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The past couple of days, I have been thinking about the tale of the mythological Medea, the sorceress who aided Jason and the Argonauts in their retrieval of the Golden Fleece. She is representative of obsessive love in Greek mythology, having been enchanted by Aphrodite’s powers. Her obsession causes her to commit horrible acts by betraying her father and killing her brother to aid Jason in his quest. Once Jason had gotten what he wanted, and was offered King Creon’s daughter, Glauce, in marriage, who would greatly improve his power and prestige, he abandoned Medea and their two children. Jason’s betrayal causes her to become emotionally tormented and deranged to the point that she murders Glauce, King Creon, and most tragically, her own children.

jason-and-medea-1907

While Medea is certainly not an admirable mythological figure (although I must admit that I wish I was as skilled in sorcery as she was), I feel she is not an entirely evil character either. Everything she did was out of love, however warped her love may have been. Jason is seen as the heroic figure, but honestly, I see nothing heroic about a man who abandons his loyal wife and children.

Thankfully, my own experiences with obsessive love have not ended as tragically as Medea’s story. Looking from the outside in at her story, one wonders why anyone would go to such extremes out of love for someone. But being in the situation, the view from the inside is muddled by emotions.

Last night as I tossed and turned trying to fall asleep, I could not stop thinking about last year’s summer fling. Memories flashed through my mind of the moments we spent together. The moment we first laid eyes on one another for the first time in the past three years, and he held me close in his arms. The fun we had driving up to the river, swimming in the cool waters to escape the heat. The night we set off bottle rockets in his back yard, held one another close, cuddling and caressing all over.

Blinded by obsessive infatuation, he seemed so right, so perfect, but he was so, so wrong.

Physically we rocked each others’ worlds, but emotionally, we not only were on different pages, or even different chapters. We weren’t even in the same book. I asked him once if he had feelings for me, any at all, and a long silence ensued.

He told me he was in love with someone else. I knew he was, I knew he had me on a leash, but I couldn’t stop loving him.

We had one last kiss in my car before I left his house, knowing it would be the end to our fling, with the awfully ironic song of “Don’t Stop Believing” by Journey playing on the radio in the background.

In the past year, he has managed to finalize his divorce to his first wife, break my heart, and propose to two other women.

He will be marrying his love of the moment tomorrow. I’m glad I’m not his bride.

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