have so much respect for the man he’s become.)

The night our sensational summer fling ended (via a short conversation over the phone, during which he solemnly expressed his change of heart), I cried for five minutes alone in my room and then called my closest girlfriend, who helped me laugh the whole thing off. Needless to say, my world didn’t stop spinning. And shockingly, I wasn’t as angry with Cliff as I had expected to be. Sure, what he did had hurt; and yeah, my strong feelings for him weren’t going to instantly disappear. But I also knew that we were probably better off as friends, and with or without him, I would eventually be okay.

At rehearsal the next week, instead of giving Cliff the side-eye or avoiding him altogether, I looked my first ex-boyfriend square in the face and flashed him my warmest smile. Because it was then that I understood that I had survived my first love, and my first heartbreak, without so much as a scratch to show for it. Turns out, this timid little thing was much stronger than she thought.

>>> Liked this post? Read Part 2 here!