Cherrell Ghosted me and It Saved My Life

The story of how I confused being chosen with being worthy.

Image Source: Marta Nogueira

For as long as I can remember, I have loved the idea of love. Some could even argue that there were points in my life where I was obsessed with it. But how could I not be? Have you ever actually stopped to process what it means to “fall in love” with someone? I have. One day you wake up and look at another person, and in that moment you realize that your life shines brighter with them there, and your feelings for them are so deep that when they suffer any pain, or struggle even an ounce, It feels as if it has happened to you. That level of connection isn’t something that manifests spontaneously, it is a choice to care for someone as much if not more than yourself. And every day that this romance exists you must re-enroll them into your heart. That kind of dedication is the ultimate insanity. If God truly exists, the idea of love is her most beautiful and unhinged creation. Because in falling for someone, you are acknowledging that they are worthy of this great thing, even if it means losing yourself in the process.

I wanted so badly for someone to choose me, but not just choose me, fall deep for me, descend so far that they lose themselves in the ocean of feelings they have for me, and just before they fade into the abyss, I wanted to be the one to pull them up, because my love for them is so strong that we find each other in the place that no one else can reach. In my 20’s I wanted nothing more than to be loved like that, and I was ready to cast myself away in order to receive it. But to find love you must date and for a long time, dating was the thing that I was the worst at. At least it was until I wasn’t.

After years of consistent failure, of one sided love affairs and unrequited lovers, I had a breakthrough after college. 2010 was an exciting time. Out of nowhere women were suddenly laughing at my jokes, my romantic advances weren’t being rejected outright, and after going years with no real prospects, I had met someone who seemed to match the intensity in which I was hoping to give to my lover. This someone was named Cherrell.

Cherrell loved the color pink, intimate conversations, looking into the eyes of people she cared about, and finding her prince charming. We met at a writers workshop in lower Manhattan. She was moved by the way I weaved words together, I was moved by the way her hips swayed in her 7 jeans, and the sweet sing-song way she spoke to me. We went for a drink after class and after a few minutes it was clear that we were meant to be with each other.

One drink became two drinks, and from there we found ourselves in her apartment, and I think it’s safe to assume you know where things went from there. Dating Cherrell felt like trying to drink from a category five hurricane. Everything we felt and did was at the highest levels of intensity, and after two weeks we were discussing the names of our future children. After a month, we were making plans to move in together. But this love affair wouldn’t last long because as much as she may have liked me, Cherrell was a lover of falling in love. Which meant that she couldn’t resist the budding stages of it, but once those intense feelings passed, she would grow bored and move on, and that’s exactly what happened. Two months into our relationship she stopped answering my calls, stopped showing up to the writers workshop, and moved out of her apartment. I never saw her again.

At first I tried to deny reality, things had been going well, so I figured she would pop up after a couple of days. But when that didn’t happen, and the reality of being ghosted began to sink in, it sent me to a dark place. When you fall in love with someone that loves you back, it feels like you’re flying. When that love is not returned, or ripped away, it resembles tumbling down a mountain of jagged rocks.

Cherrell had left me with all of these feelings to process, feelings that I didn’t know I had, feelings that I didn’t want to face, I tried escaping with alcohol, but it didn’t help, I was too embarrassed to talk to my friends about what happened, and the more my heart ached, the more I withdrew. I would sit in my room reading poems she wrote to me, and religiously checking her twitter page to see if it would clue me in to what happened. I was so upset I stopped eating, I constantly felt like I was on the verge of tears, but they would never come. I felt utterly dejected. When I wasn’t searching for signs that she was thinking about me, I would listen to B.O.B’s “Ghost in the Machine” on repeat, that song still makes me emotional.

After three months of misery, I found myself getting angry, I had all of this pent up hurt and rage and nowhere to put it. I hated myself for having these feelings, and wanted so badly for someone to tell me it would be ok. I knew this would never happen, because I didn’t deserve it. I was the problem, so the next best thing was to disappear. I started going on long bike rides to be by myself . One day after traveling aimlessly through the city, I found myself in a neighborhood I didn’t recognize. To make things worse, I didn’t have any money to get on the subway. It was getting dark, and I was already fatigued from having been on the bike for most of the day. With no option in sight I pedaled for hours, but as difficult as that ride was, it forced me to be with myself longer than I had allowed since Cherrell’s disappearance. I realized during that pilgrimage home that while I enjoyed her company, I wasn’t in love with her, I was in love with the idea of feeling whole, and when I dug deeper I realized that there was nothing she or any woman could ever do to make me feel whole, because what I was looking for, I can’t get from another person, I have to find it in myself.

That long ride home was one of the many times in my life where I would realize that the problems I faced were rooted in a belief that I wasn’t enough. And until I learned to love myself, and believe that I was enough, I would constantly be chasing fulfillment in all of the wrong places. My story isn’t very different from other men, my vice has always been “love” it’s at the root of pleasing my people, what drives my need to be seen, and the fuel behind my efforts to always be producing, so that I can say with confidence that I am worthy. But I am not alone, there are millions of men and boys trying to fill a void that they don’t even know they have. Some of them do it with alcohol, others choose stronger drugs, and even more resort to anger, abuse, and cynicism. Maybe we should try to love ourselves with reckless abandon. That could be a start.