Some People Only Exist in Specific Versions of Me

Photo by Djim Loic on Unsplash

There are people I can’t go back to. Some of them are gone, and some of them only existed in versions of me that don’t exist anymore. They lived in very specific seasons of my life, versions of me that needed something different than I do now, versions of me that tolerated more or less, that loved differently, that survived differently. I don’t miss all of them, but I remember them clearly, and I remember who I was when they mattered.

There was a version of me in middle school and high school that just needed to belong, needed someone who felt safe, easy, and constant. He was all of that, my gay best friend. We were a little chaotic, a little reckless, but it was the kind of chaos that felt like freedom, not damage. He had the kind of laugh that made everything feel lighter, and being around him was the most comfortable I had ever felt at that point in my life.

When I think about him, my brain doesn’t go to anything serious first. It flashes to us in middle school, surrounded by a group of idiots, doing a syrup chugging contest for no reason. I won, barely, and almost blacked out from the amount of sugar. Good thing his mom was a registered nurse, because that whole day was a complete mess. I still have a mark on my left palm where he stabbed my hand with a pencil my science class in middle school and we both got yelled at. And then another memory, riding my ATV at the beach, getting pulled over by the cops, laughing like we weren’t about to get in trouble. Just dumb, loud, unforgettable moments. That version of me needed kindness, acceptance, and someone who made life feel less heavy, and I think he needed the same.

I fucked that friendship up. I chose a boy over him toward the end of high school, and that’s something I carried for a long time. I tried to fix it years later, reached out, but never got a response, so I let it be. I don’t know who he is now, and I don’t know if who we are today would even make sense together, but I do know that what we had was real and it mattered, and I’m grateful for it, for the friendship, for the laughter, for who I was during that time.

There was a version of me at sixteen that was just trying to get out of the house. My home life was rough, my bio-dad was absent, my stepdad was in Afghanistan, and my mom and I were constantly at each other’s throats in the worst way possible, so being anywhere but there felt like survival. He was my first real love, in that way first loves tend to be, but it also felt like relief, like escape, like something good in the middle of everything that wasn’t.

I remember picking him up every morning for school. We had first period science together, and that’s how we met. After about a month, something just clicked, and from then on he was part of my everyday life. One morning we were running late and didn’t realize everyone had been sent to the cafeteria. We walked in halfway through, saw everyone messing with candy on plates, and just joined in, talking, laughing, eating it like idiots. Turns out it was a project, and by the end of class the teachers were walking around grading, and ours were already in our stomachs, so we failed. But neither of us cared.

That version of me needed everything, needed love, distraction, hope, something to hold onto, and he gave me that during one of the hardest times in my life. He’s not in my life anymore because he passed away two years later in a tragic car accident. It killed everyone in the vehicle, and it was devastating in a way I didn’t know how to process at that age, because I always thought we would end up together. When something like that happens, it just stops you. Everything feels like it freezes, and you don’t know how to move forward.

It took years, a lot of years, but what I feel now is gratitude more than anything. Gratitude that I got to experience that kind of love at all, that I got to know him, even if it was short, because he was a genuine light and a blessing to everyone who met him.

There was a version of me at eighteen that just needed out, needed space, needed something that felt like stability and safety. He was my first roommate, someone I worked with for years, someone who knew how bad things were at home and offered me a way out. As soon as I turned eighteen, I took it. We got a place together, and it was better than I could have hoped for at the time.

Looking back, I probably was not the best roommate. I did not really know how to be, but he never made me feel like that, not once. He was grounding, comforting, the kind of person who would just sit and talk when you needed it, who showed up without making it a big deal. He had a bit of a crush on me, and we both knew it, but it never made things weird. We just existed in that space and made it work.

One of the memories that sticks out is that same bonfire party. My roommate, me, the guy who was living on our couch at the time, and "Ziggy" all went together, and before the night even really got going, we were jokingly dividing up “shifts” of who was responsible for watching him because he was such a lightweight. One Mike’s Hard Lemonade and he was completely gone. At some point we actually lost him, only to find him later by himself, absolutely drunk, dancing his heart out by the fire. It was one of those nights that just felt full.

That version of me needed belonging, needed a place to exist without fear, needed something that resembled family, and he gave me that. He is not here anymore because shortly after he moved out (which was only months after that bonfire), he had a brain aneurysm and passed away. There is still guilt there, because looking back there were signs, a lot of them, like him almost completely losing his hearing and other things none of us understood at the time, and it is hard not to replay that and wonder what could have been different.

But there is also grief, and gratitude, because he changed me. He softened me. He showed me what it could feel like to trust someone and to have something steady in family, even if it did not last.

There was a version of me in my early twenties that wanted to feel free. I was just getting into a heavier partying phase and figuring out who I was outside of everything I grew up in. I will call him Ziggy, because that is where I met him at Ziggy's in North Carolina before it closed down. He was chaotic in a way that felt expansive, artistic, carefree, very hippie energy, and he opened me up to a different way of living, one where I was not constantly worried about what people thought of me and could just exist in the moment.

I was working three jobs at the time, at one point even four for a short stretch, so any time I had off I did not want to think, I did not want responsibility, I just wanted to let loose, and he always knew where to go, what was happening, where the energy was. Some of it was sketchy, some of it was incredible. I went to my first real trap house party, which was wild in its own way, but also one of the best nights I can remember was this massive bonfire party where the fire was literally as tall as a one-story house.

I also remember being at his place just doing artsy shit. I think I was drawing and he was painting, just existing without pressure. I think that version of me wanted to feel chosen, but also just needed space to not be anything for a while. We are not in each other’s lives anymore because we chose different directions at the time. He settled down, had a kid, and around that same time I started talking to my most recent ex.

There is no heaviness there now, just a quiet kind of gratitude, because that phase of my life helped shape me into someone more open, more social, more willing to enjoy things without overthinking them.

Some people only exist in specific versions of me, and maybe that is how it is supposed to be. Not everything is meant to carry forward. Some people are tied to who you were when you needed them, and when that version of you changes, the connection does not always come with you. It does not make it less real, and it does not make it less important. It just means it belonged to a different version of your life. And I think there is something honest about that, letting people exist where they existed, without trying to force them into who you are now.