William Wordsworth wrote:
Strange fits of passion have I known.
Wordsworth wrote of imagining the death of his lover. Rather than a fit of passion, to my thinking, it sounds as if he was suffering from drama he created with his thoughts.
I wrote a post about drama in relationships a year ago, deceptively titled: No More Drama. http://wp.me/p1jL9y-E. Reading it again today, I see how utterly inane that post was. Like most posts I wrote while I was with Mack, I was doing my very best to rationalize being in an irrational relationship. No More Drama was my attempt to explain why drama is a necessary component of a passionate relationship. One year later, I call bullshit on myself.
a situation or sequence of events that is highly emotional, tragic, or turbulent
ardent love or affection
intense sexual love
(Definitions of both words come from dictionary.com.)
Mack was a drama king. He created conflict. Even the most minor things (me singing in the car, for example) got a huge, emotional response. Mack’s emotional responses usually resulted in him walking out. He walked out on me at my home many times. Once, he left our table in a restaurant to go to the men’s room, and as I waited and waited for him to return, the waiter eventually informed me Mack had gone. Apparently I’d chosen a restaurant that was too upscale for his insecurities, so he just walked the fuck out without telling me, leaving me sitting there. The next morning, he came to my house for make-up sex. And for good measure, he also cooked me breakfast.
In my relationship with Mack, peace seldom was experienced. Things either were really great or completely abysmal. Our relationship was up or down, and never steady. And always, I felt utterly drained.
My self-talk during that year often included: Don’t worry, tomorrow he’ll be fine. Tomorrow, we’ll be fine. He hasn’t left me for good. He still loves me. He’ll be back. Tomorrow, it will all be okay.
And tomorrow, it always was okay. Other than the makeup sex, Mack generally acted as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. Looking back on things, I realize it wasn’t out of the ordinary for him. This was how Mack behaved in relationships. All relationships; not just romantic ones. He had email fights with the captain of his baseball team. He wrote scathing emails to the editor for the only paid writing job he had. (No wonder he couldn’t keep or land a job.) Someone he claimed as a friend often told him, “You always choose the sharpest knife in the drawer.” And he did.
Mack loved conflict. Mack loved inflicting pain. Mack loved drama. But look back at the definitions. Drama is not passion. Drama doesn’t fuel passion. In fact, it now is my belief that drama is the antithesis of passion. After months and months of drama with Mack, I began to look upon him with disgust. The make-up sex no longer erased the effects of whatever fight he’d initiated the night before. I didn’t like him any more. I saw him as mean, hurtful, and petty. I knew that if I could just get away from him long enough to clear my head, his manipulations no longer would hold sway over me. I could get away, and stay away.
With my head now clear, I’ve come to an important realization: