The horrible cycle of Groundhog Dating

This week's revelation comes courtesy of Groundhog Day, that movie where Bill Murray relives his mistakes again and again. My friends and I were watching it one night, and as the plot played out, a nasty thought slashed through my head. "Listen," it whispered. "This movie is your love life." And as I winced, I knew it was true. Behold the birth of Groundhog Dating.

The rules are simple: Groundhog Daters repeat the same relationship mistakes. Some people blame a type, like, "Oh, I like the bad boys." I thought I had a type too, but now I realize that all my crushes have been totally different. It's my behavior that's the same. I can't blame my broken heart on a type; really, the problem is my pattern.

It all started in high school, when I adored this older guy. One night, he admitted that he liked me but was scared I would get hurt. He was 18 and had dated a handful of junior girls. I was 15 and had never dated anyone. Confronted by his piercing baby blues, I did what every smart girl does. I lied. "I've dated lots of guys," I sighed, whipping out a tube of Lip Smackers. "You just don't know because they go to other schools." I scoffed. He kissed me. It was the first time anyone ever had. I wanted to smile and scream, but instead I stared him down. "I won't get hurt." Lie Number Two. I did get hurt, big time. We moved too fast, I got scared, and pretty soon I was dumped for a senior girl headed to college. So I started dating this total pushover. When I dumped him, my mom said she could see my footprints all over his face. Thus began my initiation into Groundhog Dating. I had created a cycle, and it would come back to haunt me, again and again.

Fast forward to college. I was 18 and sure that I couldn't get hurt. I met an older guy, scared by my youth. "You're barely legal," he told me at his frat party. "I like you a lot, but I'm afraid you'll get hurt." I reached for my lip-gloss, and kissed him. "I know what I'm doing," I said, wondering if that was true. "I won't get hurt." Lie Number Three. I didn't just get hurt; I got massacred. After six months of fighting about sex, drugs and rock 'n roll (he was a Doors fan, yuck), I was traumatized. True to Groundhog form, I turned to a fellow freshman (adorable, innocent and my biggest regret) and left a fresh set of footprints on his heart.

My pattern wound itself all over campus. I lied, I pretended I didn't care, I thought I could change someone, or myself; I always got hurt. Then I put on my heels and crushed someone else. Two weeks ago, I cried over a poisonous, fluffy blond, even as my friends--and my conscience--asked me, "Why waste your time?" And still I was wounded. Sticking with my cycle, I went out and treated a wonderful guy in the manner to which I was accustomed--horribly. I am ashamed of my behavior, and I'm sorry for it. I should have the guts to say it in person, but I don't. Not yet. And I'm sorry for that, too.

So here's my problem: I make the same mistakes. I'm chain-smoking my relationships away, and I need to stop. I know there's more Groundhog Daters, you who turn every embrace into bad dZj^ vu. It's painful to look back on the past, but it's worse seeing the same pain in the future. I'm going to try and put mine away, and hopefully, all you Groundhog Daters can do the same. I'll always be addicted to lip-gloss, but glossing over all of my bad calls--only to have them replayed--is poor form. I get hurt, someone else gets hurt, everyone loses. It's a nasty pattern, and frankly, I'm getting too old for it. So I'm going to try, really hard, and put it down.

Behold the end of Groundhog Dating. I hope.

Faran Krentcil is a Trinity junior and Trends editor of Recess.