It was three months ago today that I told him to get his shit and get out of my house. Three months ago that I felt that scalding pain spread over my body and set up camp for the month that followed. When the grief had not vacated after three weeks, I was certain it had taken up permanent residency and I would never be the same. I was absolutely terrified.

But now….well, I’m coming along quite nicely, to be honest. Like a knitted blanket that started out loose and uneven and had to be unraveled and restarted; the rows boasting tighter, cleaner knots now. I don’t even think about him much anymore, and when I do it’s not “Oh, how I miss him!” It’s more along the lines of “What an ass. So glad I ended that. I feel sorry for the next woman he chews up and spits out.”

I will admit, though, that my friends, family, and even dating have helped me so much. Mostly my friends and family, of course. But dating as well. It’s allowed me to feel vulnerable without feeling completely lost and unsure of myself. Not to be cliché, but I’m definitely rediscovering myself in the dating process. I am remembering that I am more than just someone’s girl. I am enjoying this sticky, syrupy taste of my recaptured freedom.

Not only have I found myself being disenchanted, even mournful at times, and then knowing that I will be just fiiiine, but I’ve also found that I’m even optimistic, and receptive, to the possibility of finding someone that I would want to be in a relationship with.

Two months ago, maybe even as recently as one month ago, I was undeniably pessimistic about it all. I would lament to my friends “I’m just going to be alone forever and I have to be ok with that.” And truthfully, I was beginning to be okay with it, with the idea that I would just have lovers, but no true “partner.”

Perhaps that is exactly what my future holds and, truth be told, I’m anxious to find out. But the difference between then and now is that right now that thought does not sadden me. At least not to the point it once did. Not even close.

I think I just need to practice patience, which is, admittedly, something at which I am quite dreadful. But I believe it is an essential virtue that must be honed in order to achieve the kind of peaceful life I desperately crave and desire.

My healing is not complete, I know this for sure. But I’m confident that I’ll get there. Every day I feel more and more like myself and it encourages me to keep doing what I’m already doing, and then some.

Three months may not seem like a long time. And in many contexts, it isn’t. But this last three months for me has been concurrently the longest, and yet not even close to, the longest three month period in my recent past. It reminds me of the way I feel when I think about my children as babies; on the inhale it was a lifetime ago, and on the exhale it was only yesterday.

A part of me is guarded and tentative about what the next three months may have in store for me. A bigger part of me is hopeful and eager to see where I am three months from now. How much will the scars have faded by then?

There’s only one way to find out. I keep going.


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