I was never in love with my two husbands. I should’ve been. But I wasn’t. I loved them, but wasn’t in love with them. There’s a profound difference. The first, I entered into wanting the stability I epitomized in my grandparent’s marriage. The second, I entered knowing it was where I was needed. As you can imagine, both were doomed.
I don’t know what I think of the institution of marriage anymore, but I do believe for any relationship to last it must have a deep and unconditional love as its foundation. Someone once told me that the only unions that survive are those that aren’t passionate, as passion often breeds high highs and low lows. I don’t believe that to be the case.
Toward neither of my two husbands did I feel a deep resounding passion – this was as much a disservice to them as it was to me. But as I move forward with my life, examining the person I am, I’m forced to review my faults as well as my strengths.
I have fallen in love twice in my life. Both were pulled away. One through death, the other through reasons too complex to explain here. Logic says: it’s easier to partner with someone who stirs nothing, than one that does. It’s easier to take on a companion that does not awaken one’s deeper passions, than one that makes us lose ourselves a bit. Passion lives deep, to tap into it, is to tap into one’s vulnerability.
So, we settle. We settle for someone who does not stir us, someone who makes it easy to retain emotional control. If they should leave, so be it. The heart may be saddened, but left no worse for wear. But that is like only breathing half a breath, only taking half a bite, and living only half a life. When I looked into the eyes of the one I loved, I wanted to submerge myself. When around him, I felt a bit off-balance. I felt as much comfortable as I felt uncomfortable. My heart skipped when I saw his smile. But to allow myself to feel that again, or anything remotely close, means making myself vulnerable to the risk; the risk of feeling the aching vacuousness should they be abruptly removed from my life. So I close the door.
I’ve got two choices, should I be given the chance to experience this again: I can either go with the flow, experience it for what it is, and just enjoy it. Or I can keep the door closed. With the first there are no guarantees. With the second there is only the guarantee of sadness.
Life is to be lived. Things are placed before us so that we may explore them. Much like that of a grand buffet, we do need to see what flavors in life delight us, and send us spiraling out of control. That is how its suppose to work. It’s what makes life worth living.
Without a doubt, I have the best readers a writer can have. Yes, its true, sometimes you are sitting next to me in the early morning hours, sharing bad coffee with me, as I expose a part of myself. Sometimes though, what I am writing isn’t a personal exposé. What I’m exposing is something in you – only masked with my face, my words, my feelings. Nothing is sweeter than sincerely being asked how one is doing. Many of you have done so. And to that, the answer is: I am well. Within my novels, these posts and all my writings – my work is to remind you that you are alive, and have been given this one life – live it. And of course, I will try to do the same. And through exposing myself, I remind you that you are not alone with your thoughts. The only difference is: as you sit in silence and think, I sit in silence and write. I am not so deep and complex as many believe. I just simply write what many of us are thinking. You are so sweet. I am blessed.
Written to Madness by Muse