Brad Pitt and Horny Toads

In that year of my life, I looked like Pocahontas. Tanned limbs and long, dark hair. He looked like Brad Pitt. Everyone thought he looked like Brad Pitt. The Brad Pitt of "Legends of the Fall" and "Interview With the Vampire."

And the perfect blonde with the big boobs splashing about in Bohicket Creek next to us thought so, too.
"Hey! Guy! You look like Brad Pitt," she said, in all of her flirty glory. She took another sip of her fruity, barely alcoholic drink (undoubtedly making her "sooooooooo drunk.")

Chris smiled his sly smile at me, sinking deeper into the quickly falling tide and looked back at the girl. She giggled. I vomited. Well. . .I vomited on the inside anyway. I took one more quick look at her stupid straw hat (full of holes, which meant it was just "for looks". . .no function) and her rich-girl perfection (everything that my scrabbly-self wasn't) and closed my eyes. I let my neck go limp and bounced my head to rest on the hot inner-tube. I hoped that my skin wasn't turning green from the strength of my envy.

I sighed. I needed to get a grip on my bullshit feelings. Because I am as much of an adult as I've ever been, I can say this now without fear: I was in love with him. Forever in love with him. We met as kids, really, and I remember looking into his face and unable to stop myself from smiling. Something in my head said "Wait a sec. . .I know you!" And I remember laughing. And I remember looking down. And I remember suddenly being shy. . .which was unusual for me. More than anything, though, I felt recognition. And to me, there is nothing more anchoring than that feeling of recognition.
I laid there, burning under the sun, wanting to feel happy for Chris and his flirtatious prospect. As "one of the guys," I felt it was my duty to say, or at least think "Hey man! Go get her! Whoo! Way to go." Or some such piggish-shit. But what I really felt was "Oh great. Now I'm going to have to watch you guys make out all day. . .and it's going to piss me off. . .and everyone is going to want to know why I'm pissed and. . ."

WHACK!

And a shriek.

THUD!

And a scream-giggle-scream.

SPLASH!

Something stung my thigh. I sat upright, dropping my drink into the water. All of chaos spread out before me. Person after person tossing handful after handful of smelly creek mud; slinging it in all directions. The creek party turned to a mud-war. And in the middle of it all stood Chris. Laughing. He looked at me and grinned. He made his way over to the inner-tube and said "I hate it when people tell me that I look like him."

Everyone was throwing mud now, which in and of itself is not an unusual thing at this event, but he'd thrown the first shot. And he'd thrown it right into the face of Miss Big Boobs.

And I loved him for it.

I wondered if he, as he always seemed to do, had picked up on my despondence and decided some good humor was in order. The one and only time we discussed this matter - he was high and I was drunk - he said that he'd done it to see me smile. He said that he knew it would make me laugh. I said "You passed up getting laid to make me laugh?" And he laughed (because he was high) and said "Yep."

And I loved him all the more.

There are a million little reasons, and a few big reasons, that Chris and I would never get together. See, he is just as certifiably crazy as I am. Well, more, actually. After so many years, I'm still unclear as to what his diagnosis actually was. His father was a psychiatrist and I will never be certain whether that helped or hurt him, but he is the only person that I actually know, in real life, who has been on more medications than I have; had electroshock therapy AND magnetic therapy.

When Chris was well, he was glorious. He was quick thinking and funny and smart. He was magically creative and could always make you laugh.

One crisp, fall night, a group of us were all out at the beach, looking at the stars. I'd rarely seen the sky so clear in the evenings. As we all stood there, feeling small and looking for recognizable constellations, a girl said "Is that Pleadies?"

And someone loftily said "Yes. The Seven Sisters." (Someone was high.)

And then Chris. . .in his most serious voice, said "And to some ancient tribes, it is also known as the Nine Nuns."
I jerked my attention away from the sky and looked straight into his face. He raised his finger to his lips and pantomimed "Shhhh."

We stood there, frozen and staring at each other holding back laughter for as long as we could. I risked taking a look around and when I did, the floodgates came crashing open with a laugh so hard, I almost hurt myself. Everyone was looking to the sky and NODDING IN AGREEMENT. When I started laughing, HE started laughing and soon everyone (especially the high people) started laughing. When we all quieted down, someone said "Wh-wh-what was so funny?" And it set us off again for the better part of an hour. Finally, I was able to choke out the words "No. . . such. . .thing. . .nine. . .nuns. . .ancient. . people. . .nuns. . .DUMBASSES."

I laugh, thinking about it now.

And then I don't laugh, thinking about the time Chris ate too many Kolonopin or the time he went missing for MONTHS. . .or the time a girl we know found him pressing the barrel of a gun against his head. . . a position I'd found myself in more than once as well. I think about the dangerous, thrill seeking behavior his mental illness often drove him to. Due to certain circumstances, I had a deep aversion to drugs - recreational or prescription. He didn't. So, his amped up search for giggles often had him popping pills, snorting things, eating mushrooms, drinking. Combine those things with psychotropic drugs, and you're in for one crazy elevator ride.

When I think of these things, I always wonder if the recognition I'd always felt was nothing more than some chemical sensitivity. Rather than "I know you on a soul level," I wonder if all it ever really meant was "Oh! Hey! I can see you're bat-shit crazy, too."

But then I think of him, showing up on an island in the middle of a river. . .without a boat. He and Teddy had just decided to swim to where we were. Crazy. . .but funny. I think of the strange presents he would give to me - found objects. . .some of which I still have. I think of him saying that the dressed up college girls in town were ". . .nothing more than pretty fishing lures." I think of laughing around campfires and wishing that I could just put my arms around him, snuggle my face into his coat and tell him that I loved him so - whether or not we were ever together, he would always have a place in my heart.

And what's extra crazy is that all this time, during our early twenties, I HAD someone. I was with Allen, the man who would eventually be my (first) husband and I loved him, too. I loved him desperately, as a matter of fact, and wanted him to love me so much more than I could ever express. I used to be ashamed of myself, being so desperate for Allen's love. I felt so needy. But looking back, I realize that what I wanted was PROOF.

At the time, Allen was the sanest, steadiest man I knew. He had these amazing qualities that I associated with "real" men. . .with "good" men. I thought that if I could get this good man to love me, then that would be PROOF that I wasn't too crazy to love. Though I tested him time and again with my mood swings, money spending, insanity (I was undiagnosed at the time other than "depression/suicidal" and the treatment for that and bi-polar disorder are completely different things.), he stayed with me. He loved me and I thought that by getting him to love me, I would have SOLID EVIDENCE that I was good enough to be loved, and I would be able to breathe. . .and live. After all, would a man as good as he love someone not worth loving? In my rationale at the time, I thought not.

And so, I loved Allen. I stayed with Allen. I was devoted and loving and loyal. I was doggedly loyal to him in every single way. . .except when Chris would cross my line of vision. When Chris was around, I was guilty, conflicted. He was the only person that I'd ever felt drawn to; that I felt utterly compelled to love.

At some point, I decided that I had to make those feelings go away. I tried to make those feelings go away. I rationalized. I told my therapist. I tried to distance myself from him. I thought that perhaps I enjoyed the distraction of the possibility of something that might not even be. . .because I was so locked into the relationship I had with Allen. But that wasn't the case. That was never the case.

The first time Allen and I broke up, Chris called me. He offered to come and help me paint my house and there was *so* much subtext to that conversation. I felt, on a visceral level, that if he showed up, it would a pivotal moment in our relationship and in my life. We made the plans, but the day came and . . . I was overwhelmed with a terror I can hardly describe. So, I cancelled. There he was - the boy I'd had a crush on for a greater part of my life, ready to come and "paint my house," so to speak. . .and I was running away from him, from it, from the possibility. And I mean Marion Jones running away from it. I was running away from all that I'd been drawn to for so very long and I was completely f**king befuddled over the entire situation. I didn't want him any less than I had before. I didn't suddenly reject the thought of running to him and pouncing on him like Dino from "The Flintstones" any more than I had the day before. It wasn't a matter of rejection or suddenly realizing that "you want what you can't have until it's delivered into your hands. . ." It was just fear. So much f**king fear.

What would we have done? And what would it have done to us?

Still now, as I did then, I sit back and think about what it would be like to love someone like me - with my scary thoughts and sometimes, let's be honest, scary behavior; especially at that point in my life. . .bi-polar, untreated, undiagnosed. I think about putting all of those traits of mine into one person and amplifying it by about 20. I think of the enormous amount of love and devotion a person like me can pour onto someone. . .and I think about all of the eviscerating damage a person like me can cause to someone who dares to love them back. . .and I amplify *that* by about 20. I have never, in my life, come up against someone who could hurt someone as much as I can hurt someone. But Chris, being so much like me in some of the worst ways. . .what would happen?

In an ideal (read: FANTASY) world, we would've somehow cancelled out each other's insanity. We would've innately known that the other was on an up or down swing. Our personal knowledge of what it's like to be a barely-controlled maniac would've made us understanding, forgiving. We would've been crazy-happy together; lived in a little crazy house with a crazy picket fence and made crazy little babies and had crazy little dogs and cats running amok in the crazy little yard.

In the real world? Well, pardon my cynicism, but out here where the guy doesn't show up with your missing f**king slipper, we would've been a disaster of Sid and Nancy proportions. I cannot imagine the kind of damage we would've inflicted upon ourselves or each other at the time. I'm afraid to even go to that realm of possibilities in my head. Even now, after much success in treatment and therapies and behavior modifications, the thought scares me.

But like I said - none of those thoughts made me want him any less at the time. I was scared to death, but still wanted him desperately. . .just to try. And had I been in any other frame of mind at the time, I might've taken a different course and just let it all happen. But I was in a rare and very caring mode of self-preservation at the time. I was trying to find some sort of peace . . .you know. . .without shoving my head in the oven. I was lost and confused and very scared without the steadiness that I had found in Allen and kept for so long. Even if he and I didn't get along, he was the steadiest person in my life. I felt rudderless without Allen. And caught up in a current, moving towards something I'd wanted for so long was just too overwhelming. I couldn't pull the trigger.

The world spins how it spins and life goes on. Allen called me that day. He'd asked if Chris had come over and I told him that he hadn't. He said that he'd heard that he was supposed to and I told him that I'd changed my mind, wondering whose big f**king mouth spilled the beans to begin with. Not long after that, Allen and I got back together. Not much longer after that, we were married.

And at my wedding, in a church on the creek where the great Brad Pitt Mudsling had taken place, it was Chris' face that I saw before anyone else's as I crossed the threshold. He was crying. He was crying and he had a Horny Toad with him. And by Horny Toad, I don't mean a skeezy betch he decided to bring as a date; I mean a real, bona fide, toad of the horned variety. Now, those of you who know me well, you know what that means to me. . .the toad. And my eyes welled up with tears at the thought of him; at the thought of all that was happening. For one second, I wanted to stop the whole affair, climb over guests and plant a huge kiss on his beautiful face; I wanted to tell him to run away with me and hide out from everyone who doesn't understand.

But I didn't. I put my left foot in front of my right, looked forward and forced a smile. I kept on moving down the aisle; toward whatever future I was to have with Allen. . .which turned out to be not a very long one. . .as you all are ALSO aware.

There is so much more to say about Chris; about where his life went and where he is now. But that's his story, not mine.

Although, I will tell you this: After the Regatta (the event where the Brad Pitt Mudsling took place), Chris hacked his salty, sun bleached hair right off into this gorgeous choppy crop. . .

And Brad Pitt showed up on the cover of "People Magazine" the very next day.

With the same.

Damn.

Haircut.

True story, y'all.xoxo

P.S. And feel free to judge me for being a horrid girl who married someone she should've just let go. I've forgiven myself for it and he's forgiven me too, I'm pretty sure. We have totally new and wonderful lives that we created for ourselves not long after our split. We probably rarely think of each other any more these days, except when we're telling stories about how awful we once were to each other. He he he.