Love Fool.

In a lot of ways, I feel as if I’ve never been married.

Let me share a timeline with you:

The October before I was due to graduate college, freshly turned 21, I was a hot mess. I’m not sure what set everything off. I know there was a lot that went into it. Between my nineteenth birthday in June to my twenty-first, I had undergone cancer treatment, lost a friend, lost a baby, and abandoned a lot of the trustful optimism in my eyes. Over the next few months I went out with few thoughts of consequence, and I fought to forget my losses. I did drugs beyond experimental or fun. I stopped eating and consumed many of my calories in bars after waiting tables into the midnight hour. The end of that mess saw me in a few different hospitals. I was in a lot of physical and emotional pain, but it would be months later that the fallout even concluded. Months of roller coasters, until I finally landed somewhat at the end of February—two months prior to graduating college.

But let me go back to that October. I met a guy at the highest tempo of my hot mess messiness. We had a drug-fueled (fully for me, partially for him), intensive affair full of little more than sky high musings, bathtubs, and bedrooms. We broke things off because affairs of that intensity are not meant to last long. I have no doubt it could have killed us.

A few months later, in early January, we met up for a drink or a greener errand. Perhaps both. Those details grow hazy. I had calmed down after a rather unfortunate incident at my favorite bar that left me less keen on the nightlife. That was for certain. We settled into an enjoyable if unremarkable little romance that involved lots of wine and wanting. But this fell through, too, because even though my outside life had calmed, the storm that brewed all the trouble in the first place was far from quiet, and I pushed him from me. We had a good four weeks, and then we were done.

He broke up with me on the phone. I recall feeling supremely angry about this. At that point in my life, I had seldom allowed anyone else to do the leaving, and I often preemptively struck just to avoid momentary loss of pride. So when we reconnected, yet again, at the end of February, I took it as a laugh and a challenge. I got involved with the idea that I would not for a second give serious consideration to this courtship.

By April, a month prior to my graduation, we decided to make a baby. By May, we had. In July we wed.

In less than nine months, with only five months of continuous togetherness, I had managed to meet, marry, and make a baby with a man I barely knew but really loved. It was pure insanity, and if I know me, the truth is, I would not have gone through with all of that had it not been jam-packed into a few short months. I love a good sad, love story, and the fact that we had parted and repaired so frequently seemed to shine as some sign of our true love fate.

I’m prone to obsessive fits of infatuation that burn brightly and dissipate within a few short moments or months. I feel fiercely, and I act passionately, and I tire myself out before I can even settle in. Even my writing, my longest love affair to date, has reincarnated itself again and again as I grow bored with one facet or the next. Temporarily, we meet only in secret trysts, in fleeting moments, as I’ve turned to dancing more and more to release me from the fatigue that seems to linger like smoke above my head. I’ve gone from linear, traditional fiction to poetic snippets of lust or tragedy. I’ve played with blogs and tweets—using the online comfort of eternal mutability as a means for practicing what I want to say—and floundered at both at various times.

Today I received a “Save the Date” card from a distant relative. It’s a tad cheesy (a full color magnet with their faces and wedding date), but I’m sure it made the bride happy, and I admire her for that. I never took part in such traditions. I culminated my whirlwind romance with a whirlwind wedding. I’d like to tell you, that I here I stand, on the ending side of a marriage that didn’t work, as I become more and more aware of the reasons we fell apart. That here on this dawn of awakening my relationship sensibilities, I realize the wedding part isn’t the important thing. And I do. But I also know I still want the silly things. The silly things I missed that might make that whirlwind dream seem more as if it really happened.

Today is one of those days where I can’t even seem to keep up with the flow of my wanderings.

I suppose what I want to say is this. More than ever, I have to remind myself of the long-term commitment I made to being a writer. I have to remember that even though I find my mind too tired to complete the types of works I know I can complete right now, if I just keep it always in mind, I can get this done. I can be the kind of writer that I want to be. Even if I’m not sure what that is yet. In my marriage, that may have been one of the greatest problems. As the relationship started to change, I forgot that commitment to passion that I had made. I gave up because the picture changed shapes.

There’s a few things that give me faith that maybe I’ve finally learned how to hold onto my initial enthusiasm and devotion. I’ve encountered two true passions the past year. (One has set my soul free and the other has shown me the possibility of deep romance. One is burlesque and one is not.) So I’m going to keep my faith that wherever my writing is heading, I just have to continue to love it, and we’ll both get there safely.

And as for that wedding I still want, I’ve begun to suspect that a traditional marriage may not be in my future. But I suppose the only way you begin again is by breaking tradition.

At least it will give me something to write about.