Curse of the Jellyfish

I wish I could see jellyfish without feeling nauseous. I used to love those boneless, colourful, squishy fuckers but now every time one crosses my path, I think of you. I’m brought back to that terrible moment when I realized how foolish I had been to deny what I always knew: that this love wouldn’t end well.

…

He was such a surprise. So unexpected and magical. He was the first guy I ever felt comfortable around, the only one who ever told me they wanted me, not just for a night but for always. We met on Tinder. I was feeling lonely in my little 150-square-foot-studio apartment. Friendless and a virgin, I yearned for a touch of excitement. He made it so easy. All it took was a simple “favourite movie?” message and I was in my element. I could do this, I thought. I love movies, all I do is watch movies. So as I sat on my futon and tried to figure out what my flirting style was, I settled on “Ooh that’s a tough one. But I’d have to say Good Will Hunting.” We had a few back and forths before he asked if there were any movies in theatres now I wanted to see. Just like that, I had a date for Sunday night; a night I picked because it seemed to be the least threatening “date night.”

A movie followed by dinner. Those were my Sunday night plans, my first ever date. I bought some new jeans and a pair of higher-than-usual shoes. I was running late, as per usual, because I stopped to pick up some breath mints on the way to the Fifth Ave Theatre. It was a warm October evening and I could already feel myself sweating in my casual t-shirt and jeans look, walking downhill to meet him.

As I reached the theatre, I saw a tall figure standing in a black leather jacket and ripped jeans. His dark hair was shaved short on the sides, with the top brushed back and sideways. He was so much hotter than his pictures lead on.

“Max?” I asked.

“Isabel?”

“Yeah, it’s nice to meet you,” I said as I raised my right hand to greet him, while he simultaneously tried to embrace me in a hug. This cued an awkward dance of limbs, where my palm unintentionally grazed his groin.

“Should we go buy our tickets?”

“I actually already bought them,” he said, holding them proudly between two fingers. I offered to buy our snacks in exchange, but he refused and bought me my water. I was too nervous to eat anything and popcorn makes me gassy. He got himself a vitamin water and off we went to our seats.

I knew I really liked him when the previews started for the movie. He outwardly laughed at every joke – no matter how funny or not it was, he sat giggling away. This wasn’t a nervous laughter like the ones I gave off in response to his. No, his were deep and genuine and turned a potentially awkward situation into one of ease. We were having fun. More importantly, he was having fun with me, a feeling I had missed for so long. To be the source of someone’s joy.

My stomach was swooning the entire film. A kind of electricity coursed through me as we sat side by side, not touching, not talking. Completely still as we watched a hefty film about a man who lost his legs in the Boston Marathon bombings. From start to finish, butterflies danced in my stomach. They really started to swarm when the sex scene came up and all I could think about was whether I’d be doing that with the stranger sitting next to me.

We went to this very eclectic restaurant for dinner afterwards. There were robots and Star Wars figurines all over the walls; a scenery that didn’t match the tiny portions and exquisite pricing. Conversation flowed smoothly, with the occasional glance around here and there as I tried to think of some talking points. But overall, it was quite seamless.

At the time, I had severe eczema on my hands. They were red and peeling so I hid my hands under the table for most of the night, embarrassed of the state of them. I told him I was seeing an herbal medicine doctor in a few days and when I explained that it was for my hands, he asked if he could see them. When I shyly brought them out from their hiding spot under the table, he grabbed them without a pause. He held them gently in his as he asked me all sorts of questions about them. This was the sweetest thing to me, especially when my own sister refused to touch them from fear that it was leprosy.

Something I learned about Max over the course of our two-and-a-half-year relationship was his hatred for walking. But that first night, he walked me the entire thirty minutes back to my apartment.

“You were in jail?” I asked.

“Yeah, well no, kind of…”

“This may not be the best time to tell the girl you’re walking home alone, in the dark, at midnight, that you’re a convict.”

“It was an airport jail in Russia. My family I went back to visit and it turns out my identity had been stolen and used for drug smuggling or something. So they put me in jail and then sent me back to Canada.”

This story would be brought up at any and every opportunity. Any issue I faced, the “yeah that’s bad but have you ever spent the night in a Russian jail,” would come back to haunt me. It was something he loved to boast about: a trauma of sorts that gave him that bad boy edge he so aptly chased.

Max was born in Uglich, raised in Moscow and he always longed to go back to Russia. He found Vancouver incredibly dull compared to the excitement that coursed through his hometown. He was incredible at planning dates and despite his indifference towards this city, he made me fall in love with it. A place that before him, I associated only with loneliness, expanded into one of endless intrigue. He took me to swanky bars and beautiful gardens; he introduced me to new foods and music. Max was an incredibly passionate individual and could debate topics for days. He always sought out better: whether it be in his career, his athleticism, or his relationships.

In the summer of 2018, less than a year into our relationship, I started seeing pictures he was tagged in on Instagram by some girl I’d never heard of. They were photos he had taken of her playing basketball, sitting in a café (our favourite café), all stamped with loving captions about him.

As soon as I saw these, I knew it was over. He had found someone else. Was I the mistress or was she? What the hell had happened between him cuddling me on a rollercoaster, gushing about how much he loved me, to him building an entire new life with this woman?

I met him at Waterfront station that evening. I was quiet as we walked up to the pier, a spot that had become a go-to for serious conversations.

“Who’s Leah?”

“What?”

“This girl, Leah. She’s been posting photos and tagging you, giving you photo credits.”

Silence.

“Are you cheating on me?”

“Oh my god, no,” he said with a smile, his eyes relaxed, almost pitiful. “She was at that lake party I went to, she’s a girl from high school. She’s going through a tough time. She has issues with depression and she’s just been reaching out to me a lot, so I’ve been trying to help her through it. She doesn’t have a lot of friends.”

What the hell was I supposed to say to that? It makes me uncomfortable that you’re helping out a friend. Please don’t talk to this suicidal girl anymore, I’m jealous.

“If she needs someone to talk to, you can give her my number. Maybe she’d be more comfortable talking to a girl and I’d like to help if I can.”

“Yeah, maybe,” he said. But I knew in every ounce of my being that that was never going to happen.

A couple weeks later, I asked him to hang out. It was a Sunday and he said he couldn’t because his family wanted to go to the aquarium. He didn’t invite me along so I didn’t ask to join. I didn’t trust his story so for the next couple days, I kept checking this girls account, praying I wouldn’t see anything, but certain that I would.

I had just gotten off work and was waiting for the bus in North Vancouver to head home to the city. The sun was beating down on me, I was exhausted and sad. I could feel my relationship falling apart and there was nothing I could do to salvage it.

I opened Instagram and checked her page. My hands shook as I stood there grasping my phone. My heart beating so fast that I could feel it pounding in my ear drums.

Her hand was glowing as it pressed against a bright blue tank. She stood out in her yellow top, her back facing the camera. My boyfriend’s camera. Jellyfish floated elegantly around her, as they danced at the sight of this perfect couple. It was captioned with a romantic quote about floating until you find your soulmate. Photo credits: Max.

We broke up that evening.

I didn’t want to call it off, I pleaded with him to be different, to give us another chance. I was leaving to go on a trip to London with my mum and asked him not to see her while I was gone. He said he couldn’t do that.

“It’s bad enough that I won’t see you for a couple weeks, now I can’t see her either?”

Our breakup only lasted the few weeks while I was away. Over the course of my trip, we stayed in contact. He messaged me saying that he missed me, that it was all a huge mistake and that she wasn’t what he wanted. He told me that in his search to find the best, he realized he had had it all along: I was the best he would ever find.

I was so in love with him. He was my biggest fan for a moment there and I his. I was adored and cherished and valued until I wasn’t.

Over the next year and a half, we continued to have problems. I tried my hardest to forgive his mistakes, to justify them in my head. He continued to take me for granted while I expected too much from him.

He was inconsistent, hot and cold. He’d get mad about me wearing a skirt in cold weather, about saying the wrong things to his family. But he was affectionate and could make me feel like the funniest person in the world. He would still laugh out loud in movie theatres and hold my hand in malls. When he thought I was being cute he’d grab my cheeks in his hands and plant a quick, hard kiss on my forehead or nose.

He was my best friend, my only friend. Without him, I was alone. Without him, I was nothing more than a stranger in the city. He was my first and only love, my everything and now my nothing. Everyday I fight the urge to reach out to him. I distract myself with exercise and music, going on long walks in the dead of night because I can’t handle the feeling of being alone in my bed. I go on dates and hope for the best, but usually end up right back where I am. I was desperate to keep him; now I spend my time trying to figure out how to forget him. I know this is the plight of first love and that there are plenty of fish in the sea. But every time I think I spot one, a jellyfish creeps out from the shadows.