The anger was sadly short-lived.
Had I been able to hold onto it, I probably could have breezed through the next few months.
(Yeah, probably not.)
But that would have been awesome.
Unfortunately, the grief has returned.
And, with it, a sense that I’m hanging onto my sanity, myself, by a rapidly unraveling thread.
I (still) have a very strong feeling that this is a mistake.
But, also, a sense of resolve.
I can’t help him figure out what he wants.
(Insert me washing my hands of him here.)
I need to get on with my life.
I deserve to get on with my life.
But I also want to run away. There. I said it.
At least until I can return without being reminded of him with every step I take.
But I know better.
The reminders will be there no matter what. No matter when.
I want to start dating.
But only so I’ll have someone else to think about.
I realize I’m not in the right frame of mind to start dating.
Nowhere near, in fact.
I dread the loneliness returning.
Those unbearably strong urges to reach out.
I still want to yell, to demand to know what the hell happened.
So, I guess the anger isn’t totally gone.
Temporarily? I wonder.
I hate that I still have so many unanswered questions.
What went wrong?
Because something had to.
Things were going so well.
Did I do something?
Did he just change his mind?
Did someone say something? Do something?
Did someone better come along?
So many of our friends and family believed a reconciliation was in our future.
I believed it.
As I walked away from him last Monday night, I was in a state of shock.
Wasn’t expecting that at all.
But I’ve changed my mind.
I don’t regret the last three months. Not a bit.
I needed the last three months.
I wouldn’t have been able to move on had I not done everything I could.
And now I feel as though I have.
I tried. God, did I try.
You think that’d help me sleep at night.
No such luck.