I have come to the conclusion that my first wife never really loved me. I suspect that she lacked the capacity to love a man completely. That her concept of love lacks any sense of permanence, except for the Love she feels for her children.
All of those memories of first love stay with me. But now comes the suspicion that that was all felt by me alone. That there never was an “us”. We somehow believe the stories we tell ourselves about the world and love and how it’s all supposed to work out. We buy the stuff to outfit our lives: cars, clothes, food, houses. But none of this can fill or satisfy this fundamental emptiness. Those of use who are really lost try to fill the emptiness with alcohol or drugs, gambling. promiscuous sex. Those don’t work either.
I had been going through life thinking I somehow was responsible for the failure of my first marriage. Now I am not so sure. That leads me to my second marriage and its failure, and my current and final (hopefully) marriage. J and I, despite our frustrations and shortcomings, really love each other.