Thirty-two

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
A recount of feelings toward The Beatles and an unhealthy obsession with an impersonator leads to intensive therapy

Submitted: July 20, 2012

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Submitted: July 20, 2012

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Thirty-two

Throughout high school, I was known as the “Beatle girl”. For, naturally, a hearty Beatles obsession. I had a lot of memorabilia stashed in my room, along with a steady supply of Beatles related tee shirts to let the world know of my fandom. My “shrine” as some people referred to was just my living quarters peppered with the following: two posters, a limited edition photo from the movie “Help”, several clothing tags from said tee shirts cut just right, a list of the albums I still sought over, an etched glass block with John Lennon inside, original drawings, a book, a puzzle, three movies and my most prized possession, a Yellow Submarine snow globe.

As my obsession took off, I had recorded some documentaries on my DVR at home. I was so… how do I put this… infatuated with John Lennon, I had cried within the first ten minutes of “Chapter 27” and refused to finish the thing. To this day, I still haven’t even thought about doing so.

John Lennon, in a word, is still the man I adore. Not just adore, but “little fan girl” adore. Perhaps even more than that. I am going to willingly admit to you that I dated and hopefully am still currently dating someone named John. It isn’t JUST because his name is John, but honestly that’s what first caught my attention.

Now, almost every song has a “cover”, a rendition of a song performed by someone else. Great artists have impersonators and cover bands. I was fifteen at the time when I met him. Them, technically. A lovely, local Beatles cover band. I was supposed to go to a free concert with my boyfriend at the time. His mother declined my request, and I sat alone REALLY close to the makeshift stage. Consuming a pita, I stared upon them with absolute glee and sang along, like I usually do at concerts, for I am not the dancing type. After a set, they announced that there would be a short intermission. Wearing my trusty pair of Converse and wielding a Sharpie marker, I ran up and my shoes were signed. I hardly removed them after that. I looked upon them as true celebrities.

I had soon found out the identity of my targeted obsession. His name was Mitch, and like anyone I know, he had a Facebook account. I instantly “added” him to my elite circle of friends. After a while, due to the fact that he is older than I, he accepted. Soon thereafter, I began chatting with him. “I’m in!” I thought. We had chatted so much that he actually allowed me to perform with his band later on. Well, my mother soon got wind of this and was weary, like any good parent should be. “We’re just friends,” I lied, “and he’s married!”. He is, however happily married with a child older than I. He was much more than friends to me.

I was entranced with his performances. Their performances, so to speak. Any true Beatles fan would know that my favorite place to be was: stage left (right side if you were looking at the stage). We had become “tight” as one might say. He would do the guitar lift and wink thing to me a couple times during each show I attended (five, to be exact). I almost melted. I hugged him once. Well, almost tackled him. He was… nice. Warm. Solid. That night, I was given an autographed picture of the entire band, which I still proudly display (framed, even) in my room. I was caught off guard, but jumping inside. “Now I can stare at his picture ALL DAY and not worry about being caught.”

Only my best friend knew. Really knew. Knew about my extremely secret, but horridly kept feelings. Friends, or acquaintances, rather, made comments about our friendship. “Pedophile.” They thought. Little did they know that I had wished he was. My secret desire was to get him. Trap him. Force him to cheat on his wife. Not only fulfilling my desire to sleep with him, in all my twisted, sick, obsessive, sexually frustrated cravings, I wanted to steal him. Take him from his lover. Make her cry and hate my guts. Not get him in trouble, though. Oh, no no no. I wanted him to love me like I loved him.

According to society, these feelings weren’t exactly admissible. These were brought on by a safety defense caused by not only my parent’s divorce, but abuse, neglect, and lack of parental figures to approve of me. After several therapy sessions, it finally hit me. Hit me like a truck. I didn’t love him. It was… merely consumed by extreme admiration of not only John Lennon, but the man this stranger was. Some of it was brought about due to the obvious likeness he had to my hero. My more intense feelings are shut away within the deep caverns of my mind and dwindled due to overwhelming therapy, but a friendship still remains.

I never thought the day would come that I would no longer have those passions for him. I’ll never be a “fan girl” again. I’ll never ever belong to him. I have moved on. And for the best. It wasn’t “okay”. Still isn’t.

He won’t know.


© Copyright 2017 Blaise Dennig. All rights reserved.

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