My mother hated my very first boyfriend, and it’s any hardly any wonder, really. There was the drink spiking incident, plus a series of loud arguments in front of classmates that started all sorts of rumours, and then there was the time that we (boyfriend and I) turned up at my mother’s front door, covered in blood. I’d go missing for hours with him, end up in not-allowed parts of town with him, and did all sorts of things I shouldn’t have done with him.
That’s fairly standard for that age, though.
Right?
But then… well… I did something rather daft, and my mother definitely hated him after that.
That time I got nicked
I think I should start by saying that I was bullied pretty badly – and I don’t mean the name-calling type: I mean the hospitalisation type. More than once. It was fucking horrendous. But I saw an opportunity to make some friends (and a little money,) and I grabbed it with both hands. Literally. And repeatedly.
I walked into Superdrug, just like I’d done a few times before, wearing the Eisenegger jacket discussed in That Time My Drink Was Spiked. Very oversized, very big pockets, and very big arms. Perfect for the occasion.
I shoved as much makeup and as many boxes of condoms up those oversized sleeves as I could, as discreetly as I could, then, I nonchalantly walked out. Not obvious at all. At alllllllll.
I thought I’d gotten away with it, too. Bold as brass, me, The Very First One, and our mutual friend pottered over to a game store – to actually browse this time, not steal anything. And y’know, to move my goodies from big sleeves to big bag.
Unbeknownst to us, a plain-clothed security guard had clocked us from the very first moment we’d stepped foot in Superdrug. He’d watched as I looked at things, then, egged on by my boyfriend and friend, slid them up the massive arms of my jacket. Then, he’d watched as we casually pottered around the shopping centre, before following us into the game store.
“Excuse me,” he said, tapping me on the shoulder.
My blood ran cold.
My boyfriend and friend were allowed to go home. They didn’t have anything; I had it all. I was then escorted to a ‘back room,’ where I waited for more than two hours for the police to arrive. It was ironic, really; I could’ve walked to the police station quicker. It was, quite literally, twenty-five steps across the road.
Off the police station we went. I wasn’t in handcuffs, thankfully. The policeman laughed when I asked him if I’d be cuffed.
“Are you going to do a runner?” he asked.
“Not likely,” I answered, my entire body trembling with fear. I could barely walk, and it was probably quite obvious to him.
When we got to the police station, a man at the check-in desk asked who I wanted him to call.
“Not my mother,” I answered quickly. “I’ve never met my biological dad, but maybe you could give him a call? Or my nan? Or a neighbour? Literally anyone except my mum.”
The man laughed as he grabbed the phone and called… my mother.
I was cautioned that day. Nothing more. But the punishment from my parents was far more terrifying and long-lasting than anything the police could’ve done to me. My (step) dad didn’t talk to me at all for at least a week. My mother lasted even longer. Maybe two weeks? It might even have been three. They didn’t say a word to me. Not one word. Disappointed looks? Yes. A word? No. Not even my younger sister spoke to me.
It was the worst thing I’ve ever experienced in my life. The thought of that silence makes me shudder to this day. I can still remember creeping up and down the stairs, making eye contact with them in the living room, then making my way to the bathroom, eyes dropped to the floor, every cell in my body wondering how much longer they could last. Brutal stuff, really. I’d much rather they shouted and screamed at me.
I suppose, in reality, the punishment worked, so I should thank my parents. I haven’t stolen anything since (on purpose, anyway.) I’m also terrified of breaking the law now (apart from smoking pot, obviously.)
The Very First One, though? He didn’t last much longer after that. I was, of course, banned from seeing him. My parents watched me like silent hawks. I was grounded for a lifetime. It didn’t stop us, but it did cause rifts, jealousy, and fights.
Inevitably, a couple of months later, we parted ways for good. Exactly ten-and-a-half months since we’d started, we were finished.
And that’s the story of the time I got nicked… and my first ever breakup. Right in time for Number 2 to make an appearance. That breakup was easy, breezy, beautiful. I walked out of it feeling lighter and more emboldened, and I barely thought about him once we’d officially parted ways.
That first breakup lulled me into a false sense of security, in a way. I assumed all breakups would be like that, just as easy, just as breezy.
Oh, how wrong someone can be.
The next blog post in the dating timeline is this one: Number 2: Goth Boy.
Thanks so much for reading my blog today! 🖤
You can read all about The Very First One, from start to finish, right here.
If you’re in the mood for more disastrous dating stories, you should check out some of these:
