Last October I was literally a crumpled, battered mess lying on the floor in my apartment in tears and holding myself together with tape as best I could. I lingered between having the strength to live and having the ability to leave the hurt and my body behind. (Yes that means exactly what you think it means.) Every second of every minute was torture until I could finally fall asleep and every minute of every hour was hell when I woke up and realized that my dreams had been shattered. Never in my life had I hurt like that, not even when my grandmother died, and never in my darkest of moments did I believe that in 8 short months I would be closer to normal than I ever thought I could be...well as close to what normal is these days.
Not that normal has changed, it's just what I consider normal has shifted a bit. Last May, normal was Tuesday night on the couch with my ex watching Glee or at picking out a tiki mug at Tiki Tuesdays while we chatted with friends. Now, normal is me sitting in a hotel in Baltimore blogging between commercial breaks and prepping for another day of training for my new job. It's meditating before bed every night and before I get out of bed every morning. It's passing on the chicken at a business dinners in New York, cold calling boutiques while text messaging my family and friends and above all else it's me figuring out me again. Learning, relearning and remembering what makes me happy, not what makes us happy.
Don't get me wrong, I was sublimely happy in pretty much every moment of my relationship but there is a
*I should also note that in this process of me becoming more me, I'm becoming more me as an author and have ben taking all kinds of notes on a book that I'll be publishing in the next year or so. Or so being a period no longer than 2 years. That is all.