Romanticism: The effect of viewing through rose colored glasses.
It’s common, even healthy to a certain point, to romanticise a relationship that’s ended (rejection is rejection) whether it be through death or other circumstance. The person missing becomes elevated to the status of a God– it’s so easy to make someone infallible when they’re not around to prove you wrong.
In my mind, my husband has become the perfect man.
I catch myself sometimes attributing things to him that are fallacies. Sick with fever, my body aching with the flu, and I say to my mum “Why isn’t Tony here?! He would take care of me and make me feel better…”
My mother looms at me as though I have temporarily lost my mind and reminds me that Tony hated it when I was sick, and didn’t have an ounce of compassion. He wouldn’t have taken care of me– I would have been taking care of myself, and two kids as well, and quite possibly still be expected to have dinner on the table at six.
The same flash of light as I’m texting Pink on Mothers Day– I wish he was here, she says, so the day would be better for you; and she makes me smile with that. But at the same time I’m playing over in my head all those Mothers Days past, in the Purple Life… and remembering that it was never about me, besides the ubiquitous bunch of flowers when I reminded him. Sometimes he’d come through– in amongst my box of treasures I have half a dozen sweet cards in his handwriting– but he was never as attentive or romantic in real life as he is in my mind.
I have taken bits of popcorn reality and strung them on a long, thin string to wind around a tree that would otherwise be ugly… I have taken the best pieces and made it beautiful again.
It’s a blessing– if I am never loved again; I feel as if I have been loved, complete. It’s encapsulated in time, in my memory, and it’s static now– it cannot be changed. No one can ever take away or take back the fact that he loved me, that I was his world– his sun rose and set with me.
It’s a curse. Who could stack up to the irrefutably perfect man, who can do no wrong because he’s simply not around anymore? A man who has been elevated to a saint? How could a human man with mortal, leaden feet compare to that?
It’s necessary; for so many tiny, insignificant reasons that allow me to justify not addressing it psychologically. I need to keep a picture of a giant, a hero, in my mind for my children. And I need it for me.
Because if I think too much about the actual reality of it (cunt), every fight we ever had molds into the biggest one there was (”I’m going to show everyone what a terrible person you are”) and all I can remember is him spitting in my face (slut).
And, as I’ve said before, those kinds of memories (flashbacks)… once they begin, they are difficult to make cease.
Can we blame me, at all, for wanting to remember the sunshine, the happy hue of Purple rather than the nightmare that came after…?
Of course not. Everyone stacks the deck in their favor. That’s the problem with memory, it’s not reality… it’s such a goddamn subjective thing
They only gave her the gummi bears.
I’d wish they’d only given me the gummi bears.”