HEY, JEALOUSY

I’ve never been fond of people invoking the term jealousy. It has its place, but I feel it’s overused and misused. If someone were to say I’m jealous of the writing careers of David Sedaris and Andrew Sean Greer, they’d be right. In this context, jealous is synonymous with the term envious, each conveying a sense of being covetous. I want their writing success…or even a fraction of it. 

 

In terms of romantic relationships, jealousy takes on a different connotation which suggests that the person portrayed as having it is possessive and/or suspicious of the person who has his affection. This is where the word’s use gets dicey. It becomes a term of judgment. We are not supposed to feel jealous. It’s a bad thing. Indeed, it can be weaponized. It shuts down conversation. It’s triggered when someone wonders about the possibility of infidelity. The mere thought of any such thing conveys a person’s irrationality. “Stop being jealous.” The behavior is considered to cause harm to the relationship but so does invoking the term itself.

 

My first boyfriend regularly accused me of being jealous. We were both in our mid-twenties and his entire work environment involved gay men. He was always telling me about guys hitting on him. It seemed to me that, rather than putting these men in their place or telling them he was in a relationship, he continued to receive and maybe even relish their advances. As with so many gay men, he was insecure and the attention fed his ego. What he failed to acknowledge was that it harmed me in the process.

 

Whenever I asked if he mentioned having a boyfriend or if he made clear he wasn’t interested, he seemed to dodge the question and fire back that I was being jealous and I was thereby damaging our relationship. He’d then continue to tell me about these men hitting on him again and again. His burden, his helplessness. I’d listen to these anecdotes and then suggest how he could put a stop to the unwanted attention. 

 

“If you don’t like Ben, why don’t you tell him you have a boyfriend?” “Why does he keep leaving messages on the answering machine?” No cell phones. It was 1991. Also very much a 1991 thing: AIDS. There was no wiggle room for a wayward romp. We’d gotten tested for HIV together and we were careful but there was still a lot of misinformation then about what was safe or, at less safer. The stakes were literally life and death.  

 

He viewed my questions as an assault on him. I was the unreasonable person. Jealous, jealous, jealous. He didn’t tire of his suitors but of what he saw as my suspicion and doubt. 

 

To be sure, rooted in anything I said or did was my own insecurity. I’ve never had high self-esteem and I never denied that. We lived in Los Angeles, the land of beautiful men who all seemed to be model/actor wannabes. Friends in Peoria or Spokane or wherever they grew up told them they had movie star good looks and so they moved in their twenties to Hollywood, hoping to be discovered while waiting tables The Ivy or working in a clothing store on Melrose. West Hollywood was a bonus, a chance to be openly gay in the places that hugged Santa Monica Boulevard, a freedom they never had in their hometowns. As the Village People and the Pet Shop Boys implored gays to “Go West,” the pretty ones left for L.A. while the ones with more niche looks settled in San Francisco. 

 

I realize my insecurity must have been exhausting. But maybe his was, too. Why did he seem to go out of his way to tell me about all the guys hitting on him and about the ones that did so persistently? It’s possible that neither of us was frequent or expressive enough with stating how attractive we found each other or of how much we were into one another. I told him many times my questions were not a reflection of him and the possibility he couldn’t be trusted; instead, they showed my insecurity which could be eased (for the moment, at least) with reassurance. The doubts were more about myself than about him. I wanted us to go on forever, but I worried he’d find someone better. So many were better.

 

Forever lasted nine months. He broke up with me because he found someone else. A very good friend of mine. Someone better…or at least so it may have seemed. Rick certainly had the self-confidence I didn’t. I presume they got involved while John and I were together because it was only a few weeks after breaking up that John flew to Michigan with Rick to meet Rick’s family. It was no victory that I apparently had good reason to be jealous. 

 

It's been three decades since that first love. I’ve fallen in love several times. I’ve been cheated on many times as well. I’d like to think I’m more secure, but that’s perhaps a hollow notion that I tell myself. Maybe I’m just more prepared for “forever” to fall flat. Maybe that makes the stakes not as high. 

 

Evan and I just reconnected after nineteen days apart, a huge chunk of time considering our relationship has just passed the three-month mark. While he was in rural New Mexico, I was traveling remote regions of Iceland. We were intent on daily contact—a few pics and texts from him while I was sleeping six times zones away and the same from me while he was sleeping. They would provide smiles and a sense of place in terms of our experiences, but the heart of our contact would be our daily FaceTime chats. He wasn’t just the first person I might talk to in a day; often, he was the only one. It was a simple plan that got complicated in its execution. The internet connections got weaker with each day, our FaceTime chats choppy ins and outs when there was any connectivity at all. Conversations were rushed and incomplete, goodbyes coming via text when it was clear that further FaceTiming would only be an exercise in frustration.

 

It was Evan who asked for reassurance. Had I met anyone? Had I fooled around? He reframed the questioning four times over the course of only a few minutes of better connectivity since he was back in Seattle and I’d moved on to the city of Göteborg in Sweden. I recognized this kind of scrutiny. I also knew that Evan had also been cheated on many times in his past relationships. We’d had decades of things not working out. Could this new love we’d found with each other be any different?

 

Every time he asked, I smiled, answered calmly and honestly. I never felt attacked. I never felt it was about me. He was feeling fragile. He needed to know I was still into him and only him. I told him what I’ve told him before. “Ask me whenever you need to. It’s okay.” His need. “I will never be offended. I am one hundred percent committed to you and I will tell you that again whenever you need me to.” It was such an easy exchange. Time and distance had made him vulnerable, maybe us vulnerable. He needed to feel safe and secure. I’m happy to do what I can to convey that.  

 

I have never cheated. I never will. I know that, but he’s still figuring me out. He may never fully trust that I will be faithful. He’s had cheating boyfriends and, while I’m not like them, I bet each of them assured him they weren’t the cheating kind. Sometimes other people’s words make our own seem too good to be true. I get that. I will say and show what I need to so that Evan feels reassured and as confident as possible that fidelity is possible, that we have the potential to last. He’s doing the same for me. Let neither of us be branded as jealous. Let us both find reassurance if and when we need it.