Clearly, I failed.
Had I written the post I intended to in September, I would have copped to downloading a new dating app on the encouragement of my colleagues for a story for work. And I would have admitted to going on a date, ish -- where a guy met up with a group I was already with and despite copious amounts of alcohol and a night much later than I’ve seen without a baby screaming at me in quite some time, I would have told you that I didn’t count that as a failure.
Because when it came down to it, I walked away at the pivotal point. I literally grabbed my shoes and walked the eff out of that place and with my head held high, I got myself home and to my own empty bed and I slept well knowing that I didn’t settle for something I didn’t want because it was easier or because I felt like I owed anybody anything or simply because I was too drunk to care.
This was a win for me, if ever there’s been one. And that’s actually kind of really tragic to say at almost 33 years old.
But reading over the commandments, I was sucking at some other parts too. I know I bitched to my new immediate coworkers about being single -- moreover the complete lack of interest I saw around me. I know, in the throes of a new job and a new home (and a new school for the kids), I wasn’t taking the best care of myself. Lots of eating out. Definitely not enough water or sleep. Certainly not enough exercise. Way too much stress. Rarely seeing friends or doing things for myself. Money being so painfully, restrictively tight that breathing felt expensive. Losing friends. Feeling isolated. Pulling back, in general, from life.
I fought harder than I anticipated to hang in, just to adulthood in general. I was adjusting. Most importantly, the ache I had been carrying around with me had become almost entirely manageable. Despite all of the changes and their overbearing effect upon everything I once knew, I was able to see happiness for myself somewhere off on the horizon.
As I began to wrap my brain around writing that September update, the secret caveat I had been silently carrying around for this whole thing, the singular seemingly impossible event that I would have openly, gladly, enthusiastically thrown this whole project to shit for ... actually happened.
This guy ... came back.
And while I am not ready to talk about it much further at this point, I can say unequivocally and without hesitation that his re-entry into my life was absolutely pure magic. And all of the heartache and pain and confusion I carried for so long were swept away -- because what that was, what we were before, however ill-advised -- it was real. It was not lies and gaslighting and usage of me as an object and however many other things I had to tell myself to attempt to wrap my brain around everything. It was a real, and valid, thing.
We really did love each other. Before. In-between. Apart. Presently.
So as you can imagine, 9 months, 11 days, and a spattering of hours into this project … it ended.
What has occurred since that point will come, in time.
Sitting on the other side of 2017, I can see in equal measure that through this adventure, however it played out, I learned a great deal about myself and my autonomy and what exactly it is that I am worth and what is worthy of me … and I have also learned that I still have much more work to do on myself, going forward.
But we’ll get there. I’ll get there.
I'm proud of myself for making it as far as I did and making the commitment to myself. It's going to take a slightly different turn for the upcoming year, but if this codependent-leaning mess of a woman can make it 3/4ths of a year without being in a relationship ... then I'm pretty sure I can take on anything.
Including the battle I've been avoiding for over half of my life.