Sometimes, usually as a result of the inbred nature of Facebook, I stumble onto my ex-husband's words about me, our marriage or divorce, and it sucks me into disorientation. It's hard to move forward when you're constantly yanked back into another existence.
First song lyrics, and now these articles, his written words have always been my weakness. Better than the reality, usually. Oh, sure. I absolutely believe he loved me so much he'd die for me, open a vein and bleed out right in front of me if I needed, as he vividly phrased it once. Threatened it a time or two way back in the day, even. Theatric more than threat, it was still scary as hell for a twenty-something fresh from Mormonville trying to make a go of it with a stranger in the Big Apple. That first year of marriage was wild. Coupla crazy kids who didn't know each other abandoning reason and following pounding hearts all the way to Brooklyn, New York. I still believe it's one of the best things I ever did.
"Young hearts need the pressure to pound..."
The intense love for me that painfully bangs around inside his heart and mind has never been in question, and that's the love he writes so eloquently about. Who wouldn't want to be the object of such passion? It's how that love manifested in everyday living that led, in part, to the wreckage of a nine year marriage.
"How can you leave someone who is so clearly in love with you?"
Something got lost in the translation from heart and mind to action and speech. Intense love can translate into opposite actions if someone feels frustration and then spite. Sometimes, beneath all that authored sentiment, I smelled the opposite. The rancid breath of resentment whispered sourly in my ear.
Resentment is the foundation of hatred.
F. Scott Fitzgerald is one of my favorite authors. The love story between him and Zelda has fascinated me for many years and I've looked at all of their exchanged letters. While reading their frequently penned missives you're routinely taken aback by their frenzied intensity and inevitably find yourself longing to be a participant in such a passion-filled relationship. But then I began to wonder how much of it was based in reality and how much was two dauntless writers masturbating with words. Their relationship took on a darker filter.
The realist living behind the prose begins to wonder how much of the fervent sentiment is woman specific and how much of it is something the romantic needs in his life, regardless of object of affection. Was our love extraordinary or did the power of his words make it so? Is there a difference? Does it even matter?
When married he clothed himself in the intensity of our love and upon divorce he dressed himself in the heartbreak. But maybe that's what the romantic requires to feel truly alive. Maybe he was always writing for himself and not me. Maybe it was never really even about me.
And then the pendulum swings and I wonder if I've given up on the one man who will love me in the way that true, passionate love demands, regardless of the day to day manifestation. But those moments always occur after reading his words about "me" and perhaps that's my own mental masturbation happening regardless of writer. It's worth noting Zelda ended up in a mental institution...