I Can't Make This Up: Life Lessons by Kevin Hart

Author:Kevin Hart [Hart, Kevin]
Language: eng
Format: azw, epub, mobi
Publisher: Atria / 37 INK
Published: 2017-06-06T04:00:00+00:00

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The next part of this story is hard to write, because I did have things happening in my life. I just didn’t know how to talk about them.

Around this time, Torrei and I moved in together. With the money I was making at Sweet Cheeks, we were able to rent a house on Second Street in Philadelphia. In the filing cabinet of my life, I would put this decision in a thick folder labeled “Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time.” It was my first real relationship, and I was too young, dumb, and horny to take care of her emotional needs, communicate honestly, and repair the damage from the mistakes that had already accumulated.

Those mistakes came mostly from times when we argued so intensely that we broke up and messed around with other people—sometimes for sex, other times for retaliation. When we inevitably got back together, the knowledge—or sometimes just the suspicion—that one of us had been with someone else made the next fight that much worse. These fights usually took place under the influence of alcohol. Where drinking used to be a way to have fun together on my off nights, it soon became a match that was continually lighting our short fuses.

Once, during a period when Torrei moved back in with her parents, I had someone else at the house. Suddenly, I heard the sound of glass breaking outside. I ran into the street to find Torrei kicking the other woman’s car in. By the time she finished, the fender was hanging off the front, the headlights were broken, and the hood was dented.

Torrei and I didn’t talk for a while after that. Lust and habit eventually brought us back together, and before long we were fighting about why we left in the first place. We couldn’t live with each other and we couldn’t live without each other. We were in relationship limbo, caught between hope and hurt.

One night, while out drinking, we got into an argument about a guy she had seen during our most recent split. She then flipped it on me and got upset about the woman whose car she’d wrecked. The fight continued all the way back to the house, each word a weapon aimed at a specific wound. The more I slashed, the harder she slashed back, breaking skin and cutting deep.

“Fuck you and your comedy. You’re not even funny.”

“Are you listening to yourself right now? You fell in love with me cause you thought I was funny. Your head is so far up your ass that only shit comes out of your mouth anymore. I don’t know why I stay with you.”

“You’re not gonna be successful. Everyone knows it but your dumb, broke ass.”

What soon followed was one of the lowest points I ever hit, and it fills me with an amount of shame that’s beyond words. When we are triggered at the place where our deepest wounds lie, we respond with what we know, and what I knew was what I’d seen my parents do when they were fighting.

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