It’s harder to write when I’m happy. Isn’t pain the birth of creativity? Even so, I’d rather feel good than write well.
Let me start with my old boyfriend. Let’s call him Mr. Z.
Mr. Z and I dated only briefly. I never could remember why or how we ended things, but I thought about him a lot over the years and actually tried to find him a few times, with no luck. A couple of months ago we connected through a mutual friend on Facebook and decided to meet while I was in Indiana. Our last date was 29 years ago.
As we shared and caught each other up on our lives, he told me that I broke up with him by saying something to the effect that he made me feel things I shouldn’t be feeling, and I didn’t think we should see each other anymore.
If that wasn’t a fucking revelation.
We dated the summer of 1980, and that Halloween, I had my first date with my first husband, with whom I have never had sex. Was I that afraid of my sexuality, that I had to remove all temptation and enter a sexless marriage intended for life?
This big piece of information certainly shed some light on the gigantic black void that swallowed up my teenage years and sent me spiraling through decades of psychotherapy. I’m not sure what to do with it, if anything, but I’m glad I know. I must have sounded like some kind of weirdo.
Strangely, Mr. Z confessed he drove around for the next three years with my picture on his rearview mirror. Abstinence makes the heart grow fonder?