My name is Rebecca and I am a crushaholic.

Iʼm addicted to having crushes on boys. Addicted to that feeling that you get when you meet someone who could be the one. I have had a crush on almost every male that I have ever met, even if only for a hour. In that hour, I picture us: holding hands, kissing, laughing, meeting my family, our wedding and, in some cases, our eventual demise. I canʼt help it. Itʼs given me a lot of heartache. A LOT of fucking heartache and, even when I think Iʼve learned my lesson, another cute boy walks into my life and my heart opens and I canʼt stop. Itʼs painful for me. God knows itʼs painful for my friends who have to hear me go on endlessly, analyzing every conversation, every joke, every text, every Facebook like, because as a professor once creepily whispered in class, “everything means something.”

I canʼt give up having crushes because that would mean that I am going to die alone. While that is probably true, Iʼm not quite ready to admit that defeat yet. The thing is, I can remember them all. Each boy, man, fella and sloppy drunk. I loved them all. I really did. But like all addictions, nothing quite compares with your first.

I was five, his name was Joe. He was 15 and my brother’s best friend. And I loved him.

Joe was an awkward 15 year old boy, like most of them are. He went to the same school as my brother, sister and I, and would come over frequently. I donʼt remember the exact moment when I fell in love with Joe. I just remember, very suddenly and very urgently, needing to ask him to marry me. So I did. I was ballsy. I wish my 31 year old self had the kind of balls my five-year-old self had. I sit and wonder if Iʼve texted someone too many times today, or if they have picked up on the fact that the link I posted on Facebook was all for him. Five -year-old Rebecca would pity me.

I asked Joe to marry me and he said yes. I mean, it was the right thing to do. When a cute little girl asks you to marry her, you say yes, because itʼs not real and you would be a dick if you said no. Hereʼs the thing: Joe was doing the right thing; he thought that he was making my day. I thought he was making my life. Yes at the tender age of five, I thought “Finally, Iʼve found him. After all of my running (around the playground), Iʼve found the man that will take care of me forever. He will whisk me away to his parents house where we would start our lives together.” Happy, together, forever, at five and fifteen. I should clarify now, we were not Mormon, we were Episcopalian.

I married Joe. We had a beautiful, small wedding in my backyard on an overcast day. He wore his school uniform, khaki pants (most likely pleated because it was still the 80ʻs), button down shirt, school tie, navy blue blazer with our school emblem sewn on to it. To this very day, a man in khakis, button down and a navy blazer is my weakness; I love those guys. My brother officiated, my sister was our witness, and my blanket, Blankey, was my maid of honor. After my brother declared us married, I was elated. Happier than I ever had been, happier than I ever knew was possible.

I ushered Joe away to my playroom, so I could introduce him to all of my dolls. Or, as I referred to them, our children.

You know, men wonder how women get so crazy. I donʼt know how we get crazy, because believe me we are. However I can at least pinpoint my crazy to that moment. The moment when I take my 15 year old fake husband into my playroom to meet our “children”.

So Joe, like the good guy he is, sat there in my playroom, on the puke stained pink carpet, and met his sons and daughters.

It was a friday when we got hitched; we served pizza and soda. He slept on the floor of my brotherʼs room and I slept in my twin bed. Sad to spend my first night alone, however, I think that it was for the best. I donʼt think I was ready to share my twin bed or Blankey with Joe.

The boys slept in that morning, like teenage boys tend to do. While I knew Joe wouldnʼt take me home with him, I at least thought that we would maybe kiss.

Ever since I was five, Iʼve always been ready to makeout.

Joe asked me to come in my brotherʼs room; he wanted to talk. He sat on a chair and asked me to sit on the corner of the bed, across from him. I remember thinking, “Why doesnʼt he want to sit next to me?” I mean…

Then Joe said, “I donʼt think that this is working out. I think we should get a divorce.”

Like most women, I was blindsided. We were so happy. We had kids! Didnʼt he want to make it work for the kids!?

I reacted like any strong, mature, mother of 12 would. I ran. I ran down the hall sobbing hysterically. I ran into my playroom and threw myself on the barf stained pink carpet. I grabbed all of my babies in my arms and I held them tight, as I told them, through my tears, that, “Daddy isnʼt coming home any more.” Joe went home later that day, as if nothing life changing had happened. Dick.

Hi, future husband, I promise you that I am slightly less insane. Yes, only slightly.

Joe still came around after that weekend, making moving on hard for me. He came on our family vacation to the Grand Canyon. We kept up appearances for the children for quite a while. I watched him take my sisterʼs friend Natalie to prom; they took pictures at our house. I wonʼt lie, that stung, but I really just wanted Joe to be happy. I still just want Joe to be happy. Heʼs in his 40ʼs now. Married with children. I gave my kids away years ago, I was too young, unfit.

Here I sit, 31, single, and living alone. Some days I wonder, was Joe the one? Was I right? At five years old, did I know enough to know that I had met the man of my dreams? No, no I didnʼt. Joe just opened the door to all of the crushes that I have had throughout my life. Joe was like my first beer, my first syringe of heroin, well, maybe not heroin. But I know that Iʼve been chasing that feeling that I had the moment after we said our vows on that overcast day. I just want to feel complete, I just want to feel loved, I just want to love. Itʼs the need that I have to love someone that keeps me open to love. I love to love.

My name is Rebecca and I am a crushaholic.