Sometimes, the married part of my past feels like a fictional tale. It’s a story I’ve told so many times that it has become a rote recital.
I visited a friend at his bar tonight, and while speaking of my ex, without thinking, held up my fingers to place virtual quotation marks around his name. It felt natural. Remember “Dagwood”? I took that trip with “Dagwood.”
I would love to laugh this off and move along, but I feel like I’m having trouble processing my past in a healthy manner. It feels as if my mind is a computer that is unable to work with a string of code that represents a whole decade of my life. Of course. That decade does not follow any rational rules. Try to explain the concept of denial to a young child. Hell, I’d like to read a good rationale for taking a long car trip with a person who despises you. When you’re NOT IN the story, it’s a weird fiction. But when you’re IN it…it’s your Bible, your Koran, your Torah; and you must martyr yourself for this Very Important Story.
Maybe your heart is a lonely hunter. or something more poetic. Mine is a pathetic Valentine, written on faded construction paper, delivered by a pathetic Cupid, played by a sloppily-diapered Ernest Borgnine. Or at least it was at one point in time. When was that? Seven years ago? It’s so strange to think about now.
Time passes. Old wounds heal, and we find love again. Life is weird this way.